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?

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

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ad campaigns, Kristi-style

Being a creative sort of person, I am constantly coming up with ideas for new and innovative ways to advertise the same old crap. It usually goes like this: hear a song, purposely misunderstand and misconstrue the lyrics and, voila! potential new ad campaign! Now, this might be shocking, but please keep in mind that I never studied any type of advertising or marketing while I was in school! Here is a little sample of some of my ideas:

Company: Taco Bell

Song: Let's Give 'Em Something to Talk About

Artist: Bonnie Raitt

Ad: Bonnie Raitt sells out to the Taco Bell empire and changes her song lyrics to "Let's go get some kind of Taco Bell...a nice chalupa with beans as well. Let's go get some kind of Taco Bell. How about now-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow?"

Company: Pizza Hut

Song: Personal Jesus

Artist: Depeche Mode

Ad: This one involves selling out too. A bunch of coworkers are ordering pizza for lunch. No two people want the same toppings. So, Depeche Mode steps in and offers a solution: Your Own. Personal. Pizza.

Company: Some Doctor's Office

Song: (You Make me Feel Like) A Natural Woman

Artist: Carole King

Ad: A tall, big-boned woman with average looks is singing and dancing along to this song as she gets dressed and ready for an evening out on the town. A voice over at the end says something to the effect of: Dr. Paul Magillicutty. A world-renowned expert at Transsexual Sex Reassignment Surgery. Taking care of your sex change needs since 1987. For more information call 1-800-HE-TO-SHE.

Tales from a tired stupor...

First, a little background info on our house: the day we came to sign the lease on our house, our landlords just went on and on about what a great house it is and that it's insulated so well that the utility bills were incredibly reasonable. Well, after living here for a short while, we decided on our own that 1) it was a great house, but 2) that our landlords must live in a tent if this is their idea of "great insulation." In fact, I can remember that last summer (which was a particularly warm summer for Chicago), even with the AC set at 65, it was pretty much impossible to get the house any cooler than 85 degrees during the day. I think at night we could get it down to about 82. But I digress.

Our house is set up with the three bedrooms running down the side of the house. Eric's room is in the front, ours is in the middle, and the back room is the office. For some reason, the front and back rooms do not get the same share of the heat that the middle room gets. So, in order to make sure the baby isn't getting frost bite, we have to turn the heat so that it's Africa Hot™ in our room. This little problem seems to be getting better as the weather gradually gets nicer, though.

So, last night, I fell asleep on the couch in my clothes. I didn't wake up until Chris' alarm went off at 4:something a.m. I dragged my ass into the bedroom and was just barely able to convince myself to change out of my clothes into pajamas. Except that it was Africa Hot™ and my clothes were too heavy to continue wearing.

After laying in bed for approximately 17 seconds, I decided that there was no possible way I was going to be able to sleep comfortably--especially considering that I like the weight of the covers on me while I sleep. I thought, "Hey...maybe I should just open the window." But that would require me to get out of bed... and... I'm... so... t...i...r...e...d.

Then I had an idea: Maybe I could reach the window with my foot, part the vertical blinds and grab the crank between my big toe and second toe. And, like a monkey, I could open the window that way. I mean, the window is only a couple feet away from my side of the bed. Well, luckily, before I got a chance to try that tactic (which probably would have resulted in my falling out of the bed), the alarm went off again and Chris got up. I asked him to go turn down the thermostat, which he did. I'm not sure why I didn't ask him to open the window. I think part of me doesn't want to give up hope that the monkey-leg plan could work someday.

Joy of Parenthood # 37: Super Hero Jammies

Gettin' Real

Not to get all Dr. Phil (or his Sesame Street spoof, Dr. Feel) on you, but this business about all my clothes starting to get too tight HAS GOT TO END. Actually, I should mention that it's my FAT clothes that are getting to tight. And by fat clothes, I mean anything purchased after the million pound weight gain, and subsequent 4 pound weight loss, for a grand total of 999,996 pounds gained since getting pregnant. Since the "9 months on, 9 months off" marker has come and gone TWICE now, it seems that I'm doing something wrong (like maybe not trying very hard...or at all, for that matter). So, I have just over four months before we hit 9 months on, 9x3 months off. Four months is enough time to make a dent. So, you heard it here first. In four months, there will be less Kristi to love.

For this I am surely going to hell.

Last night, I went out to eat with my friends at Wildfire. We all had delicious steaks as our entrees. Mmm. Steak. Anyway, I took home a little medallion of my "Filet Medallions, Diane Style," to savor at a later time. I figured that since my loose connection to Catholicism racks me with guilt and prevents me from eating meat on Fridays during lent, perhaps I would save it until Saturday, when I could eat it for lunch. Unfortunately, when I got home...um...after midnight, I was hungry. And oh how that steak looked so good. So I pretended that it wasn't Friday because I had not yet gone to sleep. Please don't tell God.

I have blogger's block.

So today I'm just going to do a little review of some random things that annoy me:

-Kidnapping vans (vans with no windows other than the windshield and the driver and passenger door windows). I understand how these might be useful to some people--you know...those carrying crap that nobody really wants to look at, and those hauling a gaggle of Vietnamese slaves...but I hate driving behind them because I can't see anything.

-the dirtiness of my house, which I'm going to work on when I finish this post

-crappy weather

-fast food places that serve you cold fries--like, cold before they even put them in your bag, not like they got cold on your drive home.

-little yappy dogs

That's all for now. I'm trying not to dwell on the annoying.

ADD IT UP

You guys, when it comes to cleaning, I'm pretty sure I've got some form of ADD. I've got nothing but the best of intentions when it comes to cleaning the filth pit that I call my house (OK, not so much filth as general mess). Me trying to clean goes a little something like this:

First, I convince myself that I just need to focus on one room at a time. So, maybe I pick the kitchen. I start clearing out some of the clutter, throwing things away and putting them back where they belong.

Brain Dialogue: "Oh look--cold medicine from when we were sick three weeks ago. I'd better go into the bathroom and put that in the linen closet." [off to the bathroom I go]

"Dear lord! Would you look at what a mess this bathroom is? I know I'm working on the kitchen right now, but if I could just pick up a few things in here, I'm sure it would look MUCH better!"

So, I pick up the clothes that have gathered on the floor, and I start to clean up the vanity when I happen to glance into the mirror.

"Wow! These eyebrows need some serious grooming!" So, I do that for 10 minutes. "Oh look--there's my dental floss. Better floss my teeth! La la la la la. love in an elevator..."

Then it occurs to me that I was supposed to be cleaning--focusing on the kitchen, as a matter of fact. So, I go back to the kitchen. I trip over a toy on the floor, and I take it into the living room, where I notice a new magazine that I haven't read yet. I start flipping through the magazine. Five minutes later, I head back to the kitchen with a renewed sense of purpose.

"You know, maybe I should just wash the dishes. That way I won't be as easily distracted." But, before I start the dishes, I remember that there was a cup sitting next to the computer, which I had better go get so I can wash it. Unfortunately, in the process of getting the cup, I come too close to the internet force field and ohmygodit'sbeenatleast30minutessinceIcheckedmyemail!!!!! Easily a half hour passes before I realize that I'm thirsty, and I return to the kitchen without the cup that I was getting in the first place.

I think I'm going to write a book in the style of Laura Numeroff. It will be called, "If you give a housewife a cocktail."

Touché

My grandparents were visiting from Florida this weekend and ended up taking the family out for...um, dunch (?) yesterday afternoon. Chris and I don't really go out to eat with Eric very often, because, well, we're not that brave. My parents take Eric out to eat way more often than we do, and they just go on and on about how great he is in restaurants. So, I leave the restaurant-going to them.

Anyway, Eric's behavior yesterday was actually about as good as any toddler can be expected to behave at a restaurant. The first thing he noticed was how great his (cute, but) sinister laugh sounded with the high ceilings of the restaurant. He laughed like that for the first ten minutes or so. I figured, well, he's kind of loud, but I'd rather listen to a loud laughing baby than a loud crying baby. Next, he discovered the crayons. He colored on the provided paper for about 12 seconds. Then he tried to color on his head. Then he ate the crayons. A few minutes after that, I rescued him from his highchair and let him stand on the booth seat and look out the window.

When the food came, he went back into the highchair. One of the first things he did was accidentally knock his cheeseburger off the plate and onto the floor--cheese side down. So sad. I took him out of the chair again and he sat on Chris' lap and ate off of other people's plates. At one point, Chris tried to get him to try a bite of his pickle. Now, Eric isn't exactly Mr. Adventurous when it comes to food, so it didn't really surprise me when he turned up his nose at the pickle. But Chris persisted. "Come on Eric, just try it--you might like it! Do you know who likes pickles? Monkey likes pickles!" (For the record, Monkey also likes taking naps and having his diaper changed and taking medicine, etc.) I chimed in, "Oh, that's right! Monkey looooves pickles! They're his favorite!" Eric looked at Chris, then at me. Then he reached down, picked up Monkey from the bench and smashed the pickle into his face.

We were outwitted. By a less-than-two-year-old. Ouch.

A fun link for a friday afternoon...

http://www.anonymouscoworker.com/2006/03/17/my-ragingly-catholic-ancestors-are-vomitting-with-disdain/

Why, oh, why did I not discover http://www.anonymouscoworker.com earlier?

PS "this morning i ate an englishman to keep the spirit of the irish alive."

O'Meal

In honor of St. Patty's Day, I'd like to share a funny bit about my little leprechaun:

Over the past couple of months, Eric has become quite obsessed with oatmeal--or, o'meal, as he calls it. I mean, he has always liked it, but now he's taking it to extremes. In his mind, o'meal is an acceptable side dish with any meal. In the morning, he'll wake up and say, "Waffle. Milk. O'meal." At snacktime, he'll ask for, "Juice? Fishies? O'meal?" Today at lunch, he had a hot dog and grapes. He kept telling me, "Hotdog yummy! Grapes yummy! O'meal??" So, tonight for dinner, I think I'll make him macaro'meal and cheese.

Scary-oke!

OK...just an itty bitty little rant about the karaoke place that I made us go to last night (because it would allow me to kill two birds with one stone). The only thing this place has going for it is a quasi-convenient location. It is located next to Jessica's restaurant, which allows us to eat yummy food for really cheap, and then Jess can come over when she's done closing.

But, seriously, we've given this place several chances now and, if anything, it's only getting worse. They have a relatively new karaoke DJ and, I must say, this guy is the Mayor of Shittytown. He seems to be developing a few loyal subjects--let's call them Shitheads. Seriously, this guy. just. sucks. We got there before he even started, and he barely even called us all up to sing--and there weren't that many people at the bar!!?! Poor Jessica only got to sing because she went up, like 16 times and asked the guy if she was going to get to sing yet. I'm telling you--this guy is doing part karaoke, part teen dance party. Every karaoke song he plays is followed by some crappy song in its entirety. Meanwhile, this guy is meandering around the bar, copping a feel on the scantily-clad skanks he can get his hands on.

To give a comparison--this week we showed up at the very beginning of the night, with 3 hours of karaoke to come. 2 of us got to sing pretty early. Another one got called up as he was walking out the door, like two hours later. The fourth one was called shortly thereafter, but she had just left. The fifth one sang the very last song of the night. Last week, we went somewhere else. We showed up about 45 minutes after karaoke had started. We all got to sing twice--AND THERE WERE MORE PEOPLE THERE.

Well...I think I know where we are going next time.

I'm of the belief that my name can be accurately represented by two X's.

I believe this because:
1. I'm crazy and allowed to believe anything I want.
2. I have written the following resolution, which I believe to be legally binding:

WHEREAS, my full name is Kristen; and

WHEREAS, "Christ" (.:"Krist") can be represented by the letter X, as seen in X-mas; and

WHEREAS, the letter X represents the Roman numeral ten.

NOW, THEREFORE, it is hereby resolved as follows:

RESOLVED, that from the above information, XX is an accurate representation of the name Kristen.

FURTHER RESOLVED, that I shall be allowed to call myself whatever the hell I want to call myself.

Just a Reminder:

The ides of March are upon us!

I don't know whether to hug them or shake them.

The other night, my friends introduced me to this SNL skit. How did I ever miss this? Oh, that's right, I don't watch SNL a lot these days because sometimes it just hurts. But this Christopher Walken gem is definitely worth watching!

Anyway, I'm glad they told me about that, but I CAN'T BELIEVE that no one mentioned this sketch! [Warning...this is one that you might want to watch discreetly around little ears or bosses...unless your boss has a great sense of humor.] Chris brought this one to my attention, and for that, I thank him. That is some funny stuff right there!

Whistleblower.

The office manager caught me last night in a moment of extreme had-it-up-to-here-ness. I had just finished my undesirable typing work from Alice and was about to leave, when she asked a dreaded question related to the project I'm supposed to be helping with. The project involves sending a couple hundred boxes of files to an offsite storage facility. Being that the company employs a file clerk, it would seem that his primary duty would be to work WITH FILES. He seems to think otherwise, although he's really tricky about it. He kisses all the right asses to get away with doing very little and not get caught.

Anyway, I'm supposed to help the file clerk get the boxes organized and ready to go. "Help" being the operative word, I thought. Except, he seems to think that I'm supposed to do it all. Or, rather, he keeps saying that he's going to work on it, yet, mysteriously, nothing is getting done. He's also coming up with some of the best excuses in the land as to why he's not working on it. But, nearly every day when I come in, he wants to come up to me and talk about how much I worked on the files the night before. Here's the deal, though--I was hired to work 3 hours a day (though I usually work more). Most days, at least 2.5 of those hours are filled with work for attorneys, which is my primary job function. Then I have about a half hour of undesirable typing work. So, there's three hours (usually more) right there. At most, I have maybe a half hour a day to work on these boxes. At this rate, it will be 2007 before the boxes get out the door, if things continue as they are.

So, when the office manager asked how the file project was going, I unloaded on her. I've been REALLY busy with work from the attorneys. I'm spending a lot of time daily doing work from Alice. We've got a file clerk who does nothing but sit on the computer all day long. Also, I let her in on the reasons said file clerk has been giving me regarding why he hasn't worked on boxes, including the one about how he can't bend over because HE HAS RINGING IN HIS EARS. Come on. She was pretty surprised to hear all this, and said she was going to take care of these things. Consider the buck passed back.

PS I know it sounds like I hate my coworkers and/or job, but that is really not the case. Most of my coworkers are great and, for the most part, I really enjoy my job. It's just that recently, I've been dealing with the two biggest slackers in the company. It's maddening.

Helping the world spell better, one vowel at a time.

It seems that more and more frequently, people are finding my website by running a google search for the word exercism. While it makes me sad that people at large spell so poorly, it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling that in my "exercism" post, I reveal the correct spelling of the word they're probably looking for. I really hope they catch that, and are re-googling.

Hmmm...if I wanted to be really helpful, I could always go back to that post and hyperlink the word exorcism to a google search for that term.

On second thought? No, I really don't want to be that helpful.

Scared to think what could be going on inside my stomach.

Last night, Chris and I were drinking our beverages of choice out of the same type of cup. Incidentally, they were those red bumpy plastic cups that remind me of eating at Pizza Hut when I was a kid. Anyway, for a while we were both drinking Mt. Dew, but by this point, I had switched over to chocolate milk. Mmm. Chocolate milk.

My cup was sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the fridge, with about an inch of milk in it. Chris went into the darkened kitchen, saw the cup on the counter, thought it was his cup and poured Mt. Dew into it. What happened next is the part that worries me a bit. The combination started foaming like a science experiment. In the end, the concoction ended up with the chocolate milk on the bottom of the cup, separated from the Mt. Dew, which was the middle layer, with a thick foam on the top. It was really gross. Considering that I had drank the same combination of beverages, I hope my stomach doesn't explode!

In other news, while I was making breakfast this morning, Eric went into the office and turned on the TV. Then he came running back into the kitchen shouting, "Football! Football!" It turns out that Rudy was on this morning, and Eric and I caught about the last fifteen minutes of it. So, naturally, I spent those 15 minutes choked up and snivelling like a baby. It was great. And all the while, Eric was running around yelling, "Football! Touchdown! Rudy! Football!" Dear lord, I hope my heart doesn't explode too.

Things that made me smile today.

1. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2397532802194226883
2. http://youknitwhat.blogspot.com
3. http://www.snarkywood.com/
4. Notice ye not the less than cleanliness of my bathtub, but rather, the little fauxhawked midget.

5. Tulips, people. TULIPS!

And hosta!

6. Take that, Cookie Monster!

7. Does anybody really know what time it is? [Editor's note: Since this caption seems to be confusing people, Eric is wearing a watch with his jammies.]

Sort of rambling and totally not thinking this through...just writing what's on my mind.

Everyone's negativity (mostly my own) is starting to get me thinking. For the most part, I believe that thinking negatively or thinking positively is a choice. I definitely believe that there are people out there who have less control over that choice, where one thing can start a snowball effect because, for whatever reason, their body was not given adequate coping mechanisms. I know people like that, and what I'm saying here does not apply to them. This is also not some Tom Cruise-esque, take vitamins and exercise and everything will be alright rant. It's just a "most people have the power to control their own destiny to the extent that it effects their emotional well-being" thingie.

I cannot speak for the world at-large, but I believe that Americans specifically are trained to think that life is supposed to be good and easy at all times, and that if it's not, you're doing something wrong and you should be medicated to bring you back to a place where things are good and easy. And I don't necessarily agree with that philosophy. I believe that life brings us challenges so that we can learn and grow from them. And things are not always going to go your way. And you need to learn to cope with that, whatever way you can. And sometimes really shitty things are going to happen to really good people, without warning or explanation. But, for the most part, people are built to recover from really shitty things. I personally feel that you need to do your best to take care of your body and your mind and take life as it comes.

I feel like I'm constantly listening to people who are unhappy in their jobs. If you are a person who is truly unhappy with your line of work, let me lay out your options for you: find a new job (easier said than done? yes, but completely possible nonetheless) OR keep your current job and take into account the lifestyle it affords you. Do you have a roof over your head? Are you able to pay your bills? Do you have freetime outside of work to pursue things that do make you happy? Do you have money to pursue those things? Maybe it's a matter of switching your focus from what it is about your job that you find unfulfilling to what you can do outside of work to find the fulfillment. But, if you hate your job and you're there ALL THE TIME, or, you don't make enough money to do anything outside of work other than worry about money, you really don't have options. You need to get a new job.

This is something that I have thought about lots and lots since having a baby and switching gears. At some point do I want to pursue a dream job? This dream job, which may or may not exist, by the way, will undoubtedly require a lot of time and effort on my part to get and maintain. OR, do I want to work a job--any job--which allows me to spend time with my family and pursue hobbies outside of work. It's totally possible that it's easy for me to think this way because I have existing "hobbies" and they include fine arts, which is not an area that I ever expect to be able to make a career out of (but wouldn't it be cool if I could?).

Right now, I feel I'm at a cross-roads. Chris and I are pretty much at a point where our only options are to increse the in-come or decrease the out-go. We've done a lot of the latter, but it's still tough. It's a daily struggle for me to decide what I'm willing to do without in order to keep Eric out of daycare (not because I think daycare is inherently evil, but because, since I've been home with him this long, it just tears me up to think about not being with him every day). I know first hand that it's hard to keep a positive outlook when it seems that the only way things can possibly get better in one area is by making them worse in another area.

What is my point with all this? I don't know. But I needed to get it off my chest. Life is a crap shoot. You never know what tomorrow might bring. You might win the lottery. You might get hit by a bus. Do you want to spend what is potentially your last day on earth drowning in negativity?

I apologize to my coworkers who read this because they already hear me bitch about this daily.

Let me paint you a little picture here, and tell me what you think.

Imagine that a co-worker of yours says, "Hey, [insert your name here], I forgot my wallet today, do you think you could spot me $5 for lunch?" Would you then expect to buy that person lunch daily until further notice?

or

Imagine that your neighbors went on vacation, and asked you to bring in their mail while they were gone. Would you expect that to mean that you would be getting their mail every day henceforth until either you or they moved?

or how about this

Imagine that your friend's car broke down and you offered to drive him or her to work until it got fixed. To you, does that mean that your friend is going to call Victory Auto Wreckers and the guy with the big watch is going to come take their car away forevermore, since you have so kindly offered to be their lifetime chauffeur?

Here's the deal: back in December, (yes, December), the receptionist at work took two weeks vacation (hmm...must be nice). While she was gone, she got behind on some of her non-phone-answering duties. When she came back, the office manager cornered me right in front of the receptionist's desk and explained to me that the receptionist (Let's call her "Alice," because that is very much NOT her name) was behind on her work from being out for two weeks, and could I help her get caught up by doing some undesirable work involving the typewriter. Well, a) didn't really give me a choice there, did ya, and b) of course I would help her get caught up.

Well...hmm...here it is March, and apparently Alice is not yet caught up on two weeks of work from December. Except that you and I both know that she is "caught up," and the undesirable typing work is now mine forevermore. And it REALLY irritates me. And I don't know why. I mean, if the office manager had asked me right off the bat if I would take over the undesirable typing work in perpetuity, it's not like I would have said no. I may not have felt like I actually had a choice in the matter, but I wouldn't have said no. And then I would have known not to wait for an end of the undesirable work, and I would not feel frustrated daily when a stack of things to be typed mysteriously showed up on my chair.

So really, what it boils down to here is that I feel that I have a very strong work ethic. But not everyone does. And maybe Alice's isn't as strong as mine. And maybe it doesn't always feel fair that many people are able to coast by doing the absolute minimum, while I would be embarrassed to not do as much as I absolutely could. So...it's time to release the anger and stop being petty. It's time to come to terms with the fact that I am just better than most people. Haha...just kidding. But it is time to come to terms with the fact that, because I'm willing to give more, more will always be expected of me. And sometimes that sucks--especially when you see the people who get away with doing less playing solitaire at their desks trying to pass the time.

Anxiously awaiting the vernal equinox...and karaoke night.

My husband pointed out to me the other day that my posts of late have been somewhat...how shall I put it...negative. He suggested that I might need a vacation. I think he might be right, but unfortunately I don't see that happening anytime soon. Oh well.

I think my recent bout of negativity is directly related to two* things. First of all, it's winter, and I hate winter. It's cold and dreary and blegh (to be said with as much emphasis as you can muster, so that it sounds like a cat dry heaving). The closer it gets to spring, the more I feel like it will never ever arrive and the grouchier I get. [Imagine Alvin the Chipmunk voice] I can hardly stand the wait, please springtime don't be late!

So, that's reason number one. Reason number two I believe correlates directly to the fact that I have not gone to karaoke the past two weeks. In fact, I have not done much of anything in the past two weeks. But that's all changing tomorrow, when I make my triumphant**, long-anticipated*** return to the mic. Plus, even better--or equally good, depending on your stance--is that before hand, Nora, Sue and I (and possible other karaoke/food lovers??) will be eating at Maggiano's. Don't be surprised if I eat tiramisu for dinner, and then again for dessert. And then I shall be happy as a clam--and a very happy clam, at that.

tirammmmmisu.

*or more

**or not

***by me alone

I forget what eight was for.

The other day I came across some Violent Femmes music on the pod. I ended up listening to the song Kiss Off several times over. Why? I'm not really sure. It just reminded me of times gone by--of college, when things were simpler. Or maybe it was just that different things were complicated. Whatever.

When I was in college, I was in this group called Star Course my senior year. All (and I do mean all) of my friends were in the group and by senior year, I figured I might as well join, since it would give me access to better parties. Star Course was the organization that put on the smaller University-sponsored concerts.

One of the problems that I encountered with Star Course was that, since we were putting on concerts of not-so-well-known bands, half the time nobody knew what the band members actually looked like. And sometimes that caused embarrassing confusion.

So, during my short Star Course experience, we put on a Violent Femmes concert. I helped with load-in/out and security that day. During load-in, I was putting some stuff on the stage and ended up in a conversation with another Star Course girl and the dude who was setting up the drum kit. Among other things, we talked about this leg of the Violent Femmes tour, and where they were headed next. Drum Dude kept saying things like, "I don't know what we're doing after this. I don't know where we're playing next." And I kept replying things like, "Oh, I heard they're playing in DeKalb next." Because, clearly the person I was talking to was a roadie, and clearly HE personally would not be playing in DeKalb next, right? Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that Guy Hoffman was setting up his own damn drums? I mean, isn't that what roadies DO? I don't think he was terribly offended, or maybe didn't even notice. I figured it out on my own much later in the day, and was retrospectively embarrassed.

After the concert that night, we had the post-party at our apartment. The band members and crew were usually invited to the post-parties, but were usually to cool to go to college parties (as you might imagine). Well, on this particular night, I do believe the Violent Femmes roadies were lookin' to get a little bit of co-ed ass. A few of them came to our apartment and proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk (or maybe they already were). One of them fell down the stairs leading up to our upstairs neighbors' apartments and cracked his head open on the brick planter box across the sidewalk from the stairs. My roommate Heidi had to drive him to the hospital for stitches. I don't remember exactly how the rest of the story goes, but it involves him escaping from the hospital and the rest of his roadie friends feeling bad for him because it was his turn to drive the bus the next day. And apparently they showed no mercy when it came to driving the bus.

So...that's kind of a fun story from my college days. Actually, thinking about that caused me to remember another embarrassing situation I had involving not knowing a rockstar from a hole in the ground. After college, I briefly interned at a radio station, in the promotions department. We put on a "Live From Studio X" concert with the band Cake. I was in charge of carding people at the door to make sure they were on our guest list (you can see where this is going). The thing was that not only did I try to card somebody who was with the band, but since he walked right by me into the room, I had to go chase him down, at which point he flashed me his backstage pass. Turned out he played bass with the band. Who knew? He was pretty hot too...too bad I ruined my chances with him. (ha.)

By the way, this post should be titled "Wherein I try to make myself sound WAY cooler than I actually am."

Kristi's Driving Advice: Installment One

Dear Driver who is several cars back at the red light and feels the need to honk the moment the light turns green:

Do the world a favor and drive off a cliff, asshole. We can all see that the light is green. See how we are starting to move? But, since you obviously don't get it, let me fill you in on a little secret: because you honked, we are all now driving extra slow, just to piss you off. Way to go, smart guy.

Basically, the way I see it is that you have two options: leave earlier so that you are not in a hurry, or come to terms with your lateness. I, in a moment of zen-like clarity, chose the second option.

I would offer a third option, wherein you would develop the technology to teleport or make cars fly, but it is already clear to me that you don't have the brains that god gave a piss ant. So, we'll have to work around that. But, for the love of all things sacred and holy, PLEASE LAY OFF THE FRICKIN HORN.

Much love,

Kristi

Bite Me

This week deserves a Bite Me post because, you know, it's just been one of those weeks.

To The Baby Eric, who has suddenly decided that if the sun is up, he should be to...Bite Me (here...let me stick my finger in your mouth)

To life, for sucking sometimes...Bite Me

To random fevers and runny noses and coughs and other isolated maladies that show up with no other symptoms...Bite Me

To Chris and I, for being stupid enough to buy two cars in the same month (of different years), causing all of their annual fees to be due at the same time...Bite Me (chomp. ow.)

To the neverending construction on the Kennedy/Northwest Tollway...Bite Me

To the newscaster who announced gleefully the other day, "Well, we're coming upon Spring and, therefore, construction season!" and then went on to detail all the new construction projects that would be starting soon...Bite Me

To the lady who stands outside the door of the Starbucks that I go to when I get my weekly Starbucks treat, selling Streetwise, talking loudly on her cell phone and standing so close to the door that it's hard to go in without tripping on her...Bite Me (because I'm only a couple Starbucks away from being right there with her)

To the offsite storage file project at work...Bite Me

To the IRS and their stupid taxes...Bite Me

OK, that's enough biting for now. But I reserve the right to add more if I so desire. Feel free to add some of your own...

Well...Isn't that sweet (barf)

You're a little gold key, and you unlock other
people's hearts. Your kindness and
willingness to be there for those you care
about lets people open up to you knowing they
will be accepted. People will rely on you,
but be careful not to give more than you
have.

So, Dear Reader, what sort of key are you and what do you unlock?

I'm so conniving that it hurts a little bit.

I think I might need help. I recently found this bargain hunting website that I've maybe become addicted to. And I'm getting greedy. People go to this board to share helpful information on easy ways to get things really cheaply or for free. But these cheap/free things come with certain conditions, like maybe you have to fill out a short survey, or test a product, or it says something about one per household. Any I just sit here and rack my brain for ways to buck the system and maybe end up with two per household.

And the thing is that these aren't necessarily scamming internet companies that promise to pay you twelve cents every time you sign up and give your credit card number to some shady company. Or companies that secretly send spyware and viruses to your computer whilst you peruse their site. Generally it's just some honest company that, you know, wants you to try its product or its service and in turn offers the product free to a limited amount of people, or offers a reward for trying out the service. Or maybe it's just some company having a short-lived blow out sale.

So, here's my shameful story for today. A month or so ago, I signed up for Shape magazine, which I've never read before in my life, because it was $1.99 for a year. It was just on super-duper sale that day. I had a few bucks in my paypal account, and I was tired of living in a periodical-free zone, so I figured, what the heck? A week or so ago, I got my first magazine, the March issue. I looked through it. Not too shabby for less than $.17 per issue. No complaints. But. A couple days later, I got another magazine. The February issue. OK, kind of weird. Whatever. Then, today, I got the January issue. That annoyed me. Yeah, I only paid a couple bucks for the subscription, but still. So, I called their subscription 800 number and complained that they sent me two back issues that I had already purchased from the news stand (which maybe wasn't necessarily true, but, in my opinion, no less shady than them sending me back issues in the first place). They happily extended my subscription for two months. It was a 45-second phone call.

You know, whenever I feel kind of bad about these sorts of things, I just think about the people from this website who will drive hundreds of miles armed with loads of coupons, just because some grocery store in Biloxi is having a triple coupon day, and they get like $400 dollars worth of stuff they might not have otherwise bought for $36. Or I think about the people who drive to every single Walgreens (for instance) in the tri-state area to purchase every available weird-ass item that's on some kind of super-duper-special sale. I'm not as bad as those people. Yet. But keep an eye on me, OK?

Update

My remote works! My remote works!!! It just needed some time to dry out. But then again, don't we all?

Smokin' in the boys room

Every parent with a newly speaking child can probably attest to the fact that sometimes it's just really hard to understand what they're saying. In fact, sometimes, even if he's said something 100 times, and I've understood it all 100 times, I might not understand it on the 101st time just because I'm only half paying attention to him (sorry, buddy).

Today, we were playing in the living room and I was laying on the floor next to him. All of a sudden, he starts pushing me frantically, saying something that I swear sounded like, "Marlboro light! Marlboro light!! MARLBORO LIGHT!!!" So, I'm thinking DCFS is going to show up at any second to ask Eric what I've been feeding him, and Eric's going to be all*, "Marlboro light! Coffee!" Just effin great.

But, just then, the lightbulb goes off in my head and I realize what he wants. He want me to roll over on my stomach so that he can climb on my back and go for a Mommy-back ride.

* This is an expression that I never use in real life, except to be ironic. But apparently I feel it makes for good blogging. "And I was all, 'I oughta kick yo' ass,' and then she was all, 'You don't wanna mess with me--I'm bad before breakfast.'" I think that's more of a West Coast thing. In the Midwest we say "like" instead of "all," which is clearly much more grammatically correct.

Dear PBS Kids Sprout:

Just a couple questions--

1) On Sesame Street's Journey to Ernie, will Big Bird EVER learn that asking the two-headed monster which way Ernie went will NEVER GET HIM ANYWHERE???

2) Noddy? Noddy?? A garden gnome with a pimp-mobile? Now there's some quality kids programming.

Mea Culpa

Last night I decided to sleep on the couch because I have, like, the Whooping Cough or something, and I didn't want to disturb hubby's sleep. Plus, I could sleep semi-upright more comfortably. But really, I just wanted to watch TV all night long. So I got myself all set up. I got a glass of water and a bag of cough drops in case of middle of the night coughing fits. I got the TV tuned to TLC and I got all snuggled up under some blankets. I watched about three minutes of TV before I fell asleep.

Around 2 a.m. or so, I woke up to some horrendous infomercials. My first instict, rather than to turn off the TV altogether, was, "Oh, I'd better change the channel to something less annoying." So, I reached for the cable remote, which I thought I had placed right next to my pillow, but I couldn't find it. I figured it fell on the floor, but I didn't see it there either. I looked on Eric's little chair. Not there. I felt along the other side of the couch. Not there either. Hmmm. Oh well, I thought, I'll find it in the morning.

Fast forward to about 6:30 a.m. I wake with a terrible coughing fit. I reach for my glass of water and what do I find swimming in it? The remote control. Nice. I did my best to dry it out, but it doesn't appear to be working anymore. I didn't really think it would work, but I was holding out hope. I thought maybe the water would wash away that gooey stuff that got spilled in it last time, causing the numbers to stick. No such luck. Guess I'll have to go get a new one.

RIP, little guy.

The Contest

There seems to be this unspoken contest between Chris and I. It entails who can use up the last of the toothpaste, thus leaving the other to go to the linen closet and get a new tube. I so totally thought I had him when I used a steamroller yesterday to get what I thought was the last of the toothpaste out of the tube. Apparently I was wrong, and there was still enough left for just one more use. Dammit. So, Chris wins this time. But if I were him? I'd sleep with one eye open. I'm just sayin'.

Virtuoso in training?

My little midget and his little midget guitar... Notice the finger position and the pick. He actually strums too. This picture caught him between up and down strokes.

Or perhaps he will play the upright bass?

If he grows up to hate us, it might be warranted.

Eric has one of those winter coats that has a detachable hood. Because the hood is so bulky and makes it difficult to buckle him into the car seat properly, I have removed the hood from the coat in favor of a hat. The hood is still laying around the house though. Eric found it the other day and became intrigued with it.

Now, keep in mind that this boy is obsessed with head coverings. When we go to Target, we have usual rounds that we have to make. The mere act of walking in the door causes Eric to shout, "BasketballFootballBike!" So, at some point during the trip, we must look at the balls and bikes. Of course we can't go near the bikes without seeing the bike helmets. And we can't see the bike helmets without needing to try them on. Also, we can't go in the football aisle without also seeing all the baseball stuff. And, if we see the baseball stuff, it would be a shame not to try on the pink batting helmet (I'm serious--they have pink ones and blue ones, and he MUST try on the pink one). So, this kid understands the concept of helmets. He knows that you need a helmet for football, baseball and riding bikes and motorcycles.

Here's the part that might cause him to hate us at some point. When he found his hood the other day, he showed it to me and I said, "Eric, you found your helmet!" And he really took it to heart.

What do you mean you don't need a helmet for soccer?

Stupid is as stupid does.

Eric hasn't been acting totally normal lately. He's been more grumpy than usual. He gets frustrated easier. He throws tantrums more regularly. Last week, he had a fever for a couple of days, plus he was repeatedly sticking his fingers in his ears, coughing and not sleeping well. So...I took him to the doctor only to be told that absolutely nothing was wrong with him. OK. Some of that behavioral stuff could be developmental, I understand that. And, now he has a cold (his twelveteenth this winter...ugh), so maybe that's part of it too, even though it's not that bad of a cold (I have it too). But, for the past couple of days, he's had a new symptom. Excessive drooling. So, on top of the cold, I think maybe he's also teething.

When he was littler, it was pretty easy to tell if he was teething. I could look in his mouth fairly easily. Now is a different story. He already has a lot of teeth, and is very protective of them. Sometimes I can tip him upside down and get a good look in his mouth as he screams in delight (or terror, as the case may be). So, I've tried that, but I still can't really tell if he's cutting teeth. But the drooling...man, he'd better be cutting teeth or I don't know what I'm going to do with him. Plus, he's been chewing on his hands lately too, which is also something that he doesn't normally do. Must be teeth, right?

So, today, I get the bright idea that maybe it's his second set of molars coming in, and maybe I should feel around back there. So I warn him, "Eric, Mommy's going to feel your gums to see if you have teeth coming in. Please don't bite me." And what does he do? He bites me. HARD. Like, I could've picked up all 27 pounds of him with one finger because he was so well attached to it. Except I was too busy screaming to try that potentially nifty trick. "OW! Eric stop biting! OW OW OW! Let go of my finger! ERIC STOP IT NOW !!!!!" After which, he let go and then proceeded to sob like it was I who bit him.

So he (I think) has a molar coming in, and I have a couple of bruises on my index finger, the general size and shape of baby teeth. The moral of this story is to never stick your finger into the mouth of a toddler, even if you preface the act with, "Please don't bite me." The temptation is just too great. And, because I'm clairvoyant, I know what you're thinking: "No shit, genious."

Coolest Thing Ever?

Check out this website:

http://www.pandora.com/

You tell it a song or band that you like, and it finds music with similar properties that you should also like. It even goes so far as to describe what makes the song it picked similar to the song you picked. Pretty neat.

As it turns out...

Apparently my list only contains 99 things about me. Oops. So, as not to leave you waiting any longer than necessary:

100. Sometimes I feel I am above proofreading.

100 Things about me...in no particular order

81. When I was in High School, I was a member of the German Club, despite the fact that I have never in my life studied the German language.

5. I plan to learn to play the piano someday.

26. I also plan to learn to tap dance someday.

31. I hate anything peach or mango flavored. Peach scented doesn't bother me, though.

12. I was an intern at a radio station after I graduated from college. On my first day, Jewel came into the studio and I got her autograph. On my third day, John Meyer came in and nobody gave a damn.

30. I studied Improv at Second City.

34. I took figure skating lessons from the age of 3 to the age of 11. To this day, I still have massive quadriceps and calf muscles, which I attribute to my skating years.

41. I do not see any connection between figure skating and downhill skiing, despite the insistence that if I can skate, I can ski.

68. I prefer Coke to Pepsi, but Pepsi's relatives (Mt. Dew, Wild Cherry Pepsi) to Coke's relatives.

52. I would like to run a marathon someday, but I'm DEATHLY afraid of any sort of repercussions that my toenails could suffer. I might have to cut back to a half-marathon for that reason alone.

51. My toes line up like perfect soldiers.

58. My toilet is running and I just went to catch it.

4. The pants I'm wearing right now cost me $1.97 at Old Navy.

40. I'm more bad with money than I am good. But, I'm working very hard on getting better.

10. I desperately long for a magenta Razr phone.

59. There was a time, a few years back, when I could always be found wearing something red. My friends lovingly referred to me as the Devil.

77. Sometimes (more often than I care to admit) I mistype my married name as "Saeton."

13. Pink. It's my new red.

92. I miss my maiden name.

54. My family calls me "Krist."

56. I am wholely addicted to shopping at Target.

24. One of Eric's first words was "Target."

46. I like to play golf. I took to it very naturally and believe I could play very well if I practiced more often.

82. I majored in General Engineering for 3 semesters at the University of Illinois. My sole purpose in choosing General Engineering as a major was that it had the highest admission standards of any major in the entire university.

7. I subsequently changed my major to Spanish, but planned to transfer into the College of Business once I had taken the classes required for that transfer. One of those required classes was a Speech Communication class. It piqued my interested so much that I became a SpCom major instead.

61. Sometimes I wish I had majored in Theatre.

91. I met my husband at work. The first time we met, we were working at the Field Museum and I was lost.

17. I do not get lost often; I have a keen sense of direction.

1. I'm pretty sure that I think I am funnier than other people think I am.

70. In college I was the local committee president of an organization called AIESEC, which facilitates work abroad.

94. I have never worked abroad myself.

84. I have barely even travelled outside of the US.

72. I wish that weren't the case, and I plan to change that when I have the time/money.

20. I can't shake the feeling that at some point in my life I will have a job that involves some type of stage performance.

15. I enjoy karaoke. (This is not the kind of "performing" I necessarily have in mind, though.)

83. I have been learning to play the guitar for a little over 5 years now, and I'm still not that great.

47. I have two acoustic guitars. One is a Takamine G230 named Romeo. This was my first guitar. The other is a black Ibanez acoustic-electric guitar that I haven't named. It's beautiful, but really hard to play. Also, Chris has 5 electric guitars, Eric has a mini-guitar, we all have a collective acoustic guitar that my dad gave us and we have a banjo that has barely been touched. I think we're covered as far as strings go.

43. I have one brother, and we don't really get along that well, but it's getting a little better as we get older.

22. I keep trying to be less addicted to drinking pop and I keep failing.

16. I love David Sedaris. My favorite book of his is Me Talk Pretty One Day.

93. My early childhood nickname was "Spud the Amazing Potato Baby."

71. I prefer Letterman to Leno.

69. The only time I ever asked a guy out was in HS. This guy lived really far away and I asked him to Homecoming. He said no. I vowed never to ask another guy out for as long as I live. So far I haven't.

97. A year later, that guy sent me a letter saying how stupid he had been to turn me down, and how much he regretted his decision. I wrote back saying he should come visit...and meet my boyfriend.

6. I never dated until I went to college because, presumably, boys find me scary.

76. I sleep with a stuffed Garfield that is close to twenty years old.

50. Chris usually goes to bed before me. Sometimes I find him cuddled up with my cat. I then proceed to yank the cat away in some fashion that will surely disrupt his precious slumber. That's what he gets for messing with the G'field.

80. Despite the fact that I was born at the ass-end of 1979, I still think people who were born in 1980 or later are SO MUCH younger than me.

87. I make a mean chicken parmesan.

38. I don't really cook that often, but it's not because I'm a bad cook.

32. I hate washing dishes.

39. I don't mind vacuuming, but currently my baby is deathly afraid of the vacuum cleaner.

64. My current pop addiction is A&W Sparkling Vanilla Cream Soda.

74. I'm growing my hair out right now so that I can donate 10" to Locks of Love.

19. I CAN'T WAIT to cut my hair short!!!!

67. I like the smell of freshly cut grass.

29. I like living where I live, but I still miss living in Lincoln Park.

8. I have a few superstitions.

88. I've never gone to a psychic, but I think it would be fun.

33. I love my Senseo coffee maker. The thing that I perhaps love best about it is that I got it free through their "Drop the Drip" promotion.

75. I love thin crust pizza.

78. I love Diesel shoes.

11. I used a random number generator to make this list.

45. I secretly hope it kind of annoys you that the numbers are out of order.

96. I don't watch much TV.

25. I do watch Grey's Anatomy and am in love with Dr. McDreamy.

27. George is probably more my type, though.

42. I can't believe I haven't come up with 100 things yet. This is much harder than it looks.

63. I have one son. He's 21 months old. I currently have absolutely no desire to have more children or ever be pregnant again.

48. Labor was WORLDS more painful than delivery.

55. I had an epidural, which was neither scary nor painful. It was simply heavenly. I give epidurals a glowing recommendation.

60. I can't stand the texture of almost all types of fruit.

9. I enjoy the flavor of most fruit juices.

21. I have glasses with non-prescription lenses (i.e., non-tinted sunglasses) that I wear sometimes because I wish I wore real glasses.

57. I think the right glasses can make a person infinitely more sexy.

18. People have explained to me that poor vision is not a cause for celebration, and I fully understand that.

98. I hate the winter, or any type of weather that calls for the use of a coat.

99. I would not consider moving out of Chicago based on weather alone.

90. Was the speed at which I was clocked when I got my one and only speeding ticket. I don't usually drive 90, or anywhere near that fast, but I was passing a car whose liberal interpretation of lane usage was making me very nervous.

79. Was a good year.

37. I will never, ever, ever live in Florida.

23. I would rather not even visit Florida, but I have too many relatives that live there.

14. I would like to lose 30 pounds (to be back at pre-Eric weight).

2. Is the number of piercings I have. One in the right ear and one in the left.

95. I don't plan to ever be tattooed.

44. Chris and I tend to name our possessions. His car is Eddie and my car is Sancho. My guitar is Romeo. His guitars have names too, but they aren't coming to me right now. Heck...even our guitar tuner has a name--Charlie. Charlie Tuner. Get it?

73. I'm the queen of bad puns.

35. Doctors terrify me. Except the sweetie pie with the 2' long epidural needle.

53. I don't own any diamonds.

65. I should like to own one some day. Maybe something like this, or better yet, this.

62. I really like mother of pearl and abalone.

3. I have a permanent retainer behind my bottom teeth.

49. One of my thumbs seems to be double jointed.

85. I have never broken a bone.

66. One of Eric's favorite phrases is "COME ON!" Want to know why? This, apparently, is what I say to other drivers who decide to drive to slowly in front of me.

28. I'm a TOTAL geek.

89. I have dated one confirmed and two highly suspected gay guys. (Apparently I'm not as scary to the gay guys.)

86. In college I worked at Target for two days (training days) and then quit by not showing up ever again. Oops.

36. Is a square number and is also divisible by 3, which makes me happy because I like The Math.

Heart attack on a plate.

So, I shamed Chris into going to the doctor today. He was not, in fact, having a heart attack. He either has a tear in his diaphragm (if he ends up pregnant, I'm going to be so pissed off), or stress-induced acid reflux. We celebrated the good news by having chili dogs for dinner.

Further Updates

Absolutely nothing is wrong with Eric. Well, except that he's 21 months and prone to irritating toddler behavior. And that he has a little bit of fluid behind his ear from a cold that he had--but the ear is not infected. The doctor that we saw today we've also seen on one other occasion, but he's not Eric's normal doctor. This guy takes a "the body will heal itself" approach to medicine. On one hand, I can appreciate that because I pretty much take that approach myself. On the other hand, if I reach the point where I feel the need to consult a doctor, I don't want that doctor to act like I'm overreacting to my baby's mysterious symptoms. He gave me a perscription in case anything gets worse, but basically said that Eric looks just fine.

In other news, Chris is experiencing chest pains, but won't see a doctor. He insists it's not a heart attack (even though he says it feels like one) because it's been going on for a few days now and has yet to kill him (clear proof). He thinks it's just anxiety attacks. Oh, is that all? You're right. No need to be seen--I mean, if it only feels like a heart attack... Good thing it's not and that you are fine.

I'm not the only one who thinks he's crazy. Apparently he told his boss that he might need to take off early tomorrow to go to the doctor, because of said chest pains. His boss said something like, "Uh, dude? Go today." I don't think it was an act of compassion. I think it was an act of "you're no good to us dead." But still. Go to the Doctor. You're no good to me dead, either.

No Fun. Just the Facts.

I'm working on a really long, informative, scintillating post. I don't know when I'll be able to finish it though. In order to appease the masses [ha!], this is just a status update post so you can't go all, "when are you going to write something?" on me.

Something is wrong with Eric. I'm thinking it's probably an ear infection. I don't know... I'm taking him to the doctor at 10:45. You wouldn't believe what [who] I had to do in order to get a doctor to agree to stick a fucking otoscope in Eric's ear. I know--that's tough stuff. I might even take up six minutes of the doctor's time. Plus, as an added bonus, I get to pay $20 for that. If I got paid no less than $20 every six minutes, I'd stick an otoscope wherever the hell you wanted me to stick it. Well, maybe not anywhere.

On a different note, Chris bought me the first season of Grey's Anatomy for Valentine's Day, furthering my love for both him and Patrick Dempsey. What more could a girl ask for? I think I'll keep him.

Wherein I give credit where credit is due

Dear Anonymous Commenters (aka "Peanut Gallery"):

A quarterly review shows that my readership is up no less than 3%. I can only attribute this to you, the Peanut Gallery, based your comments which are nothing short of mindnumbingly hilarious. If you can keep up the good work for the rest of the fiscal year, you might just find a little something special in your stockings this Christmas (think: Fecalgram™ )!

Toodles,

Kristi

P.S. I should like to label my three main anonymous commenters as follows: one shall simply be known as "AC," which is short for "Anonymous Commenter"...or is it? Another shall be called "AC Slater," based on his status as the Mario Lopez Fan Club President. The third, who generally identifies himself anyway, I shall call "The Phantom of the Fopera," because he's here, inside my mind. Or something like that.

P.P.S. Thanks to everyone who actually reads my blog, anonymous commenters and otherwise, I do so appreciate it.

Those adorable French...

Did you know that in French, there is no word for "seventy," per se? Instead they say "soixante-dix," (soixante rhymes with croissant, which I'm not even going to get into, and dix is pronounced like a vampire might say "this") which literally means sixty-ten. Seventy-one is actually sixty-eleven, and so on. OK, so here's the part I love most about French. After sixty-ten comes four-twenties, and after four-twenties comes four-twenties-ten. Perhaps my favorite French number is quatre-vingt-dix-neuf (pronounced cot[insert guttural hacking up a hairball noise here]-ven-dees-noof), or 99. The literal translation would be "four-twenty-ten-nine." Love it. Although, I must admit that I'm a bit perplexed by the fact that a people who can't even be bothered to pronounce half the letters in their words would exercise such verbosity when counting. I'm just saying.

Sometimes I like to purposely mispronounce French words and misuse them. Like I might sing the following song:

SOIX-aaaaaante. You don't have to put on the red light.

SOIX-aaaaaante. You don't have to wear that dress tonight.

Soixante/Put on the red light...Soixante/Put on the red light

But that's just me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Notice: Neither Sting nor the Police were notified of the butchering of their song, so just zipit. Capeesh?

A Story For Desmond

OK, so I have this friend Desmond** who's maybe a little bit weird. Maybe. A little bit. But, for the most part, it's an endearing sort of weird--the type of weird that might cause people to refer to him as "eccentric," or "a real character." It likely explains how he's been able to put up with me over the years...'cause, you know, I'm crazy like a fox.

Anyhoo. Desmond told me a random bit of information about himself once, a long time ago, and for some reason, I've always remembered it. He told me that when he was a child, he would eat a hotdog in such a way that it would annoy his mother. Instead of eating it like a normal person might eat a hotdog, from one end to the other, he would eat it like a sandwich. He would take bites from the middle, compromising the structural integrity of the faux meat. And I remember thinking, as he told me this, "Wow. Desmond was even weird as a kid."

So, I made a hotdog for Eric for lunch today. (Shut up. He does not always eat hotdogs. Besides, it was organic and I grew it myself in my geodesic dome.) Apparently my kid's on the road to being a weirdo too, because take a look at this:

This is the Desmond. I think he just did a shot of something that was supposed to taste like some portion of Aunt Sally's Christmas Dinner. Sometimes I like to tell people that he is my Latin Lover, even though it's an out and out lie. But that's OK, because every girl ought to have a Latin Lover, no? Anyway, I'm posting his picture without any sort of permission whatsoever. Take that, D.

** NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE PARANOID.

I need an exercism.

That's right, an exercism. Not an exorcism--far as I know, I'm not possessed (much). An exercism, ladies and gents, involves some sort of brainwashing/hypnotizing which causes me to believe that eating healthy foods and exercising are worthwhile activities, and further provides me with the motivation to engage in such activities. Does anyone know where I could get such a thing?

Singing Babies and Fluffy Kittens

Eric is just starting to sing, and I must admit, it's just a little too adorable for words. He only sings a few songs so far, but it's already an eclectic group, from Mozart (*ahem*) to classic children's music to Thin Lizzy to Slayer. Or was it the Beach Boys? I never can tell them apart. ;)

The best part about this is the way Eric "sings" these songs. First of all, he only sings the words he likes. Secondly, it comes off sounding more like he's demanding that a particular song be sung to him, rather than that he's singing...but, I think this is just a precursor to really figuring out how to sing. Anyway, here are some of Eric's favorite songs:

"Twinkle twinkle star!"

"Rowrow boat?"

"I'ma justa COWBOY."

"Bababa ran!"

Oh, and for those of you who are wondering where the fluffy kittens come in, they don't really. They're just cute, that's all. Like singing babies are cute. Oh fine. Here you go.