tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33620973157512980752024-03-05T09:28:36.782-05:00Grey SkiesRead. Write. Parent. Drink. Complain.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-35630526390792128062012-09-13T13:16:00.001-04:002018-04-18T12:27:54.024-04:00Book Review: Baby Faces<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As we all know, there is no higher honor in life than being given a guest post spot here at Grey Skies. Today, I magnanimously allow my youngest child, the 6-month old Duke of Juban, to write a review of his favorite book. Enjoy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Baby Faces. 2006 Ed., originally published 1998. DK Publishing, Inc.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">:::Spoiler Alert!:::</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The literary world is, of late, unfairly divided into two camps: those who have read the classic board book, "Baby Faces," and those who have not. The message boards are on fire with furious and poorly constructed arguments on both sides. But I say that this is an unfair division because to eschew vitriol on babies who haven't read this book is to misdirect the blame. No one <i>doesn't</i> read "Baby Faces" because he or she doesn't want to read it; rather, one doesn't read "Baby Faces" because one's parent or guardian does not keep it in the house. The blame, then, lies with the parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and well-meaning family friends who refuse to expose their baby to the cultural nuance of such a book, the underlying message of inclusion and diversity, and the sheer - I would say almost bottomless - emotional depth the book provides. Shame on you, grown-ups.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now that that's out of the way, let's talk about the book. "Baby Faces" presents two challenges to the modern baby reader: first, there are words, and while it is not imperative to have a grown-up read the words to you, I do highly recommend you find one who will do this for you; and second, there are no new textures to touch or chew on as there are with other well-esteemed members of the baby board book cannon such as "Animals" or "Let's Get Dressed." But the lack of texture inside "BF" enhances, rather than detracts, from the book's draw: you, the reader, are forced to really LOOK at the baby faces. This emphasis on the sense of sight -- and <i>only</i> sight -- is deceptively simplistic. If you don't believe me, wait until you get to page 3: after two seemingly straightforward faces of babies listed as "Happy" and "Sad," the word under the emotion is read as "Puzzled," but clearly this expression can additionally be interpreted as "confused," "disappointed," or even "constipated." The brilliance of this writing is so far above what most baby books present, and in this way the reader is rewarded for his or her persistence, patience and intelligence.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the book's more controversial moments, and my personal favorite, is the two-pager "Peek-a-boo!" scene. In case you've been living under a rock and haven't caught wind of the firestorm surrounding this dramatic scene, I'll sum up for you: a red jumper-clad baby appears from under a basket, thus demonstrating the traditionally admired game of "Peek-a-boo!" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The controversy around this scene is twofold. Not only does this scene take up two pages of a 16-page book, but in the first page of the scene the baby is not entirely hidden under the basket. In what is widely regarded as the authoritative book written on the subject of "Baby Faces," Stuart Gilbert's "James Joyce's Baby Faces: A Study" claims that without the baby's eyes being hidden by the basket, this game of "peek-a-boo" is false, and a trick. While that is a fair and valid reading of the scene, I agree with what David Foster Wallace said in an interview, which is that by seeing the baby's eyes at all time the scene is meant to be a parody of "peek-a-boo," and the reader invited in on the joke. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Finally, no review of "BF" is complete without at least a casual mention of the kissing page. If the "peek-a-boo" pages are one of the book's more controversial scenes, then the kissing page is, without a doubt, <i>the</i> most controversial scene. Some words pulled from other reviews and online message board comments about this scene call it "gratuitous," "exploitative," or even "silly," but again, those are overly simplistic explanations for a rather complicated book. Sure, in an otherwise culturally diverse book we have two white, blond babies giving each other a little kiss, which might undermine the presence of the rest of the colorful cast, but my reading of the scene was that it was a natural progression of the plot. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My strongest issue with the book is the ending. After rewarding the reader again and again with imaginative plot twists ("Angry" juxtaposed with "Worried!") and wink-wink-nudge-nudge satiric humor ("Hungry!"), I was left with a bad taste in my mouth at the vapid "Fast Asleep" last page. Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but I don't like when a book thinks it can trick me into sleeping with a picture of a - yes - sleeping baby. Not only was this an insult, but it was a low-brow one, which makes it all that much more disappointing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Will "BF" be loved by everyone? Of course not. It already isn't. Is this something everyone should read anyway? Absolutely. Despite the ending the book manages to entertain, surprise, and challenge the reader in the best of ways, and this is why I return to these colorful pages again and agin.</span></div>
Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-38812778036925455192012-08-28T14:36:00.001-04:002018-04-18T12:28:33.796-04:00Stinky Feet<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is just no nice way to say it: my babies have stinky feet.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My older kid, the 3 1/2-year old Juban Princeling, has grown out of it, but I remember how bad his feet smelled as a baby. And now my younger kid, the 5-month old Duke of Juban, has the same stinky feet.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't understand it. It's not like the baby puts on his old sneakers and goes for a jog. He doesn't play in mud, and as far as I know he isn't friends with any skunks. I don't let him play in garbage. He doesn't even sit up yet, much less stand, much less walk, much less walk around all day in stinky shoes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The irony is that the Princeling does wear shoes all day, sometimes old sneakers with no socks, but his feet smell fine. Well, maybe not <i>fine</i>, but they certainly don't smell like cat diarrhea anymore.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;">The Juban Princeling's dirty feet, circa July 2009. At least <br />these feet had a reason for being stinky.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I give him a bath - <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2012/05/open-letter-from-duke-of-juban.html" target="_blank">which he has finally come to terms with</a> (Mommy-1, Baby-0) - I wash between his toes and scrub his little feet. Then, without putting lotion or socks or ANYthing on his feet, a few minutes later they stink like a homeless person stuffed Camembert cheese in his armpits.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How is this even possible?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My theories:</span><br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If babies' heads smell so good, then the law of balance dictates they have stinky feet</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Duke is making cheese with his feet in his crib (unlikely, since I have a video monitor and can see him when he's sleeping) (unless we're talking about a "Speed"-like trick here?)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2012/07/ghost-mommy.html" target="_blank">Ghost Mommy</a> is soaking his feet in turpentine and sour milk during his naps</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The MTA has found a way to bottle that special New York subway station smell and has filled invisible baby shoes with it and put those shoes on my baby the last time we were on the subway</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That one time we took him to New Jersey stuck to him, but only his feet</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He's found a way to vomit via his toes</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's a defense mechanism to keep me from eating up his yummy chubby little baby feets and toesies</span></li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ideas? Advice? Commiseration?</span></div>
Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-18741129565528577542012-08-21T16:26:00.000-04:002018-04-18T12:28:47.624-04:00Real O'Clock: Politics<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Every now and then here at the Grey Skies World Headquarters, we like to take it down a notch, from our usual wine-guzzling, Walking Dead-watching, geek con-going ways and get Real. If this were a rock concert, now would be the part where I sit atop a stool, mic in hand, spotlight on, and croon "Every Rose Has A Thorn" while swaying gently, like my depth and emotion are far too sincere to be contained by sitting still.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Get out your lighters (or cell phone screens), because it's about to get Real O'Clock all up in here.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Now that the Olympics are over but "Downton Abbey" hasn't started back up yet, we Americans are left with little else to do but talk politics. I've heard there's one of these "elections" coming up that the KidsTheseDays are all a-twitter about. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Right?</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Kidding, of course. I can't turn on my TV, open my laptop, or feed my baby without hearing about it. (My 5-month old baby, the Duke of Juban, has some rather strong opinions about campaign finance reform.) And aside from admitting that I think Ryan Paul is kinda hot in a weird white-boy sort of way, or reiterating my invite to the Obamas to come to my house for pasta and Tasti-D-Lite, I don't like to talk about politics.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I never have liked it, but lately I refuse to engage in political discussion. What's the point? Most of my friends, on both sides of any given issue, just like to repeat one-liners and soundbites, or post sad little FB memes with quotes taken out of context. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">From what I've seen, few people actually like to engage in an actual conversation about actual politics. Most people like to spew their opinions. You can either agree with them or not, but they really don't care. They say their piece and then shut their ears. Even people who consider themselves open-minded, or claim to listen to "both sides" before making up their minds, already have their minds made up. Having political discussions with most people I know is a pretty useless exercise in futility and frustration. I will never get my Conservative friends to admit that Obama is anything but a Socialist, secret Muslim, elitist tyrant who wants to take away their guns and force their daughters to have abortions, just like I will never hear my Liberal friends admit that Romney is anything but a Bible-beating, civil liberties-hating, gun-crazy pig who wants to turn American women into The Handmaid's Tale.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WGttgm-1NTEBAzo6CqFtATjudwpBzCftXqvyo6LhCjxITx6SS_D4yxs2KpdDsvbBnF7n8IrTDgD8MRiypYzRoDeSWqlnopEr6Mkco4cl8hZCwcPIoPMqdyyMOY8erUQ102mlgVUJvjM/s1600/Ouch-boxing-footwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WGttgm-1NTEBAzo6CqFtATjudwpBzCftXqvyo6LhCjxITx6SS_D4yxs2KpdDsvbBnF7n8IrTDgD8MRiypYzRoDeSWqlnopEr6Mkco4cl8hZCwcPIoPMqdyyMOY8erUQ102mlgVUJvjM/s320/Ouch-boxing-footwork.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;">From Wikimedia Commons, author <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Cpl. Megan L. Stiner, 2004</span></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Which brings me to my next point: political shorthand. To say that I am tired of people using this as a way to define anyone who doesn't agree with them is a woeful understatement. For the record, here are some terms, as well as things they are NOT synonyms for:</span></span><br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Liberal (or Progressive)</b></span></span></li>
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">NOT a synonym for:</span></span></li>
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Tolerant</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Open-minded</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Non-racist</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Gun-hating</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Baby killing</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Godless</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Hippie</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Elitist</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Unpatriotic</span></span></li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Conservative</b></span></span></li>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">NOT a synonym for:</span></span></li>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Ignorant</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Gun toting</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Racist</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Misogynist</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Religious</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Rich</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Patriot</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Xenophobic</span></span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I'm a Liberal and I have Conservative friends. I know, but it's true! And sure, sometimes they post things on FB that make me roll my eyes, or sigh, or just scroll through. But here's the thing: they are people. They are my friends.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I still talk politics with people close to me. Sometimes the husband and I talk about things that are going on. But I refuse to engage in political discussion with others, especially on FB. I don't see this as irresponsible or unpatriotic or ignorant. I see it as saving my sanity. This doesn't mean I don't care about issues: I still give money to the charities and organizations I believe in, I still read, I still watch the news. I just don't want to talk about it much except with a few people I trust - including my Conservative best friend, Tia. I'm not sticking my head in the sand, I'm being selective.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">What about you? Do you discuss politics, and if so, have you ever changed your mind or admitted you were wrong about a politician or an issue?</span></span></div>
Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-53158071760686242822012-08-14T10:40:00.001-04:002012-08-14T10:41:49.971-04:00Costume Fails<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The 2012 New York Comic Con is coming up, and by "coming up" I of course mean in two months. That may not seem around the corner-ish to you Muggles, but for we geeks that's practically <i>tomorrow</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thing is, October is generally a busy month for me. I've got my son the Juban Princeling's birthday on the 8th, my husband's birthday on the 17th, my brother <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Mf17tvykqc" target="_blank">Mr. Funny's </a>birthday on the 22nd, and Halloween on the 31st. (I guess technically we all have Halloween on the 31st. But I like it more than you do, probably.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's two things I need costumes for: NYCC and Halloween. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Halloween is easy. My friend NoLa does a theme party, and even if she craps out on the party I still make us dress up for it. Last year she used the excuse of having "foot surgery" and "not being able to walk" for "10 weeks" as her excuse not to create a space alien theme party, but I still made the Princeling dress up as a spooky alien, because do you know how hard it is to find a space alien costume for a 3-year old? Surprisingly hard. But it paid dividends in cuteness:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQrvX5ha4b71nkAHNZ9KPWP7tcCD9HYSgwLr4e8FuaT5Y_3nzCL8aBndPOp6SnPzaHuMcpQTwA55gPFghjpCUp8FNdWUMyl9LpPXhHYkMi3D1f2i6n3fAco_7-mETQ62j5DduEFseoPE/s1600/PA280631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQrvX5ha4b71nkAHNZ9KPWP7tcCD9HYSgwLr4e8FuaT5Y_3nzCL8aBndPOp6SnPzaHuMcpQTwA55gPFghjpCUp8FNdWUMyl9LpPXhHYkMi3D1f2i6n3fAco_7-mETQ62j5DduEFseoPE/s320/PA280631.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">"I'm a spooooooky alien!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This year her theme is Classic Haunted House, though she's threatened to crap out on me again. Doesn't matter. I already have our costumes: we're going as the ghosts of a family who drowned in the Gowanus Canal. Body glow paint will be employed, as well as <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2012/06/so-it-will-make-us-mad.html" target="_blank">our masks from Sleep No More:</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0tlbT6wGltQIVnQlsBbrQEmMlU2QbPth7BclX1IsZgcUcOwhC1qj96MWHOtkn0-0jXZl_BJIz_zYNdS50u_PnCXwqoJiSgQZwVTV_I1bIfTJiVOVx4SX93oab9GJp3E609arRYzcsJo/s1600/Baby+Sleep+No+More.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0tlbT6wGltQIVnQlsBbrQEmMlU2QbPth7BclX1IsZgcUcOwhC1qj96MWHOtkn0-0jXZl_BJIz_zYNdS50u_PnCXwqoJiSgQZwVTV_I1bIfTJiVOVx4SX93oab9GJp3E609arRYzcsJo/s320/Baby+Sleep+No+More.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">"MacBeth hath murdered sleep!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, Halloween is covered.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My problem is what to wear for NYCC.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">NYCC does a Family Day, and I want to take the Princeling for his first ever geek con. One year they had the New York Jedi Academy - yes, that's a thing - train younglings on how to use light sabers. If they do that this year I may actually drop dead of happiness. But I've been racking my brain for good mother-son costumes for us. The problem is that most mothers in fantasy and sci-fi are either dead or bat-shit crazy. Some ideas I've had for us, but had to dismiss:</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Joffrey and Cersei</b> (My son will be 4, and I know I'll end up having to schlep around the head on a pike when he gets tired of it.)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Superman and his Kryptonian mother, blown to smithereens</b> (too depressing for a 4-year old)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Spiderman and whatever happen to his mother</b> (ditto)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Harry Potter and Ghost Lily Potter</b> (super ditto)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Spock and Winona Ryder</b> (seeing a pattern, yet?)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Luke Skywalker and Padme Amidala </b>(I cannot pull off a white bodysuit) (no, not even a little bit)</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe we can do Wesley Crusher and Dr. Crusher? I already have the red hair. All I'd need is the blue ST: TNG body suit (still more flattering than Padme Amidala's), a tricorder, and a poorly hidden lust for Jean-Luc Picard. Like <i>that</i> would be so hard.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ideas? What sort of family/parent-child/group costumes have you all done?</span></div>
</div>
Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-1847480545416897872012-08-08T10:15:00.006-04:002012-08-08T10:40:42.985-04:00Lies My Breakfast Cereal Told Me<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know you're too grown-up when you start choosing a breakfast cereal based on fiber content and not cartoon character. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until recently - and by "recently" I mean a few months ago - I saw nothing wrong with being a 36-year old woman and mother of two who ate Lucky Charms for breakfast. I mean, come on, what's not to love? If I believe General Mills' ad campaign, the non-marshmallow part of the cereal is made with "whole grains" or some other healthy-sounding crap like that. Healthy AND magically delicious!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But alas. My husband, who is all, "We need to be healthier so we can live a long time and continue to annoy each other well into our 100s," is into healthy eating, probably just to piss me off.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfZMuoHEucgAxEfIPvCnEv5xQUFj9VSUarau3kJe0YfUtnyDyqxv8ciT0_-cH8ICgpbRRT1T9T4cR7jTkBCoMQweKVkLorrRDCA2WIFzW_0S8LKWevZ-IBvPVsQRCDlzpX5EBKNiELvU/s1600/Spoonful_of_cereal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfZMuoHEucgAxEfIPvCnEv5xQUFj9VSUarau3kJe0YfUtnyDyqxv8ciT0_-cH8ICgpbRRT1T9T4cR7jTkBCoMQweKVkLorrRDCA2WIFzW_0S8LKWevZ-IBvPVsQRCDlzpX5EBKNiELvU/s320/Spoonful_of_cereal.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">If this had, like, 15 pounds of sugar on it, I'd totally be into it.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Exercise I have no problem with, when I have the time. I'll walk for miles, I'll do Pilates, I <i>do</i> do yoga every morning. I've even started meditating, so that in those moments when I'm about to lose my shit because all three of my housemates are ganging up on me in what is clearly a well-planned assault on my emotional well-being, I can find my Happy Place, take a deep breath, cultivate inner peace, and not go to prison for stabbing my family. (My matra is, "Pretty fish like me don't do well in prison." *breathe in* "Pretty fish like me don't do well in prison." *breathe out*)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, you know, exercise is fine with me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's the eating right part of "being healthy" that gets me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grew up in the 80s, when putting cut-up hot dogs in my Kraft Macaroni & Cheese was considered a well-balanced meal because it had 3 of the 4 food groups in it: protein, dairy, and powdered cheese product. Apparently that is not an acceptable lunch for a grown woman.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other things I grew up eating which I am now supposed to give up so that I don't have a heart attack at age 40 or develop Type II diabetes or have a stroke or some other stupid crap that so-called "doctors" and "scientists" warn us about:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fried chicken</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bacon cheeseburgers</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pizza</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fettucini Alfredo</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chocolate ice cream mixed with Double-Stuf Oreos</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nutella</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Potato chips</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">French fries</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pretzels</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anything delicious</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thing is, if it were up to me those things are ALL I would eat. After pushing 100-pounds of stroller and children uphill in 95-degree heat and humidity for at least a mile, and then doing all my <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/diastasis-recti/AN02153/" target="_blank">diastasis recti physical therapy</a> so I don't look 6-months pregnant anymore, I think I <i>deserve</i> some fried chicken, French fries, and chocolate ice cream covered in Nutella. I mean, <i>right</i>?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zse1OKqzhGlokFmyCkByB2KAhlBEZ6RpASCpXgPmgqFCMN7WWW7vTjWcCPAEu1E5myHhfKOWZtDFYV9BW62rsmAuuCBgTIM2mJjoSby2KcXKcCGcyEDL5-70DazP4bP_VOKDCh8wKqg/s1600/Fried_chicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zse1OKqzhGlokFmyCkByB2KAhlBEZ6RpASCpXgPmgqFCMN7WWW7vTjWcCPAEu1E5myHhfKOWZtDFYV9BW62rsmAuuCBgTIM2mJjoSby2KcXKcCGcyEDL5-70DazP4bP_VOKDCh8wKqg/s320/Fried_chicken.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;"><3 <3 <3</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, oh no, in order not to weigh 900 pounds I have to "snack" on "light cheese" and "fruit," which is not filling at all. I don't like diets, but I don't like the idea of taking up more than one subway seat at a time, either.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my husband pulls <i>this</i> card on me, which is so unfair but he's a lawyer and uses tricks like this all the time: "I quit smoking to be healthier for <i>you</i>, so you owe it to <i>me</i> and to our children to eat healthy and not die young." He's such a jerk.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, crappy grown-up cereal it is for breakfast, because apparently Eggs Benedict is not "healthy" in the strictest sense of the term. But here's the thing. The box claims that because the cereal is full of fiber and protein it will help me "Stay Fuller Longer!" Exact words. But an hour later and I'm ready to eat my own arm off from hunger. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">WHY WOULD BREAKFAST CEREAL LIE TO ME???</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what doesn't lie to me? Bagels. Eggs Benedict. When I eat those for breakfast I'm actually full for the next 3-4 hours, not pretend, lying, hippie cereal quote-unquote "full."</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I eat Lucky Charms, I know exactly what I'm getting: a bowl full of delicious, followed by a sugar high, followed by the hangover-like remorse of a sugar crash. At least Lucky doesn't pretend otherwise, HEALTHY GROWN-UP CEREAL THAT DOESN'T EVEN TASTE GOOD. Asshole.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">***</span></div>
<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I won't lie to you: I have a Bota Box picnic essay up over at Moms Who Need Wine. <a href="http://www.momswhoneedwine.com/2012/08/1526/" target="_blank">Click here to check it out! </a></span></div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-9581155245055855872012-07-24T11:01:00.000-04:002012-07-24T11:01:00.129-04:00Zombies!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've read/watched enough end-of-the-world books/movies/shows to know that people with small children generally do not survive.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I blame the children.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've got two tiny ones myself: the Juban Princeling, who is 3 1/2, and the Duke of Juban, who is four months. When - NOT IF! - the Zombiepocalypse happens, we are goners. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the Zombiepocalypse is <i>going</i> to happen. I know this because just a few blocks from my house is <a href="http://www.green-wood.com/" target="_blank">a cemetery</a> next to a power plant. Do the math, people. I don't know what bureaucratic asshat allowed this zoning debacle, but I'm going to go on record this election year and say that I fully support any candidate with an anti-zombie platform. I know that's a harsh thing to say, but even we Liberals have to draw the line <i>some</i>where.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lately I've been watching "The Walking Dead," and I have no doubt my kids and I will not survive when that power plant goes all melty and zaps those pissed off Confederate soldiers back to life. There's a reason why there are no babies or preschoolers running around with Rick & the Gang: they've all been eaten. Probably the parents, too. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">The South rises again.<br />(Photo from http://familyhalloweenhorror.tripod.com/id1.html)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Why People With Small Children Will Not Survive the Zombiepocalypse:</u></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. <b>Children Are Slow, and They Slow You Down</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have you ever tried to go anywhere with a baby? Or a toddler? Or preschooler? Or multiple children at once? It's Sisyphean. Here's how a typical morning in our house goes on, say a random Sunday when we try to go out for breakfast:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "Princeling, get your shoes on."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Princeling: "No! I don't want to go out!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "Don't you want pancakes?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Princeling: "No! Pancakes are stupid! You're poop!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband: "You can have bacon, too. And bring a toy."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Princeling: "No! I hate you! Go away!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Duke: "Waaaaah!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "You work on getting the Princeling's shoes on while I give this one a bottle."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Princeling: "NOOOO!!!!!" *kicks off shoes*</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Duke: *poops*</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Forty-five minutes later we may be out the door. Or we may have given up, sent the Princeling to his room, and already be one finger into two tumblers of Scotch at 8:45 in the morning.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And it's not like we can pick the children up and run away from the zombies, either. At least, not run far, or fast, or for too long. The Princeling weighs around 35 pounds and the Duke is clocking in at a healthy 15 pounds. Even if my husband, who is strong, carried the Princeling on his back and I took the baby in the <a href="http://store.ergobaby.com/" target="_blank">Ergo</a>, how far could we realistically get while running for our lives? And what about supplies? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As my friend Cali, whose two daughters are the same ages as my sons, explained the other day: "My step-father told me about this ridiculous compound he has in Tennessee and said if anything happens we should make our way there, and we'll be fine. But it takes me two hours just to get out the door to walk across Park Slope. How the hell am I supposed to make it all the way to Tennessee in an emergency?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "You know, those of us with small children are going to be the first to go in any kind of apocalyptic event. Like zombies."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cali: "Well, we all have to go sometime. When you number's up, your number's up."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. <b>Children Cannot Sit Still. Or Be Quiet.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As anyone who has ever left their home, ever, can tell you: children are loud and they run around a lot. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even my kids, who are relatively well-behaved, have only so much quiet and stillness inside them. If we have to hide from zombies there is no way I can make the Princeling stay silent long enough to let a herd pass us by. Like most kids his age, the Princeling enjoys doing the opposite of what we say. If we said, "Princeling! You MUST be silent and NOT MOVE until we say so, or else zombies will eat us alive!" He will shout "NO!" and run away just to prove we're not the boss of him. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And forget the Duke. He's just a baby. Babies are cute, but they are also kind of dumb and lack any sense of self-preservation. If he can't even figure out not to roll off the changing table, there is just no way he's going to survive a zombie attack.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. <b>Children Are Delicious. SO I'VE BEEN TOLD.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At least twice that I can remember, "True Blood" - which is nothing if not realistic - has referenced how delicious little kids are. There was that one time Eric and Pam babysat for Arlene's kids, and commented about how much they wished they could eat them; and in a recent episode a guy had been thrown into Authority prison for eating newborns.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And at least once in "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer" a reference is made to finding a nice, tasty toddler for Spike.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, zombies aren't the most practical of creatures, but even zombies have to have enough of a sense of smell to be able to pick out a succulent baby over, say, a stringy old person who reeks of hemorrhoid ointment and denture cream.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And no, that was <i>not</i> a suggestion to slather your children in hemorrhoid ointment and denture cream. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How about you all? What are your strategies for the imminent zombiepocalypse? Besides grabbing your neighbors' babies and throwing them at the zombie masses while you make your escape YOU SICK PUPPIES.</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-52576420057762946602012-07-17T09:00:00.000-04:002012-07-17T09:00:15.917-04:00Angelfish<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband and I do not consider ourselves helicopter parents. We're too lazy for that. If a reality show were to spontaneously appear in our home, my soundbite would be, "Get off your ass and get it yourself." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yes, I do speak to my 3 1/2-year old, the Juban Princeling, that way, and no, I don't care what you think about that.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even if we <i>wanted</i> to be helicopter parents, he wouldn't let us. The Princeling is so independent-minded he would have gotten his own apartment when we brought him home from the hospital if he didn't absolutely need us to change his diapers and feed him. And even then we suspect he was just humoring us.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're fine with that. We're not the type of parents to encourage our kids to depend on us because it's just so sweet and we need to be needed or something like that. We love our children, and we love them more when they do shit themselves and leave us alone.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I signed the Princeling up for swim classes every Saturday this summer. Because knowing how to swim is important, especially for us, because we're from Florida and my parents have a pool and my mother-in-law's condo development has a pool and my husband and I would rather splash about than hold our children so they don't drown.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had the choice of signing up for one of three levels of "Angelfish" classes: Angelfish Plus, for 3-5 year olds who can swim without an adult; Angelfish, for 3-5 year olds who can't swim but can go in the water without a parent or guardian (...I don't know, either, so don't ask me); and Angelfish with Caregiver, for 3-5 year olds with their parent or guardian. I let the Princeling choose which one he wanted, and to my utter shock he said he wanted me in the water with him. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, yay. Because if there's one thing a 36-year old mother of two, with hypothyroidism, who has had three major abdominal surgeries in the past three years, wants, it is to wear a bathing suit in public.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I love my son. Angelfish with Caregiver it was.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo by Heinz Albers</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Note to the mom in the class after us: just because you have the body for it does not make it appropriate to wear a skimpy string bikini to your child's swim class. Save that shit for "MILFs Gone Wild" or whatever.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For class, the kids have to wear a floatation device that sort of makes them look like tiny Transformers. I think this is because the instructors realize they are in Park Slope and probably most of us parents are too drunk at 11am on a Saturday morning to keep our kids' heads above water for half an hour.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite having part of Optimus Prime strapped to his back, at his first lesson the Princeling would bob under water every time I let him go, sputtering back up and grasping for me with this look on his face that can only be described as a combination of terror and amazement. (AKA "Roller Coaster Face.")</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At his second lesson we did something called floating airplanes, and somehow the Princeling actually managed to hold still and be a kick-ass floating airplane. And I told him so. He was the best damn floating airplane in the 11am Saturday Angelfish with Caregiver <i>class</i>, y'all. I'm not saying he's the next Michael Phelps...but I bet Michael Phelps didn't <i>suck</i> at floating airplane, you know?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then we played a game where the parents had to keep throwing little rubber duckies ahead of our kids and let the kids do their "reach and pulls" to "swim" to them. And I held tight to the Princeling while he did his reach and pulls and kicked me under water. Finally he turned around and said, "Mommy! Let! Me! Go!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I protested, because, sputtering and grasping. But he fought me and pushed at me until I had no choice but to let him go.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And he swam.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not well, and not far. But he swam. My little angelfish. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All I had to do was let go.</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-20239017159033299832012-07-02T14:31:00.000-04:002012-07-02T14:31:25.043-04:00Ghost Mommy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My 3 1/2-month old baby, the Duke of Juban, has a Ghost Mommy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't really believe in ghosts. When I told my Harry Potter Wife a few years ago that I want to do a "haunted castles of Europe" tour for our honeymoon, it was with the idea (at least on my part) that we'd get a good laugh. I believe in creaky floorboards, howling winds, and overactive imaginations, but I don't believe in ghosts.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also don't believe in angels, or guardian angels, or things like that. I'm a sort of Buddhist/Jewish/non-theist/none of your damn business. (A non-theist is not the same as an atheist. But, again, none of your damn business.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still. I freely admit I could be wrong about pretty much everything in life, including the existence or not of ghosts and angels. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I think the Duke might have a Ghost Mommy, or guardian angel, or <i>something</i>.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dw9Ts2eI0ksRIaR6lesM7CUCnEYBWXOGyBL1B1xbbvL2AKZIodnNS1dSbm-Jmri2bnn2yTjW_PpnCJIP9Z2MT-_MlADOFoCJqJAc7fN5AoEeLC5G3bt5K2d-5vLJgosZGsFKqv_zexc/s1600/Medieval_ghost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dw9Ts2eI0ksRIaR6lesM7CUCnEYBWXOGyBL1B1xbbvL2AKZIodnNS1dSbm-Jmri2bnn2yTjW_PpnCJIP9Z2MT-_MlADOFoCJqJAc7fN5AoEeLC5G3bt5K2d-5vLJgosZGsFKqv_zexc/s320/Medieval_ghost.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Twinkle, twinkle, little star..."<br />By Gallowglass (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 <br />(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday morning the husband told me he heard the Duke chatting to himself - not crying, but chatting happily in that cute baby way - around 5am, roughly two hours before he wakes up for the day. (Yes, we <i>do</i> know how lucky we are, not to rub it in or anything.) When he flicked on the video monitor he saw the Duke chatting and staring at something OR SOMEONE! outside his crib, which is highly unusual since the Duke usually sleeps (and dream chats) facing the wall. He's a baby, and babies like walls. At least, my babies like walls. My older child, the now 3 1/2-year old Juban Princeling, had an entire relationship with a brick wall in the apartment we lived in when he was born, two moves ago. So when we watch the Duke on the video monitor in a totally non-creepy or helicopter way, we've noticed he generally favors the wall next to his crib and not the entire rest of his room, including the corner with the monkey nightlight. Who needs a monkey nightlight when you have a bare wall? Certainly not MY son! Monkey nightlights are for assholes, not for the youngest child of Brooklyn's favorite wino!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So when my husband saw the Duke cooing happily with the air, that was strange enough. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stranger, still, was my husband swearing he heard a woman humming to the Duke, and the Duke going quietly back to sleep.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I've gone over before how <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/meredith-lopez/post-its-on-the-baby_b_167802.html" target="_blank">no one has their best brains on in the wee hours of the morn</a>, and my wonderful husband is no exception. We live in an apartment in New York City - the humming could have been anything.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">INCLUDING THE HUMMING OF A GHOST MOMMY PUTTING MY BABY BACK TO SLEEP.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why not?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later that same day I left the Duke happily napping in his room, with the door closed, when I took the Princeling and his friend downstairs to play. YES, I TOOK THE VIDEO MONITOR, STOP NAGGING ME YOU JUDGEY MCJUDGERSONS. I didn't hear anything on the monitor, but when I checked it I noticed the Duke was awake. Awake and happy and quiet. We went upstairs...and his door was open. I didn't open it. No one else was home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since there is no way even the most gifted of 3 1/2-month olds (of which mine certainly qualifies) can climb out of their cribs, get to their bedrooms doors, open the doors, and then climb back into their cribs I have to assume it was Ghost Mommy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I jealous? No. As any normal mother will tell you, every child needs at least four parents, maybe more. I would not mind a few extra parents living in my house, helping with the kids, not getting paid, and certainly not having sex with my husband. So if Ghost Mommy can soothe my baby at 5am and make him go back to sleep, and she forgets to shut the door every now and then, I can live with that. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If she wants to change poopy diapers and watch both kids while I make a Tasti-D-Lite run, that would be cool, too. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you believe in ghosts and/or guardian angels? Why or why not?</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-30521331234667125972012-06-27T09:19:00.001-04:002012-06-27T09:19:32.077-04:00The Idiot Box<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One nice thing about summer - besides baseball, mojitos, and key lime pie, which are pretty much <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2011/05/summer-sucks.html" target="_blank">summer's only redeeming qualities as far as I'm concerned</a> - is the lack of TV on TV, allowing my husband and I to catch up on shows we otherwise would probably never get to watch because we're too busy watching other shows.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlnQbXUuKkJ-lKWhvJtTCv8ZIdnEpGMRf8uJ32kXphRyyQ-ub4j_bZB2O_886eqXnHpRxIgpR9y00NdbyNykIefySlU6GiP8sQ8b-UxETzDn6IL1m3a_OIVbK2QkD0w5x7TGyAMmnuG4/s1600/Early_portable_tv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlnQbXUuKkJ-lKWhvJtTCv8ZIdnEpGMRf8uJ32kXphRyyQ-ub4j_bZB2O_886eqXnHpRxIgpR9y00NdbyNykIefySlU6GiP8sQ8b-UxETzDn6IL1m3a_OIVbK2QkD0w5x7TGyAMmnuG4/s320/Early_portable_tv.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>By Photographer: Hana Kirana (Flickr.com - image description page) [Public domain or CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During any given TV season, we can be found watching:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dancing With the Stars (well, I watch, my husband complains) (but he secretly watches, and that's how he's able to accurately predict the judges' scores each week)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How I Met Your Mother</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cougartown</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Middle</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Modern Famly</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suburgatory (which I only watch for Jeremy Sisto)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don't Trust the B- in Apartment 23</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">30 Rock</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Community</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Up All Night</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Top Chef</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Louie</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Portlandia</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, when there are new episodes online:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Guild</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The (Mis)Adventures of Awkward Black Girl</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's a lotta TV for one couple with two itty bitty children.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're also too cheap to subscribe to premium channels, and by "too cheap" I mean Time Warner already has dibs on our most vital organs and one of our children (I won't say which one), and yet the service is kind of shitty. Kind of really shitty. So we're unwilling to shell out our other child and still wind up living in boxes under the Brooklyn Bridge just so we can get HBO, when Netflix will send us HBO shows for less than half the cost. Sure, we get them about 18 years after they've aired, but so what? <u>Game of Thrones</u> is <i>timeless</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The problem with doing it this way, though, is we go through an entire season in less than a week. We wrapped up season 2 of <u>Treme</u> in about four nights and season 1 of <u>GoT</u> in less than a week. After tonight it will have taken us all of two nights to get through season 1 of <u>Bored to Death</u> (Brooklyn, holla!)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then we have to wait a whole year for the next season to come out on DVD.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And if you're thinking that we can just pirate or bootleg stuff off the internets, well, my friend, THAT IS HIGHLY ILLEGAL AND WE WOULD NEVER EVER DO THAT, DO YOU HEAR ME FCC?</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmV2o-LCk_Pl3KN2L-tnYigYvUtxqfJobpEQooeQIhzjvEkPQR0pzKMdCDb2eW0fjmV2Qwp1lcMgPQMyXOyIWsmZPw4Nol20QmvhF9hz32IVNrVqP0tnXIKBPax5lF9XHunBE0qYeH2Y/s1600/1984-Big-Brother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmV2o-LCk_Pl3KN2L-tnYigYvUtxqfJobpEQooeQIhzjvEkPQR0pzKMdCDb2eW0fjmV2Qwp1lcMgPQMyXOyIWsmZPw4Nol20QmvhF9hz32IVNrVqP0tnXIKBPax5lF9XHunBE0qYeH2Y/s1600/1984-Big-Brother.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>I <3 the FCC</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, we tried that and it didn't work. For a long time we were all caught up on <u>True Blood</u> for free, but some wonderful, puppy-loving, highly attractive and <i>clearly</i> intelligent person over at the FCC must have caught on to all these nasty, no-goodnik pirating sites and shut them down. (I swear to god, if I don't get my Eric Northman fix soon I will cut a bitch. Not <i>you</i> at the FCC, I love <i>you</i> and want to have your babies, and by the way, have you lost weight? You look <i>fantastic</i>.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if you watch <u>GoT</u> the way god intended - on HBO - or <u>Treme</u>, or <u>Boardwalk Empire</u> (next in our Netflix queue after <u>BtD</u>), or <u>Carnivale</u> (after <u>BE</u>), please don't tell me what happens. I need something to keep me occupied next summer. (The chef and the jazz guy are totally going to hook up, right? NO, DON'T TELL ME!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How do you get your fix of your favorite shows? </span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-71151565474591234732012-06-19T11:12:00.000-04:002012-06-19T11:12:03.945-04:00I'm Afraid of Siri<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For Mother's Day my husband insisted I get a new iPhone 4S. With Siri. My argument against this was, if Siri can't change diapers, massage my feet, or get me a table at <a href="http://www.zagat.com/buzz/no-1-le-bernardin" target="_blank">Le Bernardin</a>, then she's useless.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, I have a crippling fear of robots. I've seen <u>2001: A Space Odessy</u> and all the <u>Terminator</u> movies, I know what's up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got a Siri anyway.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My fear of robots started when I was 7 years old and went to see <u>Superman III </u>with my family and hid my face in my mother's shoulder during that part at the end where the giant supercomputer turns that lady into a robot who shoots lasers out her eyes. My mother, helpful as always, narrated for me what I was missing by hiding and not looking, because if there's anything more terrifying to a 7-year old than watching a lady robot shoot lasers out her eyeballs, it's being told by your mom about it. My mom wasn't matter-of-fact, either. Or sympathetic. She was gleeful. "She turned into a ROBOT!" with this tone that sounded like, "I cannot possibly be more excited to destroy your sense of security and safety, and to stay awake with you for the next three weeks while you don't sleep! Also, there really is a boogeyman under your bed who wants to eat you, and the next time you refuse to eat broccoli I'm going to sell you to Gypsies!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fun fact: A few years ago, as a 30-something adult, I tried watching <u>Superman III</u> for the first time since I was 7, and I couldn't do it. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since then I have what I consider to be a healthy fear of robots, and Siri is no exception. The <u>Terminator</u> movies aren't just good entertainment, people. They are<i> dire warnings</i>, and possibly <i>predictions</i>!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">IT IS A SHORT, STRAIGHT LINE FROM THIS</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibk0ZTPPzK5qM0IElGSle6EPToxPHP-6V_nb-DroHBe_EtYxTqO3B3YbRaYjTGd8tHt8sAQ3xBYWG9yCiDdMPi37Z33h7C2a9i0ZjF1w3EMxG4qIgm-V2RNfPJ80yDPW_V9uSEU55_6KE/s1600/Siri+search.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibk0ZTPPzK5qM0IElGSle6EPToxPHP-6V_nb-DroHBe_EtYxTqO3B3YbRaYjTGd8tHt8sAQ3xBYWG9yCiDdMPi37Z33h7C2a9i0ZjF1w3EMxG4qIgm-V2RNfPJ80yDPW_V9uSEU55_6KE/s320/Siri+search.png" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TO THIS</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yFvbdhPfn8dZ8GaXOWvzQ_pBqBGGFhNaJ46n4Cy4zcvWQVHwEX9pn7kqN4zOYSWxmLCCnKNxDjpIOEDOup7gi6PXN7tq4tirIrMSPc4K9g3ixLoHSxM9-CySTkk6T5cjkETuNQp0-yE/s1600/Siri,+find+me+Sarah+Connor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yFvbdhPfn8dZ8GaXOWvzQ_pBqBGGFhNaJ46n4Cy4zcvWQVHwEX9pn7kqN4zOYSWxmLCCnKNxDjpIOEDOup7gi6PXN7tq4tirIrMSPc4K9g3ixLoHSxM9-CySTkk6T5cjkETuNQp0-yE/s320/Siri,+find+me+Sarah+Connor.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">(Photo from: http://www.nakedfanmail.com/tag/the-terminator/)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Short. Straight. Line. <i>People</i>.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "Siri, are you self-aware?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Siri:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I have Siri call me "Your Highness." I want her to remember who's boss.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you had told me when I was 7 years old that one day I would own a phone that was actively plotting the destruction of all humankind, I would <i>totally</i> have believed you.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Start stockpiling water and supplies, especially guns, and for goodness' sake, <i>where is John Connor</i>?</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-88323008393598256222012-06-15T10:28:00.000-04:002012-06-15T10:38:37.844-04:00An Open Letter To: The New Tenants<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear New Tenants in Our Old Apartment:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know you intercepted both a package and a card meant for our new baby. I don't know why you chose to keep both these things, despite my note on your door with my phone number and email address so I could come pick them up. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also know you cashed the $200 check my aunt included in the card meant for the baby. That takes a lot of balls, New Tenants. Unless you coincidentally have the exact same name as my youngest child - which is highly unlikely - I have no idea why or how your bank went ahead and deposited $200 into your account. I can only hope someone there catches this oversight at some point and fines you $200.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's what else I hope for you:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope every time you get in line at the supermarket, the person ahead of you pays in pennies.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope every time you try to have a picnic in the park, a sudden thunderstorm breaks.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope you get an infestation of mosquitoes this summer. (I used to live there. It's entirely possible.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope you develop chronic ingrown toenails.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope every time you place a food order it gets delivered to you missing one item.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope your laptop, portable DVD player, smart phone, iPad, e-reader, or other personal entertainment device dies five minutes into a long flight.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope you never get a table at <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/al-di-la-trattoria-brooklyn" target="_blank">Al Di La</a>.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope you never get a cab in the rain.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope your DVR always cuts off your favorite shows 2 minutes before the ending.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And mostly, I hope that someone does this to you some day, so you'll know how it feels when people try to celebrate something special with you, but accidentally send gifts to your old address, and the people there keep your stuff instead of calling or emailing you to come get them.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jerks.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most sincerely,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Previous Tenant</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-32577163881758608632012-06-12T09:15:00.002-04:002012-06-12T09:15:37.347-04:00So It Will Make Us Mad<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCG60exDKDY" target="_blank">My brother, Mr. Funny</a>, is pretty unflappable, generally speaking. He spent a chunk of time in college working at a store called <a href="http://www.fairvilla.com/" target="_blank">Fairvilla</a> (warning: link NSFW), which featured things like a people cage, medical-grade horse-size speculums, and something called "The Simian." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So it takes a lot to shock him.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Something like hearing his sister say the following sentence:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"There was a part in the blood orgy that reminded me of my children."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me explain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Saturday night I went with my husband and his brother, Gilligan, to "<a href="http://sleepnomorenyc.com/" target="_blank">Sleep No More</a>," which is probably one of the most awesome experiences of my life. It is, to paraphrase my cousin-in-law, like "MacBeth" on peyote.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An entire building in Chelsea was turned into the hotel set, and the actors go from room to room performing (very) loosely interpreted scenes from The Scottish Play. Guests are given creepy masks to wear, and are instructed to break off from their group and not to speak. At all. People who've been to "Sleep No More" have <a href="http://theater.nytimes.com/2011/04/14/theater/reviews/sleep-no-more-is-a-macbeth-in-a-hotel-review.html" target="_blank">varying philosophies</a> on how to do it best so that you see all the scenes and don't miss anything important, but honestly, even given the three hour window you have to wander around at will there is no humanly way to catch everything.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF0OF74jxfioja7ji8-433K_4Omqd94ARf-K7wEgIk0H5OG-kc46uYS83sVypM589H8AMR7YnohPP8_9aYk2Y9iRtKj4Xq3qN2mig0smhefbYZeGitAV5Sbw6cjb71fWsEtUhFHl4MSo/s1600/Baby+Sleep+No+More.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF0OF74jxfioja7ji8-433K_4Omqd94ARf-K7wEgIk0H5OG-kc46uYS83sVypM589H8AMR7YnohPP8_9aYk2Y9iRtKj4Xq3qN2mig0smhefbYZeGitAV5Sbw6cjb71fWsEtUhFHl4MSo/s320/Baby+Sleep+No+More.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">The Duke of Juban models the creepy "Sleep No More" mask.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So that's the situation I found myself in on Saturday night: Running silently around a dark, creepy hotel in a "Scream"-like mask, chasing actors covered in stage blood and getting grave dirt all over my feet. (Note to self: Don't wear open-toed shoes to "Sleep No More.")</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Naturally</i> there is a blood orgy. I mean, <i>duh</i>. How could there <i>not</i> be a blood orgy at something like this?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And part of the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. I won't say why, but if you've been to "Sleep No More" you know what I'm talking about and you know I'm not a pervert. Well, I probably <i>am</i> a pervert, but not because the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. In fact, I think I am the real victim here. Who wants to think about their precious little babies at a blood orgy?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Charles Manson might. But I am not Charles Manson. Not even a little bit.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Besides, my husband and I were paying a very nice young woman $12 an hour to think about our children for us. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of them at all, but especially not during a blood orgy. Now, suddenly, I couldn't <i>help</i> but think of them.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMsTfR17VZ5_GfpTnz3yLvLgcdq04DCL6aZcJ_RJappEaVLJnKpgr7iPc0HMNS1JGX2rVrAIqeKoqeJxZT6xx3dROVZexNwTr2Uj7-IMTKxOzs-gUrsn_LcUrwQhTLxXiKXJ7NM8l7lI/s1600/Sleep+No+More+Darth+Vader+Pajamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMsTfR17VZ5_GfpTnz3yLvLgcdq04DCL6aZcJ_RJappEaVLJnKpgr7iPc0HMNS1JGX2rVrAIqeKoqeJxZT6xx3dROVZexNwTr2Uj7-IMTKxOzs-gUrsn_LcUrwQhTLxXiKXJ7NM8l7lI/s320/Sleep+No+More+Darth+Vader+Pajamas.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">The Juban Princeling in the popular "Sleep No More" mask/Darth Vader pajamas combo</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One thought lead to another and before I knew it my maternal instinct told me the nice-seeming young woman watching our children was probably a Charles Manson-like pervert who was <i>at this very moment</i> kidnapping my babies and bringing them to a blood orgy. Which is how I wound up being one of the jerks at "Sleep No More" who hid in the stairwell to check my phone. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As if a Charles Mason-like pervert is going to send me a text message saying, "Got your kids. Blood orgy. Be back by 11."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried to shake it off, but the baby carriages in the psych ward didn't exactly comfort me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyone else get accidentally reminded of children, or other family members, during <b><i><u>really</u></i></b> inappropriate moments?</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-26476673634177760172012-06-05T13:43:00.000-04:002012-06-05T13:43:03.858-04:00Real O'Clock: The Feminine Mystique<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Every now and then here at the Grey Skies World Headquarters, we like to take it down a notch, from our usual wine-guzzling, Walking Dead-watching, geek con-going ways and get Real. If this were a rock concert, now would be the part where I sit atop a stool, mic in hand, spotlight on, and croon "Every Rose Has A Thorn" while swaying gently, like my depth and emotion are far too sincere to be contained by sitting still.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Get out your lighters (or cell phone screens), because it's about to get Real O'Clock all up in here.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to the magic of technology, I've actually spent the last three months reading books in addition to parenting two kids, one of whom requires my help for even the simplest of things like eating, moving from place to place, falling asleep, and holding his head up. We're working on all of that. I'm all about teaching my kids independence. For example, this year we let our 3 1/2-year old, the Juban Princeling, do his own taxes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read Tina Fey's hilarious and thoughtful autobiography, <u>Bossy Pants</u>, as well as a surprisingly excellent but completely depressing book called <u><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10075553-soft-apocalypse" target="_blank">Soft Apocalypse</a></u> by William McIntosh. (Don't read it if you have a weak stomach or are prone to nightmares or worry about the end of the world.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband read <u>The Feminine Mystique</u> a few years ago because he's awesome, and thought that as a stay at home mom I would enjoy reading it myself. Because somehow in my 36-year old feminist life I haven't read it yet. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't take that many women's studies classes in college - maybe two. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I've never read that most famous of Second Wave manifestos, <u>The Feminine Mystique</u>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I don't think I will.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started reading it a few weeks ago, but could not make it through chapter 2.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's why.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>1. It's too relevant to my life.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reading about mothers who share peanut butter sandwiches with their kids, or feel like they are on their feet running around all day yet accomplish very little, hit home for me in a hard way. On days that I don't write, or meet up with friends, or have a date night with my husband, it's easy to feel like I'm spinning my wheels, like my days are a carousel of dishes, bottles, diapers, dropping off, picking up, calming, soothing, and bathing. Thanks to our society's perpetual finger-wagging at mothers no matter what we do, I have days when I never stop beating myself up: if my kids are asleep, or away, I feel like I should be taking full advantage of that time to clean, or write, or run errands. When they are awake and home I feel like I should devote 100% of my attention to them. I want them to be independent, but I worry they get bored. I want them to be entertained and educated, but I worry they get overstimulated. I want to spend time playing with them, but I want them to learn how to keep themselves entertained. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other words, sometimes "mom" isn't enough for me. Clearly our Second Wave Feminist foremothers knew that.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>2.</b> <b>It's too <i>ir</i>relevant to my life.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All that said, I <i>do</i> write, and I <i>do</i> have friends, and I <i>do</i> have date nights with my husband. I have a rich, full life outside my children. I am lucky enough to live in a privileged position where the choice to stay home is exactly that - my choice. Far too many mothers I know of either have to work to make ends meet, or have to stay home because of the high cost of child care - not all of us live near parents or siblings or friends who are able to watch our kids all day.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike the women in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>The Feminine Mystique</u></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I never felt forced to marry and have children. <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2012/01/taking-care-of-babies.html" target="_blank">I never felt the strain of having to choose between having a career versus having a family.</a> I went into stay at home motherhood with my eyes wide open, knowing exactly what I walked into, and knowing that it was 100% my choice. For every moment that I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, there are ten more where I cannot imagine life without my children and experience a depth of joy I didn't know was possible.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And had my husband been the type of man who clings to traditional gender roles and expected me to stay home to raise our children, or forced me to go back to work for the money, or did not do his share of the chores and child care when he's home, or did not respect my opinions and value conversations with me on issues both large and small, this would not be possible. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ90QupNg8KgYZuYb4cbAv89ntkXqP-lfdHzC4I2xDX3XMBkhFzdmM5UKrhZyhoMxQtBYYWWJUTqkqKsRGY8mmVtosB9uW4UlcxQ8Nm0l-3DAa7yTb8fMks7ZXM3ID5LvplbADxvg5Uss/s1600/March+on+DC+2004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ90QupNg8KgYZuYb4cbAv89ntkXqP-lfdHzC4I2xDX3XMBkhFzdmM5UKrhZyhoMxQtBYYWWJUTqkqKsRGY8mmVtosB9uW4UlcxQ8Nm0l-3DAa7yTb8fMks7ZXM3ID5LvplbADxvg5Uss/s320/March+on+DC+2004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">The husband - then still just my boyfriend - and I, <br />Washington, DC, April 2004</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3. I can appreciate the book and its impact without reading it.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a writer and a reader, but I've never read <u>Moby Dick</u> and I probably never will. I've also never read many other books considered classics. I do not think this makes me either a bad reader or a bad writer. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a geek who doesn't play video games or read comic books.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a Yankees fan who does not watch every single game. (Anymore.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband is a good father without ever having babysat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I'm a feminist who never read <u>The Feminine Mystique</u>. I just don't think the reading of it, or not, should define my commitment to the cause of women's rights. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not an unthinking woman who feels some nebulous oppression in her life but can't articulate why. My eyes are open. My mind is curious. My life is my own, made up of careful choices and a lot of luck, and I would not have things any other way.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every day, whether consciously or like chatter in the background of my mind, I <i>know</i> I owe my plethora of choices to the fearless pioneers that came before me and dared to stand up and speak up for women's equality. I'm never <i>not</i> aware of this. And I'm <i>never</i> not grateful.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>4. It feels too much like work, and I have other things to read.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've never been much into non-fiction anyway. The little bit I read has to be entertaining and has to make me nod vigorously in agreement while I read it. <a href="http://clairemysko.com/?page_id=124" target="_blank">Does This Pregnancy Make Me Look Fat?</a> by my friend Claire Mysko was one of those books; so was Pema Chodron's <a href="http://www.shambhala.com/the-wisdom-of-no-escape.html" target="_blank">The Wisdom of No Escape</a>, and <a href="http://stephaniestaal.com/" target="_blank">Reading Women</a> by Stephanie Staal. When I tried to read <u>The Feminine Mystique</u>, I just couldn't relate enough, even trying to read it in the context of the middle class housewives of the 1950s and 1960s. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">Feminist from birth. (That's not my mom holding me.)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My self-esteem is healthy enough that I refuse to allow myself to be pigeon-holed, either as a mother or as a wife or as any of my other many identities. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm glad my husband read the book, because I think it helped him understand how stay at home motherhood by itself would never be fulfilling for me. But he already knew that. He's always encouraged me to go back to work, or not, or go back to school, or not, or write, or not, as I wish. Before our children were even conceived he told me, "Your happiness is not a luxury." He's never taken me - or my happiness, or quest for fulfillment - for granted, or diminished or disrespected my desire for something more from life. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He's kind of really wonderful that way.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love being a mother. I love my children. I also love many other things that make me happy. And the fact that I acknowledge these things, actively pursue non-motherly forms of happiness, and my children see it? That's pretty damn feminist right there.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What books do you know you <i>should</i> read, but probably never will?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-75895883656913479692012-05-30T10:18:00.000-04:002012-05-30T10:18:13.300-04:00An Open Letter: Re: Baths<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Attn:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">American Civil Liberties Union</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Amnesty International</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">President Obama</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The United Nations Children's Fund</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My name is the Duke of Juban. I live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York, and I am twelve weeks old. I write to you today to bring to your attention a most grave injustice: my baths.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The woman who proposes to be my mother gives me baths. I am not sure if you are aware or not, but baths involve my ancient mortal foe, water. Water <i>on my skin</i>! In <i>my hair</i>! This woman tricks me into trusting her with my love and devotion and well-being by feeding me, playing with me, holding me, and putting me to sleep, and just as I start to trust her she thrusts me into a vat of warm water and cleans me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know. I <i><b>know</b></i>!!!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The water hitting my skin may as well be boiling tar. My bath chair may as well be lined with needles. The soap she uses may as well be broken glass. The washcloth may as well have teeth. And the towel she dries me off with may as well be made of the most abrasive of sandpaper - you know, the kind they use to sand off old paint. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Torture of St. John the Evangelist" photo from<br />http://www.occesussex.co.uk/apps/blog/entries/show/935880-st-john-before-the-latin-gate</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After twelve long weeks on this godforsaken earth, my so-called "loving mother" has not taken the hint. Baths are a wretched, heinous form of child abuse. Had the good lord wanted me to smell good, she would not have crusted my ears with spit-up, or peppered my scalp with cradle cap, or put that stinky lint between my fingers and toes, or made my butt go poop.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never, in the history of babykind, has any child suffered as greatly as I do. Never before has any infant been forced to endure the kind of sadism I encounter on a weekly, sometimes <i>twice</i> or <i><b>thrice</b></i> weekly, basis! I fear for my future. I fear for my very <i>soul</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Baths are unnatural, inhuman, and a disgrace to humankind. As a helpless minor I <i>demand</i> you do something to stop this evil woman and her baths!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Humbly yours,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Duke of Juban, Baby, American Citizen, Future Voter, Brooklyn Borough Resident, Bath Victim</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-6130513002165037532012-03-20T14:59:00.000-04:002012-03-20T14:59:40.007-04:00Introducing the Duke of Juban<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">No, he's not throwing gang signs. </span></span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">NOT YET</span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Please welcome the second in line to my royal throne (...yes, shut up), the Duke of Juban. Born Wednesday, March 7, 11:02am here in Brooklyn, NY and clocking in at a hefty 9 pounds, 8 ounces, 21 inches long.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes, that's NINE AND A HALF POUNDS.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All that complaining and whining I did about how big my belly was, how much it hurt, and how uncomfortable I was all the time was, you know, kind of justified because I gave birth to a second grader. I'd like to think of myself as a sort of hero, but I've been told that heroes whine less.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Anyway, he's super cute and no, you cannot eat those chubby cheeks because as his mother I called dibs and already ate them all up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Juban Princeling has taken to big brotherhood like a pro. I'm so proud of my little guys. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What's that inside my brother's nose? Lemme just check and see...</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-37171695782360858652012-03-06T09:00:00.000-05:002012-03-06T09:37:47.782-05:00Animals Hate Me: The Squirrel Story<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Meredith's Note: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This week I'm off to have a baby, so for the next few weeks you lucky readers will get to enjoy guest posts by some of my nearest and dearest. They are all super awesome and wonderful, so please make them feel welcome!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">First up, my cousin-in-law Mary Jo (aka "Mrs. Rudy" to some), who has several hilarious animal stories to share, starting with this one.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">***</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Ah
yes. The simple joys of owning a home: mowing the lawn, gardening, painting,
decorating and, best of all, cleaning the squirrel poop off the kitchen
counter. <br />
<br />
Hubby and I got home kind of late one night, about 8:30, and I went upstairs to
change while he sorted through our pile of mail in the kitchen. I got back
downstairs and picked up a handful of mail, turned to put it with the rest of
the mail we've accumulated for the former owners of our house, and saw that the pile was
spread all over the kitchen counter and onto the floor. We hadn't noticed this when we
walked in - keep in mind, the Hubby had turned on the kitchen light and been
in there for about 5 minutes without any indication that we were not alone. So
that pile was a mess and there was dirt <i>or something</i> across the kitchen
counter. I looked across the counter following the trail of "dirt" to
the corner of the kitchen, where I made eye contact with, what I affectionately
refer to as, the Little F*@&er. <br />
<br />
There was a squirrel, chillin' on my counter, eating a banana. We made eye
contact for a moment, neither of us sure what our next move would be. I swear
the thing looked like it was going to pounce. Hubby claims I screamed, I think
it was more of a loud gasp, and I turned around and took a few steps back. Hubby,
not being able to see around me to see the L.F., asked what was wrong. It took
a moment for the words to actually come together in my head. "There's a
squirrel…on our counter…eating a banana" I slowly gasped. Then the L.F.
realized we both saw him, leapt from the counter and bolted into the living
room. Hubby opened the patio and tried to shoo him out, but L.F. ran upstairs. Hubby
followed him, and when he couldn't get him to come out of the bedroom, he closed the door,
trapping the LF. During this chase, I protected the couch by standing on top
of it doing what would I would like to think of as a secret squirrel exorcism
dance – not a chicken-shit-terrified-of-a-squirrel-attacking-me dance.<br />
<br />
So we called Animal Control for an emergency visit, which in our neck of the
woods is a private service and crazy expensive for an emergency call at night.
But after telling Hubby that I was not living with Wild Kingdom going on in my
house, he asked the guy to come right out. The guy showed up and
slipped into the bedroom with LF, holding his cage. There proceeded to be a
sequence of banging, chirping and crashing for about 10 minutes. He finally
came out, with the cage full of the mutant ninja squirrel. <i>["Mutant Ninja Squirrel" would be an awesome name for a punk band. - Meredith]</i> I think the squirrel
gave me the squirrel-equivalent of the finger (the claw?). And I'm pretty sure
it was deranged because the entire time we talked to the animal control guy,
the squirrel was gnawing at the cage and running in circles in it. The guy told
us the squirrel would be released back to nature and despite being a pretty
hardcore environmentalist, I told him I could not care less. We wished the nice man with the cage a good
night and then I turned to the squirrel and wished it happy trails (or more
exactly, "You will never see your family and friends again, useless
rodent"). If any wildlife is waiting for us ever again, I am going
Christmas Vacation on it, throwing a jacket over it and hitting it with a
hammer.<br />
<br />
Lessons learned: <br />
<br />
1. If you hear noises coming from your
chimney, don't waste time, get someone out there. We heard what we thought were
birds on Saturday, but figured we would take care of them in the next week when
we weren't busy. HA, joke’s on us!<br />
<br />
2. Squirrels like bananas. LF ripped into
one of the banana's on counter and ate the entire thing.<br />
<br />
3. Squirrels save up all of their poop
until they break into someone's house, and then find annoying places to leave
it. Hubby cleaned, disinfected and fumigated most of our kitchen counter because
the LF left all sorts of doots on it. And then I cleaned my desk and the floor
in the bedroom, because amazingly he still had more doots to distribute.<br />
<br />
4. Animals hate me. I've been chased by
a cow, a deer hit our car, and now a squirrel busted in my house and pooped all
over. What’s next? A bunny going to jump me in a dark alley?<br />
<br />
5. There is a rather severe gap in Home Maintenance
for Dummies: Deranged, Mutant Squirrel Maintenance.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDbWhtSkWFezi4rxlRufP6iNOX3syqFsezvQzjpaMWUzn0iJmzvGN_5VpflatrqKNr5P9uk5gjf88epUFJ3MaUf2Qfqvn2LC3VC9hmSOYRnsLIvTFbk6na6iYvCdTEjSogqqIWd2gzjE/s1600/MJ+and+her+boys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDbWhtSkWFezi4rxlRufP6iNOX3syqFsezvQzjpaMWUzn0iJmzvGN_5VpflatrqKNr5P9uk5gjf88epUFJ3MaUf2Qfqvn2LC3VC9hmSOYRnsLIvTFbk6na6iYvCdTEjSogqqIWd2gzjE/s320/MJ+and+her+boys.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Mary Jo Mullen is a mom of two wild boys (ages 1 and 3), wife of a huge
Fighting Irish fan and employed by the federal government. If she
didn't have a sense of humor, she'd be wearing a pretty white jacket
that ties in the back.</span></i>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-80307686728163202692012-02-25T12:07:00.001-05:002012-02-25T12:12:19.070-05:00My Favorite Year(s)<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">:::NOTE: I'll be taking a sort of "writing maternity leave" starting after this post. While I have this baby removed and recover from that, a handful of my super awesome friends are taking over. I promise they are each and every one way cooler than I am. :::</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">******* </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I was a teenager I spent my summers working at the local JCC, first as a "CIT" (counselor-in-training, aka an unpaid babysitter) and then as a junior counselor. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Every spring we were given the choice of any age group to work with, and while most of my peers fought for the older kids, I happily signed up for <i>Chaverim</i>, the 3-5 year olds.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">These kids were my absolute favorite. They were still little and cute, and I could fit three of them on my lap at a time during Friday <i>Shabbos</i> singing. They thought I lived in the classroom. Most of them still needed help getting dressed for swimming class. They colored themselves with crayons and called going to the bathroom "making," as in, "Meri, I have to <i>make</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Once, I heard giggling - from several voices - coming from our bathroom. There was no lock on the door to keep the kids from locking themselves in, so I peeked inside. There sat about four or five of my campers, perched around the rim of the toilet, little naked toushies in a row. I asked them what they were doing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">They were having a making party, of course. DUH.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">How could you not love that, and I don't mean in a weird way?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Most of the kids I babysat, too, were 3-5 years old. I <i>got</i> 3-5 years old. I am <i>expert</i> at 3-5 years old. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Kids that age still take everything at face value. They are absolutely unself-conscious. Their imaginations have kicked in, hard, and the crazier thoughts they have the more it all makes sense to them. If it enters their minds, it comes out their mouths. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The 3-5 year old age range is just fine by me. I know it. I love it. Everything
before, and everything after...I just try not to let them accidentally
die, and maybe don't grow up to hate my guts.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> When they're teenagers I'm pretty sure, based on my own parents, all I have to do is pick from ignoring them, laughing at them, and telling embarrassing stories to their friends.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I sit here waiting to go through the chaos, roller coaster, and exercise in sleep deprivation torture that is infanthood again, I keep reminding myself that before I blink, the Duke of Juban will be 3. My older son, the Juban Princeling, is 3, and although at times it felt like several decades passed during those first agonizing six months, here we are - he's 3 years old. He sits on the couch in his shiny blue scooter helmet, and Darth Vader costume, holding his blankie in one hand and his sippy cup in the other, with his dress-up knight doll resting happily by his side. His fingernails are painted blue because that's his favorite color, and what else <i>would</i> you do when you have a favorite color but paint it on your nails? (Liberal disclosure: blue is not his favorite color because we pushed it on him in some attempt at obeying gender rules. Blue is his favorite color because that's the color of my mother's car, and he is obsessed with her car.) His favorite word is "poop," and sometimes out of nowhere he'll stick out his butt and make a fake farting noise and then crack up. He insists his toys be friends with each other, and doesn't understand why Darth Vader <i>has</i> to be a bad guy. He comes into our room, sometimes, during the night and wants our attention but knows he's supposed to be quiet when people are sleeping, which is how I woke up last weekend to a fully extended, lit up light saber inches from my face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with love and adoration I want to squeeze him and kiss him and hug him and never let him get older.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77BhRhKZVHFX6vtxnT0eoeOQeV_NvlIptbZiFhfijs0F7T7c7GImSejY5zw_2EKoJbiUA21Htb30VIVsxMRsby-BEAA0E08TGGz8Xi2aJr4-84HZitZgS6LPtLKfhaDw-gv8EKxY_tKY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77BhRhKZVHFX6vtxnT0eoeOQeV_NvlIptbZiFhfijs0F7T7c7GImSejY5zw_2EKoJbiUA21Htb30VIVsxMRsby-BEAA0E08TGGz8Xi2aJr4-84HZitZgS6LPtLKfhaDw-gv8EKxY_tKY/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If this isn't the cutest, sweetest thing <br />you've seen all day, you are DEAD INSIDE.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And it's this, when I see him doing his "foot dance" (hopping around the living room on one foot) or when he tells me that the unborn baby's favorite color is purple, that I know will get me through those first months I'm so dreading, the months when we do nothing but give, give, give to this little sack of neediness and dependence. But some day the Duke of Juban will turn 3 and do things like call me his best friend, and run into my arms when he gets scared, and have entire conversations with me about the importance of proper vitamin color selection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Eventually the Princeling, and, later, the Duke, will each turn 6 and I'll once again be utterly clueless as to how to deal with them. I assume I just throw food in their direction, hose them down once in a while, and hope they don't kill me in my sleep. </span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-34244951335417481732012-02-10T15:45:00.004-05:002012-02-10T15:46:17.941-05:00The Joy(lessness) of a Valentine's Birthday<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When you're a kid and Valentine's Day means little more than candy and Strawberry Shortcake/Transformers cards from your classmates, having a February 14th birthday is really not such a big deal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then you get older.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Junior high rolled around, and my priorities in life were:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do I take the laces out of my Keds, or keep them in?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Are my acid-washed Edwin stretch jeans acid-washed and stretchy enough?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do I have enough pins on my (acid-washed) Hard Rock Cafe jean jacket?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Is my hair permed enough?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do I own enough yellow ribbon t-shirts to support our troops in Desert Storm?</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In junior high, most kids didn't have "relationships" yet, and those who did were considered weird and/or sophisticated. My <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/p/meet-cast.html" target="_blank">best friend Tia</a> had a boyfriend who <i>drove</i>, and that was an enormous deal. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What I do remember about Valentine's Day in junior high was that everyone got those shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This was a problem for me, because it was also tradition to get your friends shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around on their birthdays, so that in every class they had to feign embarrassment and be all, "Yes, it's my birthday." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But since my birthday was February 14th, my balloons from Tia went largely unnoticed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At least, I assume they went largely unnoticed. For my 13th birthday I was sick as a dog and had to stay home, and around lunch time I got a phone call from a pissed-off Tia hissing into the phone, "Where the fuck are you? Do you know I have to carry these stupid balloons around all day?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As if I woke up on the morning of my own birthday with a 102 fever <i>just to piss her off</i>. Somehow she has managed to overcome this kink in our friendship and stick by me for the past 24 years.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOMUwqakCNwELWZ7T_d3hIdCSP_KGKghJekkvoYmys0SJetepixjusn7GPIN_0XUyYAM4fFik_57VXrOh2sPxaliGqp6QulQra3kGUvJTpcwX3ynJD85yCd2TrgWgisqFqZf6Tqi6teQ/s1600/1992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOMUwqakCNwELWZ7T_d3hIdCSP_KGKghJekkvoYmys0SJetepixjusn7GPIN_0XUyYAM4fFik_57VXrOh2sPxaliGqp6QulQra3kGUvJTpcwX3ynJD85yCd2TrgWgisqFqZf6Tqi6teQ/s320/1992.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Me at 16, circa 1992. Yes, those </i>are<i> clear braces.<br />No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then I got to high school, and the pain of a February 14th birthday started to sting a little bit. I had exactly two boyfriends in high school: one lasted for the first two months of my sophomore year, the other lasted for the first three months of my junior year. So, no Valentine's boyfriend to buy red carnations for me. No stupid pink bears to carry triumphantly through the halls. No chocolates to share. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Most of my friends in high school just happened to be members of the school choral group - like a real life "Glee," but somehow even more gay. For Valentine's Day they did "Singing Valentines," where you could embarrass the crap out of someone by sending half a dozen or so singers to their class to serenade them. Since most of the singing group were my friends, they came to my 3rd period class for my 18th birthday and sang both "That's What Friends are For" and "Happy Birthday." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To this day, that goes down as one of my best birthdays, ever. (Along with my 30th, when I took a personal day from work to stay home and watch the entire box set of "Firefly.")</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Things I am sick of hearing when people find out my birthday is February 14:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh, your parents must extra love you! (Why, do your parents extra hate you because you weren't born on Valentine's Day?) (Also, do you realize this means that for 18 years my parents didn't get to celebrate Valentine's Day alone with one another?)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do you get extra presents? (From who? My non-existent boyfriends?)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Your parents should have named you Valerie! Or Valentine! (Your parents should have named you Dumbass.)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Is it because you are extra loveable? (You tell me, after I finish punching you in the throat.)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh, that's Valentine's Day! (Is it? I HADN'T NOTICED.)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Don't you just love it? (No.)</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then I got to college and pretended like I was too existential to care about Valentine's Day. I wore a black knit beret and red lipstick, smoked clove cigarettes, and told everyone within earshot how nothing meant anything anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My 20s rolled around and things got awkward. My girlfriends and I tried very hard to ignore Valentine's Day by focusing on my birthday instead, but even one's best gal pals can't hide from you the sight of all those lovey dovey couples out at dinner. One year we went to <a href="http://www.vday.org/home" target="_blank">Eve Ensler's "V-Day"</a> at Madison Square Garden, and that was kind of awesome. Queen Latifah performed and even Oprah showed up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">However, the year I was dreading happened for my 23rd birthday: the year all my friends had someone to spend Valentine's Day with, and I (still) did not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Back then air travel was dirt cheap, so I bought myself a ticket to England and spent the whole weekend in a small town where everyone thought my American accent was sexy and Valentine's Day was not a very big deal and I had to try real hard not to ruin the plot of "Friends" for people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Finally, at the end of 2002 I met the Man Who Would Be My Husband. By Valentine's Day 2003 we were still too new, so I sent him an e-card and he texted me that he thought I was pretty, and sent me some chocolates and a little ceramic dragon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And now all 26 of those lonely Valentine's Days don't matter, because all my future Valentine's Day birthdays belong to the man who has spent not one, but now two pregnancies of mine, listening to me talk about my digestive issues in harrowing detail, massaging my swollen feet, and picking up all the slack around the house, and still tells me, genuinely and sincerely, while I'm wearing the same faded grey undershirt (of his) and worn out maternity yoga pants outfit I've been wearing for four months non-stop, that he thinks I'm the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world, and how he thinks <i>he's</i> the lucky one to get to travel our life paths together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, suck it, stupid Valentine's birthday. I win.</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-91861650876299569262012-02-02T15:38:00.000-05:002012-02-02T17:41:55.555-05:00A Spooky Kind of Love<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Recently, the hubby and I have decided to re-watch the entire X-Files series.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because, you know, with a baby due in about five weeks, we figured now is as good a time as any to jump into a new project. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We probably won't watch the <i>entire</i> entire series; let's face it, at some point the show jumped the shark, turned around, jumped it again, and then did one more for good measure. It just so happens that this moment coincided with David Duchovny's leaving the series, but I like to think he left because the show went downhill, and not the other way around. I remember trying to watch it without D.D., for Gillian Anderson's sake, because feminism, but it was so painfully bad it made my eyeballs hurt. (What's Gillian Anderson up to these days, anyway?)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Right now, though, we're still in the middle of season 2, and aside from a few groan-worthy Creature of the Week eps (S2E7, "3" is so bad it made me want to punch myself in the throat, especially coming hot off the heels of the kick-ass 2-parter where Scully gets kidnapped by that crazy guy and sent in his stead to the aliens), it's still really good. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Back in the 90s, my brother, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/evanmcomedy" target="_blank">Mr. Funny</a> got me into the X-Files. There's something tremendously satisfying about rewatching a favorite TV series, especially one as smart and fun as The X-Files. Like hanging out with old friends you haven't seen in a while. And it's especially awesome to watch the show with my husband, whom I didn't even know back in the 90s when The X-Files originally aired. We're both coming to the show with our own memories of it, and sharing those memories, and creating new ones together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There's also a certain sentimental value to rewatching a show from the 90s: seeing those enormous cell phones, watching people use microfiche instead of the internet, the photos of Janet Reno and Bill Clinton in Skinner's office. I mean, honestly, what would Mulder have done with himself had he access to the internet in his cases? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Actually, after the first episode I had an idea to start a blog from Scully's POV called "Shit I Have to Put Up With," where I'd write her thoughts from each episode. But, you know, baby coming. I swear kids ruin every damn thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sample blog entry for the non-existent "Shit I Have to Put Up With: Agent Scully's Rantatorium" </span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was a little gassy today. Mulder thinks it's aliens. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Other things Mulder thinks are alien-related:</span></i></blockquote>
<ul>
<li><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It's raining</span></i></li>
<li><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He found a grey chest hair</span></i></li>
<li><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Someone pressed all the buttons on the elevator</span></i></li>
<li><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The roach coach across the street stopped selling chimichangas </span></i></li>
</ul>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At least I got to do an
autopsy, so the day isn't a total fail. Mulder was all, "The guy's not
even dead yet, Scully!" but whatever. He was dead *enough*.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because Scully has a total boner for doing autopsies. Like, all the time. You could make an entire drinking game out of Scully's autopsy boners and be drunk, like, every episode.</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One of these days Mulder will let me autopsy him. And that? Will be a great day, indeed, my friends. I wonder what the inside of his stomach looks like? I bet its sexy. Whew, is it getting hot in here, or is it just this dissected lung I'm holding?</span></i></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And:</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So this new guy, Krycek. Is. Totally. Hot. I keep asking Mulder if Krycek has asked about me, but you know my stupid partner. He's all, "Aliens!" and trying to cockblock me. Douche.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></i></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Krycek was totally my X-Files boyfriend back in the 90s, and we've finally hit the part in the series where he shows up. Except now his character seems so young and naive, and instead of being a horny late teen/early twentysomething, I'm now a mid-30s wife and mother and I feel a little dirty crushing on him. Oh, Krycek. You are so shady, and it's totally sexy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rewatching the show, I'm also reminded of the political tone of the 1990s, and how The X-Files helped usher in an era of government conspiracy porn: Men In Black, Conspiracy Theory, Independence Day, Alien Autopsy, etc. Remember the good ol' days, when we all thought our nation's biggest threat was secret aliens? *wistful sigh*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So. Have any of you ever re-watched an old favorite TV series? How was it?</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-38501223667062983122012-01-24T07:50:00.000-05:002012-01-24T09:15:33.940-05:00A Brief History of Pregnancy<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To put it bluntly: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Pregnancy is bullshit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now in the eighth month of my second - and, trust me, <b>final</b> - pregnancy, I have come to the conclusion that this is the type of painful oppression that could only have been invented by some rich, land-owning, white Christian MEN during the Victorian era.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpB3KSyt2VXMIjA8G4qrD6_vWe7Hu8MxDs2EoYrVSsoqre2YLWvgWgUgxmecrXdUsEMBNEYPMaIh91UzjE19CHu6gqyWvrkXmWltUJdOcMERTLVM4GCq_shHqWY6pGigoCXugVdR3NrY/s1600/752px-IfWeLiftOurSkirtsTheyLevelTheirEye-glassesAtOurAnkles.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpB3KSyt2VXMIjA8G4qrD6_vWe7Hu8MxDs2EoYrVSsoqre2YLWvgWgUgxmecrXdUsEMBNEYPMaIh91UzjE19CHu6gqyWvrkXmWltUJdOcMERTLVM4GCq_shHqWY6pGigoCXugVdR3NrY/s320/752px-IfWeLiftOurSkirtsTheyLevelTheirEye-glassesAtOurAnkles.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Image: Public Domain</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Men: Grumble, grumble, these women these days and whatnot, grumble grumble.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: Hey. What are we going to do about these women? I mean, they're nice to look at and all, but we need to come up with more ways to keep them as immobile and uncomfortable as possible, before they start wanting to vote and drink in pubs and stuff.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Orville: The other day my wife expressed an <i>opinion</i>! About <i>politics</i>! Where does it end, brothers? WHERE DOES IT END?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Silas: My daughter wants to be a doctor when she grows up. How am I supposed to feel like a man in my own home when faced with that sort of perversion?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Merrill: My maid wants a living wage. How...I...what....I don't even...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Orville: Shhh, there, there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: Calm down, dudes. Like I said, what can be done about this?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Orville: What if we cut off their feet? Like, at birth? We just cut off all baby girls' feet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: I like where you're going with this, but let's hear some other ideas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Silas: We could just drown all baby girls. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: No, no. We like our women. Without them we'd have to cook our own meals, and I'm not having that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Merrill: What if we make them carry the babies before they are born? You know, those babies that just appear out of nowhere? We can make women do that part. Not for, like, ever, but less than a year. Say, nine months or so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: I like it. I like it a lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Orville: Ok, but we have to make it really uncomfortable. Like, painfully so. With bloating, and gas, and cramping, and stretching, and back pain, and insomnia. Not enough to kill them, but enough to keep them away from our humidors and brandy snifters. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Silas: And if they complain, we'll tell them they are being unwomanly, and that everything they do is bad for the baby. If they move around too much, it's bad for the baby. If they don't move enough, it's bad for the baby. If they eat too much, it's bad for the baby, but if they don't eat enough it's also bad for the baby. And if they think mean things about the pregnancy, or us, or anything at all ever, that is the absolute WORST thing for the baby, and may destroy mankind as we know it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buford: So, gestating babies it is, fellas?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Orville, Silas and Merrill: Yes!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">...I <i>may</i> have made this up.</span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-64773760732444047732012-01-17T11:39:00.000-05:002012-01-17T11:39:22.248-05:00Taking Care of Babies<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A lot of people assume that being pregnant while already taking care of a preschooler must be stressful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And it is. But it's not nearly as stressful as being pregnant while working a pink collar administrative job for a bunch of grown-up babies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here are some differences I've noticed, between my first pregnancy with the Juban Princeling, and this one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the Princeling, who is now three, asks the same question 15 times in a row, I get only mildly annoyed. The way you do when the car door doesn't shut all the way on the first try, so you have to open it and slam it again. I know that repetition and consistency are part of a little guy's emotional and cognitive development, and that gives me more patience than I realized I had in me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the eight adults I supported at my job asked me the same question 15 times in a row, I wanted to stab them in the eyeballs with a plastic spork from the office kitchen. Apparently, the higher up in the company you are, the harder it is to understand the very complicated and multi-step process of <i>printing an email</i>. (Husband: "Why does anyone need to print an email?" Me: "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.") I know that some people get Ph.Ds in email printing, and that the great minds of the 21st century have written dozens of books on the topic, and, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Gottlieb_Fichte" target="_blank">19th century German philosophy</a> it seems like one of those arcane things that no one really understands, but after I show you how to do it five or six times, a healthy, functioning adult should really be able to click on the little printer icon by him or herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If I'm writing, or reading, while home alone with the Princeling - yes, sometimes I do things other than devote 100% of my attention to him 100% of the time he is awake, <i>OMG CALL THE PARENTING POLICE!!1!!!</i> - and he comes up to me and asks, nicely, if I want to play with him, about 9 times out of 10 I will close my book or my computer and play with him. Because he's three, and there will be a baby in the house soon, a baby I can't close and put away, and because my son is so goddamn cute and sweet I just want to fucking eat him up, and when he holds his toy cars out to me and says, "Mommy, do you want to play with me?" it would take a cold, hard person indeed to say no. And also, all through my pregnancy he has taken good care of me, finding ways to work around my limitations so we can still play together, and that just breaks my heart, and I want to scoop him up and snuggle him and tell the rest of the world to fuck off.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the eight adults I supported at my job interrupted me, it was generally, a)while I was working on an actual work project for work; and b)so I could drop everything and do personal work for them, like book their family ski vacation or send flowers to their wives or track down the $100 ear phones they left on a plane. (Me: "If these ear phones are so important to you, why'd you leave them on a plane?" Boss: "That's not the point. Just find them.") So then I've got one boss asking me if I've booked a babysitter yet for his teenage children for their trip to Aspen, and another boss asking me where he should take a client to lunch, and another asking me which is the best hotel for a girls' weekend in Vegas, and another telling me if her sister calls to say she's on her way, and another demanding to know why this work-related project isn't finished yet. <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/2011/10/my-happy-place.html" target="_blank">And then there's me, ending up on bed rest a few weeks before my due date.</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Princeling naps for 2 1/2 hours every afternoon, allowing me some quiet downtime in which to write, or take a nap, or watch reruns of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00jm3ms" target="_blank">AbFab</a> while eating Double-Stuf Oreos and texting <a href="http://greyskiesnyc.blogspot.com/p/meet-cast.html" target="_blank">my gay husband Patsy</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At my old job I had to eat lunch at my desk because I was responsible for answering 12 phone lines: my eight bosses, plus the main line, plus backup for the three partners. And without fail, every day, at least one person in the office would walk by and snark on what was eating, because, you know, it's totally other people's business if I'm eating penne pasta and a Coke while pregnant. (Actual comment: "I'm a little scared of that drink on your desk.")</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So...yeah. Is it an ideal situation taking care of an active, imaginative, and attention-demanding 3-year old when I'd rather be spending my days in a warm bath so I don't feel the strain of my enormous belly? No. But it beats the crap out of ego-stroking, up-managing, and priority-juggling eight grown-up babies, who, in real life are actually nice people, but at work become non-functional. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Besides. The Princeling is hella cuter than all of them combined. </span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-41730255059858126952012-01-12T11:39:00.001-05:002012-01-12T11:39:07.095-05:00We've Gotta Get Out of This Place<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I need a vacation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Like, seriously need a vacation. Not in an "Gee, my life is so crazy, I could sure use a break, golly!" way, but in a "I am about to claw my own skin off if I don't go somewhere new soon" way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I know there's some crazy statistic out there that claims most Americans never leave the country, and few even leave their home states, but I am not one of those people. I am a traveler. I like to go places. Mostly for the food, and, in my adult life, for the hooch: I've had reindeer in Finland, vodka in Russia, bignets in New Orleans, pizza in Chicago, oxtail in Spain, microbrew in Colorado, falafel in Israel, ale in England, wine in Italy, and, once in South Africa, some weird homemade moonshine someone brought to a party from, I don't know, Botswana or something, that caused me to black out for a short while.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Before my first son, the Juban Princeling, was born I overheard a man in an elevator tell his friend, "My wife and I just got back from vacation. Our first one in 15 years without the kids."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I vowed then and there to never be that guy. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Three times my husband and I have tried to get out of town. Three times we have been thwarted by fate's fickle douchiness. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In 2008 we booked a trip to Paris for a week. OMG did we get <i>into</i> it. I bought a "French for Your Trip" CD, the Lonely Planet guide to Paris, and my friend who had lived there briefly as a model - you know, <i>as you do</i> - inscribed detailed notes on a map for us.</span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Princeling, who by then would be seven months old, would stay with my parents in Miami while we ate bread and cheese and wine in a French park and slept in a French hotel room not littered with pacifiers, burp clothes, and spit-up stains.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then we decided to move, from Manhattan to Brooklyn. And moving ain't cheap. And we had just finished paying off the massive credit card debt we had accrued while "nesting" in anticipation of the Princeling's birth. Something had to give, and that something was Paris.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our next attempt at a child-free vacation happened in February 2010. For my birthday we booked ourselves three nights in a quaint little bed and breakfast upstate, complete with in-room hot tub. My mom would come up the week before and fly back to Miami with the Princeling. For weeks I had visions of spending my birthday sipping champagne in a hot tub while my gorgeous and awesome husband fed me chocolates.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Instead, my mom got stranded here in the Great Blizzard Snowpocalypse of 2010, and by the time she managed to get home, not even the promise of three days with the Princeling all to herself could convince her to take him off our hands. My gorgeous and awesome husband even offered to fly down with the Princeling and then return three days later just to pick him up, but no. My parents had seen the Awful Beast that is February weather in New York, and, like the survivors at the end of a zombie movie, they boarded up and went radio silent for a while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Most recently, my parents - who clearly felt guilty about their post-Snowpocalypse, end-of-zombie-movie behavior that RUINED MY HOT TUB AND CHAMPAGNE BIRTHDAY (hashtag: firstworldproblems) - booked us on a week long cruise for this past April. I'm not a fan of cruises generally, but I didn't care. By the time they offered I was so desperate to go somewhere I would have taken a trip to Kabul. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My husband and I booked our on-shore activities. Scuba classes in Cozumel. Horseback riding among Mayan ruins. Ziplining in Costa Rica. And OHMYGOD SEVEN MORNINGS OF WAKING UP WHENEVER THE HELL WE WANT TO WAKE UP. No one whining at us that the hot dog we made <i>that he asked for </i>is "too yucky." No one screaming "Bah!" into our faces when we tell him he can't have a lollipop for breakfast. No one responding with, "You could do it," when tell him to clean up his toys. Just my loverman and me, in places that are not New York or South Florida, places where our parents and child are not. Paradise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So of course that never happened, because my dad was diagnosed with cancer last February and was scheduled to receive his first chemo treatment the week of our cruise. <b><i>Just to spite me</i></b>. We just could not burden my poor mother with both a 60-year old chemo patient AND an energetic 2 1/2-year old. If we had any doubts about this, in March I had to have emergency surgery to remove my gall bladder, and would still be recovering come cruise time in April: no booze, no ziplining.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My point is, it's not for lack of trying that the hubby and I haven't made it beyond New York or South Florida for the past four years. We're not those creepy parents whose lives come to a screeching halt with the arrival of kinderfolk. We are more than happy to dump our offspring on his grandparents so we can bust out our passports and try new foods and alcohols in exotic locales.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because of my dad's cancer (calm down, he is 100% fine now. <i>He</i> even took a trip to Paris - !!! - and Amsterdam in October.) we made many visits to Miami in 2011, some just me and the Princeling, others all three of us. And now, with the imminent arrival of the Duke of Juban (ETA: March 2012) we feel we've earned the right to a Florida-free year in 2012. Oh, I know. <i>Boo-hoo, we had to go to Florida</i>. But we didn't go to <i>fun</i> Florida. We went to visit our parents, which, even in Florida is pretty much like going to visit your parents anywhere else. A couple of nights we went out to dinner in Miami, and I think we saw some movies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ho-hum.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> That's why we are making 2012 the year we finally take a proper vacation. With the kids! I don't even care. The Princeling is a fun guy, let's schlep him along. His baby bro, too. A friend suggested we do a family-friendly all-inclusive resort, and I found one in Barbados that has a nursery for the Duke and a Kid's Club for the Princeling so that from 9am to 5pm every day our kids can be other people's problems while the two of us glue giant frozen margaritas to our hands and go kayaking, possibly both together. AND WE ARE GOING. I don't care if we all die trying. I don't care if five hurricanes block our flight. I don't care if we all have to travel in body casts. I don't care if a giant earthquake rips open a chasm in the east coast and <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=balrog&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=gfO&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=imvns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=WQsPT9u2DKXx0gGy4cHNAw&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&ved=0CBYQ_AUoAQ&biw=1207&bih=679" target="_blank">Balrog</a> comes out. Come Hell or high water, we are taking a goddamn vacation this year.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This, I vow.</span></b>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-49712150328595201962011-12-20T15:52:00.002-05:002011-12-20T15:52:09.275-05:00Funky Boy Band Christmas<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Every year I forget about my all-time favorite Christmas song, and then one day it'll pop up on my Pandora Holiday station, and I remember all over again how much I love it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm talking, of course, about the Timeless Classic "Funky, Funky Christmas" by New Kids on the Block, or NKOTB for <i>thoseofusintheknow</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This year it's also a reminder that I will probably never have to deal with the level of psychotic, all-consuming, hysterical fandom that 14-year old girls inflict on their poor families the way I did back in 1989/1990. At least, I don't think most boys cry and scream and faint and elbow others out of their way for the sake of their celebrity crushes, do they? By the time my brother, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/evanmcomedy" target="_blank">Mr. Funny</a>, was old enough to be into stuff I was well past my NKOTB coma and either ignored him or went off to college. So I don't remember. He could very well have wallpapered his room with Alanis Morisette posters for all I know. I was too busy being disaffected and full of myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At one point my NKOTB addiction grew so severe my parents forced me to choose just 5 pin-ups to keep in my room and everything else had to come down. Let me put this into perspective for you:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One of my friends took great pride in giving me my 100th NKOTB poster. If there was a square inch of wall space in my room, up went a photo or pin-up. I had posters ON MY CEILING. I had a pillow, pillowcase, dolls, books, pins, t-shirts, videos - both taped myself and bought - and all the crap paraphernalia that came with my fan club membership, which I think included a tour schedule so that I could fantasize about hanging out in Wherever, USA with Jordan Knight. (Imagined convo: Jordan: "Meredith, look, it's Mt. Rushmore!" Me: "OHMYGODJORDANILOVEYOU!!!!!!!" *scream*)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Somehow, instead of setting fire to my bedroom, which, in hindsight I would not blame them for doing, they calmly told me enough was enough and I had to choose 5 posters to keep up and the rest had to go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, of course I had the NKOTB Christmas album, with the Timeless Classic "Funky, Funky Christmas." And if you don't think this singular masterpiece has withstood the test of time, you are wrong, my friend. Consider these lyrics, which were clearly strung together by angels on high (is that a thing? I don't know, I'm Jewish.) who touched Jordan and Donnie with godlike inspiration:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Oh, Little Train, my little elf, another Christmas."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Nah, man, it's boring, it's boring! Same thing every year."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"So let's have a funky Christmas!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Yo, MC Santa didn't know my homeboy Donnie could play percussion, did you?"<br />"I didn't have a clue!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Yeah, get busy, Donnie!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and my personal favorite, which I swear I could listen to over and over again and never lose joy from it:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Should I stop? Nah, cool, here's more</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Of this song, a funky Christmas melody</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">'Cause Jordan K feels <b>OH SO CHRISTMASEY</b>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Throw your hands in the air!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Pause-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Kick the ballistic Santa Claus!" (They are HARD CORE, people!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It's like Mozart was reincarnated into a late 80s boy band.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By the way, I typed all of those lyrics from memory. Believe it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And in case you need reminding:</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/9jf-GVIxy9c?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">YouTube video by KangK</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There is so much right about this video I don't even know where to start. (Did anyone notice that Jon wasn't in it? Yeah, didn't think so. Sorry, Jon.) From the Jackson 5 choreography, to Arsenio's jumping in with a rap, to Joey's swinging his butt at a screaming audience, to Donnie's humping the air LIKE THE BAD BOY HE IS, it's just <b>WIN</b> all the way through. If you don't have a funky Christmas after this, you are dead inside.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Naturally, when I was 14 I taped this, and Jordan's bare chest sent me into a 14-year old Nirvana-like higher plane of existence. I <i>may</i> have paused it at some point to lick the TV. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm almost sad that I won't have a daughter to share this kind of beserker, kamikazi devotion with. I remember my friend's mom driving us to a NKOTB concert once and talking about her love of the Beatles back in the day, and that sound you just heard was John Lennon rolling in his grave. But then I remember POSTERS ON MY CEILING and my single-minded obsession with NKOTB (My mom: "Mer, please pass the salt." Me: "I wonder if Jordan Knight puts salt on <i>his</i> french fries. May I be excused to go write to the fan club and ask?") and think, maybe it's for the best. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-41902188465266542222011-12-11T11:42:00.001-05:002011-12-13T15:36:06.856-05:00Pregnancy Cliche Bingo<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This week I made an executive decision for myself to stop trying to finagle into maternity jeans and just wear yoga pants or sweat pants for the remaining three months of my pregnancy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And no, I'm not looking for "helpful" suggestions or advice, thanks. Let's just pretend like you already told me what worked for you, and I tried it, and it did not work for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At some point the battle to remain even remotely stylish got lost in the shuffle. Actually, no, I know exactly where the battle was lost: last weekend at the New York Botanical Garden Holiday Train Show. What should have been a fun, festive family activity turned into a craptastic, disappointing waste of time. I'm sure the Train Show is fine for normal families, but my son, the Juban Princeling - who loves trains the way I love cheese, that is, he's never met one he didn't like and will take them in any and all forms they come in - was on Day 3 of what turned into a 4-day nuclear meltdown. Even taking two subways, including his new favorite, the "Orange Compress" (express) to get there did not help, especially when he reached out and accidentally shoved a train off the tracks and my husband and I went all psychotic modern parent on him: carefully looking around, self-consciously reprimanding him and wondering if people thought we were being too harsh or too gentle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Meanwhile, we shoved our way through the crowd of half-dazed parents holding piles of coats and restless, overexcited little kids, in a hot and humid conservatory. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Maternity jeans are not designed to last forever, and mine were already so stretched out they kept falling down. At the same time, the "Secret Belly" band pulled on my belly - I'm carrying high this time around - and irritated the skin and caused what I'm sure is massive internal bruising.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So there, somewhere in the middle of the New York Botanical Gardens Annual Holiday Train Show, amongst throngs and throngs of parents and children, I lifted my shirt and yanked my jeans up while simultaneously stretching the band away from my poor, battered, six-month belly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm not generally one of those people who gets embarrassed easily - behold the photo I let my best friend Tia take of me in Miami a couple of weeks ago - and pregnancy demolishes whatever shame I have left. I'm sorry, world, but you are going to have to put up with my desire to be comfortable for three more months BY WHATEVER MEANS NECESSARY and then I promise never to gestate again, ever. </span><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">No, you would not be the first to make a joke<br />about me and my love of Cuban c... roosters.<br />Not shown: the epic amounts of pain I'm in.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A few days later I sat in a run-down Quest Diagnostic office for an hour and a half, starving from fasting for my glucose tolerance test, with the radiator cranked up to "Hellfire," and The Today Show blasting at top volume into my ears against their will, feeling sorry for myself but wearing highly stylish maternity jeans. This time I opted for a pair with a low, supportive band that worked fine when I was standing up, but rolled down and squashed me and The Fetus whenever I sat down. Which was a lot. The Fetus and I had this conversation about it in my mind:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fetus: Ow! What IS that?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: It's part of my jeans. Sorry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fetus: Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: I can't.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fetus: Fuck you. *kick* </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: I know it's uncomfortable, but it's only for a little while longer. Please just hang in there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fetus: Fuck you, and fuck Kathy Lee Gifford. *punch kick jab* Also, I'm hungry. *kick kick punch elbow*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: *cry*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Screw fashion. Screw style. Screw the world. I am going to be comfortable for the next three months and everyone who looks at me will just have to deal with it. I dragged the Juban Princeling to Motherhood Maternity at rush hour on a Friday and bought myself some righteous black velor sweatpants, and ordered a pair of grey velor sweatpants.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't care if I don't have anything that goes with them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't care if I look like a Real Housewife of Long Island in them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't care if they are already covered in lint.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't care that they don't quite work with my winter boots.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What I care about is that they are comfortable and don't hurt my baby belly. Even if Barack and Michelle came over for dinner, I'd probably wear the velor sweatpants. Michelle's had two babies, she would totally understand and be all, "If anyone can rock velor sweatpants, it's you, Mer." And then we would fist bump in sisterhood and be BFFs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So deal with it, world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And, as I told my brother Mr. Funny, for those of you playing Pregnancy Cliche Bingo at home, here's another square to mark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3362097315751298075.post-21428217949465996892011-12-08T11:01:00.001-05:002011-12-08T11:02:22.932-05:00Follow Me to My Guest Post!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm so internet famous now that other bloggers ask - nay, beg - me to guest post for them. Today I'm hanging out with Greta Van Der Rol of Perceptions of Reality to talk about moving beyond your "Aha!" moment of inspiration to sit down and <i>really</i> write:</span><br />
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<a href="http://gretavanderrol.net/2011/12/08/clear-your-throat-then-write/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">http://gretavanderrol.net/2011/12/08/clear-your-throat-then-write/ </span></a>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508302421134951238noreply@blogger.com0