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Thursday, April 27, 2006

The corn has bloomed!



And also, kid pictures (did you think I could resist?)

Disgruntled and pantless. This is what happens when you sit in a puddle immediately before you get in the car.


I love you, huge Easter basket filled with sporting goods!

I wonder if he knows he's being followed by a penguin shadow...

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Deux.

I think we were in a state of denial over having to move out of the city. Chris worked in the suburbs and faced horrendous traffic on a daily basis. I didn't work at all (you know, unless you consider caring for a newborn "work"). I didn't really drive too many places, but when I did drive, it was usually to my parents house, waaaaay out in the suburbs...of Iowa. It was at least an hour drive, if not more, to get there. It made sense to move to the suburbs, but that didn't mean we wanted to do it.

I mean, god, wouldn't that just have sent Chris right over the edge? When I met him, he lived in a studio apartment. He owned a futon, a TV and a play station. His (dorm-sized) refrigerator was home to some beer, Hawaiian punch and York peppermint patties. He either ate at work, or he ate subway. He was nocturnal. Because he tended bar for a while, he knew, like, everybody in the city. And he was always out drinking with them (when he wasn't working, of course). Then, in one fell swoop, I made him respectable.

I can remember talking to my mom on the phone one night, shortly after Chris and I got married. I was decorating the apartment for Christmas while he was at work, and I was explaining to my mom all the holiday stuff I had bought, and where I had put it all. I also told her that I busted out my vast collection of snowmen (which might be a source of maybe a small obsession for me) and had put them on the window sills. "Does Chris know about the snowmen?" she asked. "Um. I don't know. If not, he'll know soon." "Poor Chris. Last year he had a futon and a play station, and now he's got a winter wonderland. He had no idea what he was getting himself into." So true, mom, so true.

So...fast forward....respectable...responsible...etc. But Chris had lived in the city for so long that he couldn't bear the thought of living elsewhere. And I had only lived in the city for a short while and wasn't ready to give it up yet. So, we kind of avoided looking for new abodes, because neither of us was truly ready to move.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Wha...??

I just took this quiz on which religion I most identify with, and these are my results. This doesn't sound right AT ALL. Mormon? Mormon??? Obviously this computer program doesn't know me at all. Although, that's what I get for answering some of the questions from the perspective of being born and (partially) raised Catholic, and some of the questions I answered from MY perspective of not being religious. For instance, question one asks what your belief is on the number and nature of the deity. Well, my vision of the deity is based on the teachings of the Catholic church...but I don't know how much of that is my actual belief, versus it being the easiest way to answer the question because that is what I've been taught. Does that make any sense? Anyway...here they are. Some of them I've never heard of. But, mormon? Mormon???


1. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (100%)
2. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (97%)
3. Unitarian Universalism (93%)
4. Secular Humanism (90%)
5. Liberal Quakers (88%)
6. Jehovah's Witness (86%)
7. Reform Judaism (73%)
8. Sikhism (71%)
9. Nontheist (66%)
10. Neo-Pagan (63%)
11. Bahá'í Faith (61%)
12. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (59%)
13. Theravada Buddhism (57%)
14. Orthodox Judaism (55%)
15. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist)(54%)
16. New Age (49%)
17. Islam (44%)
18. New Thought (44%)
19. Orthodox Quaker (42%)
20. Taoism (42%)
21. Mahayana Buddhism (38%)
22. Scientology (38%)
23. Hinduism (37%)
24. Jainism (35%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (34%)
26. Roman Catholic (34%)
27. Seventh Day Adventist (33%)

(hey--scientology--I didn't even notice that before! Tom and Katie, here I come!)

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Why?

How come all of my neighbors have beautiful, blooming tulips while the ones in our yard are starting to look more and more like corn stalks? No fair.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

The Cost of Living, Part I

Back in the summer of 2004, when Eric was a wee little baby, the three of us were living in a tiny one bedroom apartment in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood. Sure, we could see Lincoln Park from our kitchen window (if we tilted our heads and squinted and were standing in just the right spot as to look straight down the narrow path between two high rises), but the situation had lots of nightmarish aspects to it as well.

First of all, when I describe the apartment as "tiny," I mean like, "B-Level musicians' roadies travel in more spacious tour buses." We lived in this old-ass building that was in the process of being renovated. Chris lived in a studio apartment before we got married, and was informed that he would have to move out of the building, unless he was interested in moving into a one bedroom apartment, because they planned to renovate his unit. So, we took the 1-br unit which had already been renovated. Except, it was the only unit in the building that they had renovated, so we had to live there while they renovated all of the 50 or so other units. Which was loud. And very dusty. And because we were one of only two or three occupied units, the workers had no qualms about doing things like, oh, shutting off the water. Or the electricity. Or tying up the elevator for hours on end (bad for a prego who lives on the 5th floor).

Oh, and the elevator. Let me describe it for you. It was one of those old elevators that had both a swinging door that you pull open, and then a heavy metal gate that you slide open. In order for the elevator to work properly, both the gate and the door had to be fully closed. Getting the gate to close wasn't usually a problem because it was so heavy and spring loaded. The door was another story altogether. The mere act of getting on the elevator on the 5th floor could cause a change in pressure in the elevator shaft that would make the door on the second floor pop open just enough to prevent the elevator from functioning. And the only way to fix that would be to get out the elevator and walk down to the second floor and push the door shut. And, imagine maybe having a newborn baby in a stroller, and trying to prop open the swinging door AND the heavy sliding gate AND getting the stroller into the elevator, only to find that the elevator won't move.

Also, the elevator could only understand one command at a time. Let's say you called the elevator from the first floor. It starts coming down to get you, but while it's on its journey down, somebody on the 6th floor wants to get on the elevator. And, let's say that the person on the sixth floor knows that by merely pushing the button, the elevator won't remember to come there after it's done doing whatever it's doing. So that person stands there and holds the button in. One of two things will happen. One is that the elevator will get to the first floor, and if you pull the door open fast enough, you can get on, but you will immediately be taken to the 6th floor, no matter what floor you had intended to go to. OR, there is the other option that you didn't pull the door open fast enough, and the elevator came down, taunted you and went straight back up. There were elevator wars all the time in our building (once people started living there again).

Then there was the parking situation. OK, so, what?, 3 million people live in Chicago? And of those 3 million, it really feels like at least 1 million of them live in Lincoln Park, all stacked on top of each other. And they all own at least one car. And there are only like 400 parking spots. You do the math. So, in addition to the the $75 per car that we paid for the City of Chicago vehicle sticker, and the $25 for the zone sticker to maybe be able to park within a one mile radius of our apartment, we also got countless parking tickets for godknowswhat. Street cleaning. Unmarked work zone. Once, somebody who parked in front of me got so close that they pulled my front license plate off. And before I even noticed that it had happened, I got a ticket for not having a front license plate. Then there was the time our car got towed because a millimeter of our bumper was hanging over the no-parking zone. And how bout the time we had a ticket mailed to our apartment because Chris happened to pull over next to a parked car to drop me off, and there happened to be a parking ticket writer asshole standing there, trying to start shit with us. He wrote a ticket for "Standing" and didn't even have the balls to give it to us in person. So there's that. And don't even get me started on what were to happen if there was a street festival anywhere in Chicago.

Anyway, so there were definitely bad aspects to living in Lincoln Park, but there were good things as well. The part that I particularly miss is that I could always feel life happening around me. There was always something going on. It seemed like you could never be bored in Lincoln Park. Irate, maybe, but never bored.

But, back in the summer of 2004, we knew that our Lincoln Park days were coming to an end. Our lease was up in October and living in that apartment just wasn't feasible anymore. In fact, based on rent prices all around, and our one income status, it really seemed like living anywhere in Chicago might not be feasible anymore. And it was kind of sad.

Monday, April 17, 2006

If I still lived with my parents, I'd be so much stinkier

Since Chris had to leave town on Thursday for a family emergency in Florida, I decided to take Eric to my parents' house for the weekend. I always forget how much I hate staying at my parents' house, though, until I'm there. You see, my parents moved into the house they currently live in the summer before I got married. I technically still lived at home, but I was quite frequently staying elsewhere. I hated the fact that they were moving because, although it was only across town, it made my commute to Chicago longer. And, at the time, I only ever wanted to be in Chicago. But anyway.

Let me describe my shower experience from the first time I ever showered at my parents' new house. It was so exciting because I had my very own bathroom! For the first (and probably last) time in my life. I started the water and everything seemed relatively normal. Except, not only did this new house have well water, but it also had a water softener. So the water was stinky and sort of slimy. Gross. Anyway, I got the water going, and it seemed fine. The water pressure was OK--could've been better, but I'd definitely experienced worse. I got in the shower and I started shampooing my hair. At that point, I was really wishing the water pressure was a little stronger. Because. Let me explain something here. My hair? It's thick. Really thick. Imagine putting soap on a sponge. You know how long you have to rinse and squeeze that sponge until the water runs clear again? That's my hair. Anyway, as if by magic, the water pressure suddenly increased 100%! "Wow! This is great," I thought. But then. AHHHH. IT'S BURNING! IT'S BURNING! IT'S BURNING! And as the shampoo ran down into my eyes, I desperately tried to find a spot in the tub where the least amount of water could touch me. It happened to be at the opposite side of the tub from the shower head. So, I tried to think of some way I could redirect the shower head to not spray me while I adjusted the water temperature. There was no way I could reach it from where I was, though--I just had to get scalded. I turned the faucet toward the cold side until the temperature was reasonable again, and I rinsed the soap out of my eyes. Then the water pressure dropped back down to where it was when I first started showering. Once again, I started the tedious process of rinsing my hair. But then. YOWIE! IT'S FREEZING! IT'S FREEZING! IT'S FREEZING! IT'S FREEZING! I reached up and redirected the shower head to the corner, and I began playing with the temperature again. I got it to be warm once again, and again tried to rinse the shampoo. The water pressure suddenly doubled, but this time I was on guard. I pointed the shower head straight down and I stood as far back as I could while only leaning my head into the stream of water. And the burning-freezing scenario continued for the duration of my shower. I was probably in the shower for more than 30 minutes, where about 6 minutes were at a reasonable temperature for a shower. Then, when I came out of the bathroom, my mom said something to the effect of, "I thought you were going to take a quick shower!"

Anyway, the moral of the story here is that if you're ever for any reason showering at my parents' house, whatever you do, do not attempt to manually change the water temperature once you've begun the shower process. It only makes it worse. Just be prepared to spend the majority of your shower standing somewhere other than in the stream of water.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Further proof he's male

As if the love for all sports, all forms of transportation and head butting weren't proof enough, Eric has already learned to say, "OKAY!" when I ask him to do something, and then promptly not do it.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Death by gyros


The firm ordered Greek food for lunch today for everybody, and apparently chaos ensued. I wasn't there at lunch time, but one of my lovely coworkers was nice enough to make a plate for me--a plate which, might I add, had to be fiercely defended over the course of the evening. So, for dinner, I ate the food, which consisted of gyros ("yee-rohs". yeah, that's right.), chicken souvlaki (Dear Greeks, I'm sorry for maybe misspelling your words, but at least I can pronouce gyros. Love, Kristi) and some Greek potatoes.

All in all, the food was excellent. But, oh man. A few hours have passed, and the gyros stank is still with me. I might as well have been thrown on a spit, infused with spiciness and spun for hours myself because, right now? I'm pretty much one with the gyro. That's the thing about gyros--they are SO GOOD...every once in a while. Unless you maybe have a digestive system made of steel or diamond or altoids...at which point, you're probably eating lots of popcorn, peanuts and cotton candy, because you're obviously a circus freak.

In other related (but not by way of the digestive tract) news, the lovely coworker who made the plate of food for me, surprise! happens to be Greek. She was telling me recently that she may be visiting Greece this summer for a few weeks. She explained that a friend of hers was trying to convince her to visit the island of Crete while she was there. This friend, she said, was convinced that they would be able to travel to Crete for as little as 20 Euros. Except, in my mind, they were traveling to Crete for as little as 20 gyros.

So, I'm thinking, Man, these backwards-ass Greeks and their weird bartering systems. I wonder if they're going to have some shaggy old farmer guy row them to Crete in some broken down boat. And, for their sake, I hope that guy doesn't eat all 40 gyros before they leave. Yuck. Talk about death by gyros!

Anyway, I wonder how you say, "Stupid American," in Greek.



[The google image search brought up this picture when I searched for "gyros." This happens to be the place I now go to based on Coworkeropolis' recommendation. It's on Central Ave., just south of Belmont in Chicago. Go there. You will not be disappointed!]

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

CSN (and sometimes Y)

[I'm imagining a Saturday night live skit that is a cross between the Chris Farley Show and the Cowbell skit.]

And now, we go behind the scenes into the recording studio:

Stills: Hey guys, remember when we did that one song? Suite: Judy Blue Eyes?

Crosby: Um, sure, Stephe. We remember that.

Nash: Sure do.

Stills: That was awesome! And quit calling me Stephe.

Crosby: Sorry, Stephe.

Stills: Remember how, at the end, we did that groovy shit with all the doot-doot's? And I sang Spanish, but, nobody could understand what I was saying.

Nash: Yeah. That was great.

[Enter Neil Young on his crazy horse. They all break to get stoned. Young rides off.]

Stills: Anyway, I've been thinking. I've been working on this song. It's basically about how it's ok to get laid while we're on tour. It seems incomplete. Let me play it for you. [Plays Love the One You're With without the famed doot-doots].

Crosby: It's good, it's definitely getting there.

Nash: I think I know what you were getting at with the Suite: Judy Blue Eyes question. Love the One You're With is good, but that shit needs some doot-doots.

Crosby: Yeah. I gotta have more doot-doot.

Stills: Yeah, but where?

[He begins to play the song again. Neil Young rides up on his horse again. As the he gets nearer, the horse clomps the rhythm of the doot-doots after the second refrain. Crosby and Nash hear it and immediately know that's it. They jump in to sing the second round of doot-doots to end the song. Fade to black.]

Monday, April 10, 2006

All before 10 a.m.

Eric woke up at 9 a.m., shrieking. He came down sick yesterday, so I immediately ran to check on him. I opened the door to his room and it smelled like an exhibit at the zoo. I knew I was in for a real treat. He was sitting in his crib in a puddle of gooey poopy stuff which had leaked out of his diaper. I picked him up and, before I even hugged him, I started the clean up/diaper change process. He just laid there on his changing table looking half asleep and saying in his most pathetic voice, "Hungry. Want milk. Hungry. Want milk!"

So, being both a complete idiot and sucker, I get him some milk and a waffle and set him on the couch to eat it. I run back to his room and strip down the crib, where I realize that the mess soaked through the pillow case and the pillow cover and is stinking up his pillow. Yuck. I take the armful of stinky bed clothes and run back to the office, where Eric is halfheartedly drinking his milk and eating his waffle. He looks like he lacks the energy required to get into any sort of trouble, so I run downstairs to throw the stuff in the washing machine.

When I come back up, he's still just sitting there looking sick. I try to get him to take another bite of his waffle and he shakes his head no. Then goes pale and gets this look on his face. I knew it was coming, but there was no time to react. He turns his head and pukes all over the pillow, the blanket which covers our futon and his favorite stuffed animal and blanket, which were somehow spared in the crib mess. Then he starts crying. All he wants is for me to pick him up, but he's all covered in puke. I strip him of his second pair of pajamas, pick him up and hug him while ripping the blanket off the futon, and gathering all the other puked-on things. I throw away the rest of his waffle and he absolutely loses it. "Hungry! Want waffle! Milk! Want milk! Thirsty!"

I run to the kitchen, stick another waffle in the toaster and get him some apple juice. I stick him in a third pair of pajamas and set him in his little armchair. I give him the juice and the waffle and I run downstairs with the second set of dirty bed clothes. I add them to the original load and sprint back upstairs. Eric's just sitting there in his chair. He hasn't eaten any of the waffle, but I'm not about to encourage him. He has taken a few sips of the juice. He's just sort of laying there struggling to keep his eyes open. I sit in the chair next him and rub his head. All of a sudden, he leans forward and lowers himself out of the chair and onto the floor. He spreads out on the floor, on his tummy. I sit next to him and rub his back for a couple seconds. He seems peaceful and content....then he pukes all over the floor. And, I should mention that he puked on the area rug, missing the tile by a mere inch. Anyway...that was my morning. Hope yours was better!


Here he is laying on the futon, on top of a beach towel on a pillow with no pillow case because...you know--fool me once...

Minor Details...

Now that my office is effectively minus one lackey, many of those daily chores are temporarily my job. One of my possible tasks is to take certified mail to the post office. Now keep in mind that we have a meter at our work, which, for the most part, removes the need to go to the post office. As a matter of fact, we have all the tools we need right at our fingertips to send certified mail from the comfort of our very own building. But apparently attorneys like piece of mind. So, piece of mind they shall get. As such, my job is to take prepaid certified mail to the post office so that the postal employee can tear off the little receipt that is attached to the certified mail form, print the amount of postage on it (which we have generally already filled in ourselves) and hand it back to me.

Wow, that sounds really easy, right? And, well, yeah, it is easy I guess. Except. The post office experience is painful. Just because your envelope is already stamped and ready to go doesn't mean you get to go to the front of the line. Oh no, you have to wait in line just like everybody else. Now, I don't know if this is a universal post office thing, or if it's specific to the one I have to go to for work, but the people in line in front of me are never ready to send whatever they have to send. They walk up to the teller with a handful of forms and a pea brain full of questions. Which one do I fill out, how soon will it get there, what if I pay you an extra $47--can you make it get there on Sunday? Or, occasionally, the people are 100% ready to perform their transaction, but their transaction consists of sending eleventy hundred small packages, all which will require delivery confirmation slips with a return receipt. You get the picture--there's a definite reason behind the term "go postal." Just being in there for a half hour (to drop off an envelope), makes the systematic removal of my finger nails seem almost tantalizing.

However, I must report that Friday's trip was worthwhile because I saw one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time. First of all, Friday must be package day because, of the 17 people in front of me, 14 of them had packages to send. And of course these people don't come to the post office with their packages ready to go--oh no, they've got a box, a bag of random stuff that they want to send and an address (without a zip code) on a post-it. Fun stuff.

So there's this woman about 8 people in front of me with a package that's actually sealed and ready to go (from what I can tell). This chick looks like the quintessential Lincoln Park trixie. She gets up to the counter and is discussing options with the employee. They discuss options for several minutes before I hear the employee say to her, "Now, before we send this package, I'm going to need you to write the address on it." [Oh. God] She goes on to explain, "I'll need you to write the return address up here in the corner and then write the addressee here in the middle, just like you would on an envelope." She hands the girl a sharpie and the girl takes what looks like a square shoe box, turns to the table behind her and goes to town addressing the box.

In the meantime, the employee takes the next customer. When the girl is done with the box, she turns back around and waits for the employee to finish with that customer. When it's her (second) turn, the employee reveals to the entire line at the post office (by sheer volume) that what the girl did was write the return address in one corner of the box, and then spin the box and write the other address in the opposite corner. So, basically, it looks like the box has two return addresses. OK, let me just repeat that in italics, because I think it will be better that way. She wrote one address in one corner of the box, and then she spun the box 180 degrees and wrote the other address in the opposite corner, facing the original address!!!!

And then, to add insult to injury, the post office lady berated her loudly in front of everybody for several minutes. That alone was worth the price of admission.

But seriously. Where is America going wrong? I mean, I distinctly remember having a letter writing lesson in second grade. I sent a letter to my aunt, complete with a correctly addressed envelope. And now, well, I occasionally send things. You know--like bills--to stay alive. I gotta wonder how some of these people make it through so many years lacking vital life skills. I mean, don't they teach those sort of lessons in the Kappa Kappa Gamma house these days?

Friday, April 07, 2006

Mind like a steel trap

I think that people are generally too quick to discredit the memory power of babies. I mean, I have a baby, and I'm constantly amazed by the things he remembers. I'd guess that people who don't have babies would be even less likely to realize just how much they retain.

Today I took Eric to Old Navy, in search of the fabulous sales that someone told me about (which were non-existent, btw). The last time we went to Old Navy was the week after Christmas. On that trip, I put Eric in the cart and we spotted a bin of footballs in the front window of the store, right by the cashiers. I remember thinking their placement between the cashier and exit was odd, like they were basically asking to be stolen. But whatever. I went and got a football to distract Eric from the fact that I was otherwise subjecting him to pure torture.

On today's trip to Old Navy, I decided that I would let him walk around the store with me. I carried him into the store, but didn't set him down until we got all the way to the back, where the baby clothes are. He immediately took off running. He was chanting, "Football! Football! Football!" He ran all the way up to the front of the store, where we had picked up a football more than three months ago on one isolated occasion. When he got up there, he realized there were no bins of footballs this time. "No football?" he whined. Luckily, they were just moved to another spot. All was right in the world.

It just surprised me that he would remember what would seem to me to be an insignificant detail. He does it all the time, though, so you would think I'd get used to it. I'm thinking maybe it's time to start exploiting his memory by teaching him to be one of those genius two-year-olds who can recite all current and former world politicians or something. Although it seems he'd be more apt to learn something like football stats. Anyway, I have to go. We're going to go shopping now so I can point out all the things Mommy wants for her birthday.



P.S. I'm sorry. I forgot to mention something he did that was too cute to ignore. After a while of chasing him around the store, I finally put him in a cart, which he did not like. In an effort to appease him, I just kept grabbing stuff and giving it to him. Sunglasses! Hat! Shoes! Teddy bear! When I gave him the bear, I said, "Eric, do you want to hug a Teddy Bear?" And he gave the bear the biggest, sweetest hug and cuddled with it for a couple of seconds. Then he got a very serious look on his face and sort of backed away from the bear and started shaking his head no. He handed me the bear and said matter of factly, "All done, bear hug."

Preparing for Karaoke Night

(He watches American Idol with his aunt and uncle on Wednesday nights.)

http://media.putfile.com/IM000886-28

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Confession


Even though I know and love people who smoke, whenever I see a person smoking in his or her car, I automatically assume that the person is a Really Big Idiot (RBI). Allow me to clarify by saying that I don't assume that smoking is an isolated stupid thing that they do--I assume that the person is of below-average intelligence across the board. I can't help it, it's just my natural instinct to think they're dumb. And, truth be told, I try hard not to drive next to people who are smoking in their cars because I think that RBIs are far more likely to cause accidents. So let this be a public service announcement: The smoking? It makes you look like a moron.


(Because hindsight is 20/20.)

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

And I ran...I ran so far away.

As part of my quest to get fit, I have been trying to convince myself for months to start running again. Last year I got myself in shape to run the Shamrock Shuffle, which is a 5 mile run that took place in the beginning of April. In the year that has passed since then, I have only run a handful of times. I really wanted to run it again this year, but for a variety of reasons (not the least of which is my own laziness), it didn't happen.

Sometime during the day yesterday, I convinced myself that I was going to run when I got home from work. The weather was perfect, and for once it wasn't raining. I managed not to snack incessantly at work, so I had the necessary empty stomach. But I worked kind of late. It must have been about 8:50 when I walked out the door. My motivation was waning. Thanks to an upbeat shuffle on the pod, I started getting some motivation back as I approached home. I pulled in the driveway at 9:12, which is my lucky time (don't ask), so I decided that it was meant to be. I walked in the house to find that Chris was making dinner for us. I almost gave up, but I knew that it had to be done.

So, I got myself suited up, grabbed the ipod and headed out the door. Since this was my first run in a looooong time, I knew I had to take it easy. Start out with a brisk walk to warm myself up, then run for short intervals to get my body used to this exercise business, and not overdo it.

But the pod mocked me. The first song that came on was No Doubt's Just a Girl. And it made me want to run. So I did. Too fast and too hard. For the duration of the song. When the song ended, I commenced to walking; my body was pissed off at me. The feeling I was experiencing, I could only guess would feel like being stabbed repeatedly in the chest with a butcher knife. Next song on the shuffle? Lucky Star by Madonna. I took that to mean, thank your lucky stars that you didn't drop dead after that little incident where you decided to sprint for 3 and a half minutes after doing very little aerobic exercise for way too long. Duly noted, body. So for the next 3.5 minutes, I walked and tried to recover.

I decided that I would start running again at the beginning of the next song. Well, it just so happened that the next song was Steely Dan--Reeling in the Years. And it was the perfect pace for me. Now, don't get me wrong, I like Steely Dan as much as the next guy, but there's something kind of sad about realizing that a song whose beat provides a good running pace for you could very easily be made into elevator music. So, I run for 4.5 minutes, at a much better pace, thinking about how sad I am and that I really am reeling in the years, so to speak.

I'm thinking, sure, I might be out here running, but there are probably 70-year-olds out there who could put me to shame. So, I'm getting a little down on myself. The end of the song, which is my cue to stop running and walk for the duration of the next song, happened to coincide with me passing the Emergency Room sign at the nearby hospital. And I thought about how sad it would be if after 12 minutes of exercise, I needed to be hospitalized. I wondered when, exactly, I got to be so pathetic.

Appropriately, the next song the ipod cued up for me was Weezer--Say it Ain't So. I took that in the, "please let me not be as big of a loser as I currently feel like I am," sense. And I took those couple minutes to reflect. I managed to convince myself that everybody has to start somewhere. And I'm taking the first step by running rather than sitting on my ass in front of the computer or TV. Right? Right!

So, at this point, I'm getting pumped up to run again. The next song that comes on is Mighty Mighty Bosstones--Let's Face It. It was pretty much perfect for the moment--upbeat and fun, but not super fast. I aslo decided that the chorus provided a pretty good mantra for me (and my multiple personalities): Let's try to erase it, It's time that we face it, If we don't then who will, shame on us...(with "it" being excess weight and out-of-shapeness, rather than racism, as the song actually implies). So, that brought me most of the way home. Just as I was approaching my driveway, Fleetwood Mac--Go Your Own Way came on. Thanks, Lindsey, I think I will.

So, there you have it. I ran (poorly) and lived to tell the tale.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

When in doubt...

Just post cute/funny/embarrassing kid pics. That's what I always say!



"Just watching some Barney, Yo."


Watching Baseball with Daddy.

"I'm too cute for my own good."

It's a safety measure.


Campaigning for King of the USA.

100% Pure Boy.


"HELP. ME."

Ready for April showers.

Monday, April 03, 2006

And another thing...

I totally wish I would have found this shirt before The Baby Eric turned into The Big Boy Eric:



Um. It seems this shirt can't be found here.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

All this business about saving daylight

Seriously. I'm sick of hearing people whining about losing an hour of sleep. It's not that bad, I promise. You will get it back. I'll see to it personally. There's a lot of bureaucracy in the Land of Time, so it could take up to 6 months, but I promise that I'll save your hour one way or another.

Plus, if you really think you lost an hour of sleep, you're looking at things the wrong way. I mean, you *did* have the option of going to be earlier. Or getting up later. I mean, why is everybody so quick to assign the loss of an hour to sleep time. I personally lost an hour of church. What? I never go to church? Well, then I didn't really lose anything did I?

Speaking of church, I just learned that there is apparently a store called, "Catholic Supply Store." It really never occurred to me that there are supplies required to be Catholic. Is it like an office supply store, only for religion? Where do Catholics keep their supplies? Oh, please let it be in a box in their desk, just like little kids keep their school supplies. Do you suppose the overflow of items from the Catholic Supply Store is brought to a Catholic Surplus store. Do you think churches can order schwag with their name on it for marketing purposes? There...that'll give you something to chew on so you can shut up about your damn hour.