On this, your second natal anniversary

Dear Eric,

I can't believe you're turning two! Part of me can barely remember what you were like as a newborn, and part of me feels like you were just born yesterday.

Shortly before you were born, your father started working in Hell. He worked directly under Satan himself. I remember him coming home from work one day and saying he had good news. He told me that the big man said it was OK for him to take time off for your birth. Satan apparently added, "Just make sure he's not born on Mother's Day! Ha ha ha!" (because Mother's Day is the busiest day of the year for restaurants--er, Hell). Anyway, I knew right then and there--sometime in March, probably--that you would be born on Mother's Day.

Saturday May 8th rolled around and you didn't disappoint. I had mild contractions all day long and I was certain that you would make your big debut the next day. That night, as we got all of our things together for the hospital, I told your dad that I'd read about how women who give birth on Mother's day usually get extra pampering and steak dinners and the likes, and wouldn't that be cool. We went to bed thinking that it was the last night of our old life.

Around 3 am, I awoke feeling sick to my stomach. But then, thank god, it went away....only to return a few minutes later and, oh wait, maybe these are REAL contractions. You know, unlike those fake ones I was having the day before. So, let's cut to the chase. After a couple hours of those "real" contractions, we headed to the hospital. And got sent home. Because I didn't know from real contractions.

They told me to go home and rest and eat something--that it could be days before you came. Apparently, these nurses had never been in labor before, or else they would have never suggested to a woman who was in the throes of labor to "rest and eat something." After several more agonizing hours of contractions, a trip back to the hospital (at which point they still wouldn't admit me, but instead wanted me to walk laps) and what felt like a hundred laps around the hospital floor, shuffling like an old man and stopping to have mind numbing contractions and occasionally throw up, they finally admitted me and gave me an epidural.

Now, let's revisit for a moment the part where I mentioned me getting pampered because I had you on Mother's day. That was so wonderful! Well, I can imagine it would have been wonderful. You know, if you'd decided to be born at a reasonable hour. I can remember my mom coming into my room around 10 p.m. and asking the nurse how long she predicted it would be before I gave birth. The nurse told her probably 4 more hours or so. As the nurse was saying that, she gave me an aspirin to take (not sure what the aspirin was supposed to do....like, I'm sorry you've been run over by a Mack Truck, but here, take these two tylenol). As soon as I swallowed the aspirin, I immediately threw up. Then I started shaking uncontrollably, which is apparently The Sign that birth is imminent. You were born at 11:06 p.m.

At first, I wasn't sure how I felt about you.

But, in my defense, you had no eyebrows, dark sideburns, and they made you wear a garden gnome hat. And I was wearing a mu-mu.

I'm not so sure you were very keen on me, either.

Of course I'm only joking. I loved you before I ever laid eyes on you.

Truth be told, at first you were a little boring. It's nothing personal, all babies go through it. It has something to do with the lack of motor skills and all-liquid diet. But we still had lots of fun with you.

And you got bigger and bigger. And more and more entertaining.

Lord knows the past two years haven't always been sunshine and roses. I've certainly seen this face a time or two.

But, I will say this--there hasn't been a dull moment. Being a parent is more everything than I ever possibly imagined it could be: more fun, more rewarding, more exciting, but also more tiring, more tedious, more frustrating.

Every day you amaze me. I never imagined that a less-than-two year old would know every sport known to man and be able to look at a picture of an athlete and know what sport they play by the look of their jersey. I thought I had at least another year or so before you could trump me in a popular vote to switch TLC to ESPN.

I never knew that I would want to learn what every piece of construction equipment is called so that I could save you from the embarrassment of calling everything "truck" or "Bob the Builder."

I never knew that I would actually be willing to eat a piece of food that another person had previously chewed or sucked on and then rejected. But now I know that when there is no garbage can nearby, and no other obvious way to dispose of something, and your choices are eat previously chewed food or hold previously chewed food, it turns out that eating previously chewed food is not so bad after all.

I also forgot that I could love somebody so completely and so unconditionally. Thank you for reminding me. Happy second birthday, baby boy.

Love,

Mommy

Big News.

No, I'm not pregnant. Are you people crazy?!? Anyway. Yesterday I accepted an offer to trade in my part-time evening job for a full-time day job.

I was actually offered the position a while back and had about a month to decide. And I spent the entire month agonizing and waffling. Obviously, I ultimately decided to take the job. But I haven't really told anybody yet (except you, Internets). Only my husband and my mom knew up until now. I think it's because I still feel nervous about it. I have moments where I'm happy and excited and other moments where I turn into an absolute mess thinking that I'm forsaking my baby. (*sniff)

I think in the end everybody will be ok, though. This will actually be my first time being a salaried full-time employee with benefits. That's kind of exciting. And it will be nice to up the cash flow a little bit. Two words: Shopping. Spree. I can't wait. SHOES! HERE I COME! Anyway, um, that's a ways off...

So, yeah, I'll be starting full time in June--on the 12th I believe. Wish me luck or something...

And, also, now that I'm done brooding and being contemplative, it's back to my regularly scheduled blogging. I'm sure that's a weight off everybody's mind. ;)

Buy some dirt. Plant a seed. Grow a brain.

Do you ever just feel like telling that to someone? I do. Nobody that I know personally, mind you, just dumb people at large.

Part One Point Five

OK, this story really has nothing to do with our move out of Lincoln Park, but it is sort of distantly related because it has to do with our old apartment. As lawyers might say, it is herein incorporated by reference. Or something like that. Anyway, I was just going through the desk drawer and found an old picture of me. It was taken when I was pregnant, and I was standing in the bathroom of our old apartment (everytime I write that, I think of the Barenaked Ladies song, of which I believe Dr. Vortex is quite fond). I looked at the picture and I noticed the ledge of hula people, which reminded me of an amusing story.

Let me start by explaining that our old apartment building had kick-ass, industrial-strength toilets. There was no tank, it was just connected directly to the pipes, like public restroom toilets. It had a monster flush, and my husband was convinced that it was ok to put absolutely anything in the toilet (he has carried that perception to our current house with a normal toilet). Seriously, any type of garbage that could possibly be created in the bathroom was certainly flushable, in his mind. Q-Tips, bandaids, disposable razors, etc. I wouldn't be surprised if, when I wasn't looking, he used that toilet as a garbage disposal. OK, I think you get the picture.

Explanation 2: We had a hula-themed bathroom. Hula boys, hula girls, hula dogs, hula Gumby, hula Homer Simpson. We had all the hulas. And they sat on the window sill, which was right next to the toilet.

Explanation 3: I was at my parents' house for the weekend. Need I say more? But, ok, I will anyway. Eric was about 3 months old. Chris was working all weekend, so I went out to see my parents. Chris got home and decided to open the windows in the apartment to cool the place down. Including the bathroom window. Oh, and hey, guess what. Since he's a guy, you gotta know that the toilet seat was up. (Just kidding...actually, I have to give him credit--he's always very good about the toilet seat. but it was up in this case). So, hulas in bathroom window + open window + toilet seat up + strong breeze + flush-o-matic toilet - wife to point out flawed thinking = big trouble.

When I got home, Chris told me there had been a terrible tragedy, and that Hula Bob had committed suicide. (We didn't really name all of our hula people, but we had this fat, middle-aged hula couple that we called Hula Bob and Hula Betty.) Anyway, Hula Bob bit it while I was gone. Chris explained that he fell right into the toilet. He tells me, "It broke into a bunch of pieces, I pulled out the big pieces and I flushed the smaller pieces." So, I happen to notice that in the garbage can is Hula Bob, all fat and happy, just missing his base. And I think, "Oh no. Please tell me that you didn't try to flush the base of a hula person down the toilet. A big, round, thick disk of a base. Please tell me you didn't flush it." Chris assures me that it's fine, and that the toilet has been working perfectly.

Well, magically, when I went to use the toilet, I must have broken it! We tried to plunge and stuff for a couple of days, but it just wasn't working well. I called the maintenance man out to our apartment and decided to play dumb. First, before he came over, I hid all of the hula people in my closet. At the back. Under 16 pounds of clothes. Then I told him that I was out of town, and I came back to the toilet not working (totally true). He used his industrial strength plunger, and thought he had it fixed, but no. So he went and got a snake. He can feel something in there, he tells me. He then went and to get a wet-dry vac. He tried it out and thought he had solved the problem. At that point, it was really loud in the apartment, so I left with Eric and told the maintenance man to lock the door on the way out.

I came back later and there was a note. The toilet's still broken. A little while later, the maintenance man came back and knocked on the door. He tried to explain to me, in broken English, that it seemed that there was something in the toilet drain. He claimed that it must be something disk-like which was acting like a stopper, and that it's still letting some water through, but he can't get it out. He explained that he would have to come back the next day and take the toilet out. Except, he also explained that when they remodeled the bathroom, they laid the new floor on top of the old floor with a layer of concrete. And that, in order to remove the toilet from the layer of concrete, he would probably need to take a sledge hammer to it. And he would probably be back the next day, but he just needed to make sure that he has another toilet on hand for when he demolishes the current one.

So, once again, he came back the next day, and once again, Eric and I left. I wasn't going to stick around for the demolition of the toilet. I made sure that we stayed gone a good long time. And when I came home, hours later, the apartment was quiet. I feared what I might find in the bathroom. I glanced in and saw the toilet, in tact, with the seat down and the base of one Hula Bob sitting on top of it.

A little while later, there was a knock on the door. It was the maintenance man. "I feex da toilet. Ees not good to flush da tings down de toilet. Dees time, we feex it for free. Next time, we probably gonna have to make you pay."

I seems, though, that the Polish handyman's threat to make Chris pay is not enough to stop him from attempting to flush inappropriate things. So, in other words, stay tuned for future toilet stories.

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...

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.

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!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!]

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.]

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...