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.

Well, I can't say I wasn't duly warned.

When I was little, my grandma used to always tell me, "If you sing at the table, you'll marry a crazy husband." Now, let it be noted that she would tell me this while I was singing, so I guess there was never really any hope for me. Plus, hello? have you met me? Was there every really a chance that I might marry someone normal?

So, Chris? He's a little bit looney. You might not guess it upon initially meeting him, but he's definitely got a whole bag crazy just waiting to be unloaded. Anybody who met his alter ego, "Uncle Raul," last summer knows what I'm talking about. And anybody who didn't have the pleasure of meeting Uncle Raul, I wouldn't even know where to begin explaining that one. And that's all I have to say about that.

Because we're both mostly nuts, we like to come up with off-the-wall theories and think of all the reasons that they seem to be true. One of my favorite theories (and I think I have to give Chris credit for this one) is the theory of different famous people that we believe are actually one in the same. I'm not going to tell you all of them, because I know you. You're going to go around telling people like it's your own damn theory, and that's just not right. But, I will tell you two of my favorites.

1. Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow. Two names, one bad haircut:

Now, come on. Tell me that's not the same man. And. AND. Have you ever seen them together? Think about it. Plus, I like the way they always remember to flip the negatives between Rod and Barry, so that it looks like his part goes a different way. That's an especially nice touch.

2. (We just came up with this one this weekend)
The Beach Boys and Slayer.

Now this, although it may come as a shock to you, is not based on the uncanny physical resemblance. This is based on the fact that Chris was learning to play the intro to some Slayer song (can you tell I'm a big fan?) on the guitar and realized that it sounded a lot like the music for California Girls. Plus, once again, have you ever seen them together? Have you? That's because they're the same damn band!

So, there you have it. Stay tuned for further insanities.

Further Joys of Motherhood

Mmmm, corn!

Here's one of the running lists that Eric has inspired me to keep:

THINGS THAT PASS THROUGH THE HUMAN DIGESTIVE SYSTEM INTACT

-Corn*

-Roasted Red Peppers

-The occasional Cheerio

-Spinach

I'm certain there are more that I can't remember right now or have yet to discover.

*This should not be surprising to the corn lovers among us.

Can you dig it?

So, today I was just driving along minding my own business, ladies and gentlemen, MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS. I pull up at this stop light, and the guy behind me decides that he doesn't need to stop until he's fucking sitting in my backseat. Or close enough. Too close for comfort--that's for sure. Anyway, one of the unfortunate side effects with Mr. Hippocket is that when I look in either my rearview mirror or my side mirror, all I can see is his bigfathead.

So, once again, while I'm sitting at this stoplight, MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS, I happen to look in my rearview mirror and notice that Mr. Bigfathead Hippocket is second-knuckle-deep in his own lovely nose. And I didn't want to look, but it was like a train wreck. The sheer horror of the situation kept drawing my attention back to it. I couldn't help but think, "Man, he's really cleaning that nostril out!!" After a couple seconds, I couldn't allow myself to look any longer. I flipped through a few songs on Mypod and tried my best to keep busy. "Don't look, don't look, don't look," I kept telling myself. And I really didn't want to look. But I couldn't help it.

After a minute or so, I decided it should be safe, and I did the cordial thing--check to make sure everything came out all right. And, if this was even possible, it looked like maybe he now had two fingers up the nostril this time. Now he was like a circus freak. I couldn't look away even if I wanted to. The light turned green and we both proceeded to enter the expressway.

As we both waited to pay our tolls, I happened to glance up again, thinking surely after three minutes he couldn't possibly have anything left to pick. Wrong. What did I see? The spin cylce, ladies and gentlemen--he was actually twisting his finger around in the nostril. Dear lord!

Now, it's worthy of mention that we were in a very high traffic area. It's not like we were on a one-lane road. There were cars on all sides of his car, but he apparently didn't care or thought he had one-way windows. And, on the tollway, right near the toll, there are really no lane markers. You can reach out and touch the cars on either side of you because they are so close. He might as well have been sitting in the lap of the passenger in the car next to him.

After about 5 minutes, I got through the toll and lost track of this guy. I bet he's still picking now. "What's the point of this story?" you're probably wondering, and rightfully so. The point is that I had to witness something truly disgusting and now I need to share it, so that rather than being a voyeur, I can be a victim.

Friends, I implore you, don't pick and drive. It's so unbecoming.

To thy Happy Children of the Future...

Me: Eric, can you say, "Go Illini!"

Eric: "Go ni-night?"

Me: Go Illini!

Eric (who thinks I'm trying to put him to bed in the middle of the morning): NOOOOOO!

TAGGED!

I was tagged by Natalie, Queen of Hilarity!

Four jobs that I have had: (in no particular order)

Legal Secretary
Radio Station Promotions Intern
Assistant Event Coordinator at a golf course
Waitress

Four movies that I can watch over and over again:

When Harry Met Sally
A Few Good Men
This is Spinal Tap
Grosse Pointe Blank

Four places I have lived:

Chicago, IL
Urbana, IL
St. Charles, IL
Elk Grove Village, IL
(Looks like I need to get the fuck out of IL!)

Four TV shows I love to watch:

What Not To Wear
Desperate Housewives
Grey's Anatomy
CSI (Las Vegas only)

Four websites I read daily (or I at least check on daily):

http://bbs.babycenter.com
http://www.dooce.com
http://www.crazyauntpurl.com
http://www.weather.com/weather/local/60631?lswe=60631&lwsa=WeatherLocalUndeclared (I MUST know the forecast!)

Four places I have been on vacation:

Dayton, OH. On vacation. Seriously.
Hilton Head, South Carolina
Cozumel, Mexico
Orlando, Florida

Four favorite foods:

Pizza
Mashed Potatoes
bruschetta
mushrooms

Four places I'd rather be:

somewhere Mediterranean
somewhere Caribbean
Hawaii
Starbucks (That's just for you, Dr. V.)

Four people to tag:

I don't know if any of these people will ever read my blog to see this, but I'll tag them anyway...

Heidi, who I know has spare time at work and enjoys the surveys. :)
Nora, because she usually obliges these types of requests.
Dr. Xavier Vortex Dvorak, MD.
and, um, somebody else.

thankyouandgoodnight. yes, it's 1:30 in the afternoon.

I'm just going to put this out there for you so y'all aren't shocked if it turns out to be true.

So, this weekend I developed this nasty hacking cough. I don't think I caught it from anybody, or am particularly contagious. It's just one of those things that tends to happen occasionally when you are a person who suffers from chronic-post-nasal-drip-for-no-apparent-reason (yes, that's the technical medical term for my particular affliction). I'm not going to get into the whose-its and what-nots of my malady, because, well, it's gross that I even mentioned it in the first place. But, I seem to have developed this side effect that's worthy of mention.

You see, I have this really sore spot in my abdomen. At first I thought I strained a muscle with all the hacking and whathaveyou. But now I think I've figured out what the problem really is. You see, this particular sore spot is directly beneath my ribcage on the left side of my body. I can point to the exact spot that hurts--it's about the size of a quarter. Yesterday that spot felt strained--today I'm actually experiencing a burning sensation. I think I remember reading somewhere that this is the exact location where the aliens implant their babies in human hosts.

That's right. I'm pretty sure I've been impregnated with an alien baby or babies. They probably burned a hole through my torso whilst I slept. Then they were able to cover the outside with a high-tech skin patch, but the inside still burns, you see? It's all making sense, right? It's a little Twilight Zone for my liking, but I guess that it's just my fate. Do you think it's ok to drink when you're hosting alien babies? Because I might need a drink over this one.

Well, who woulda thunk it?

I learned some really shocking information about myself the other night at work. It went down something like this:

Steve: Hey, do you want some of this fancy chicklet-like-gum I have that comes in this neato tin box [See Exhibit A]?

Me: Sure, I'll try some.

Steve: Say when. (Proceeds to dump about 12 pieces in my hand.)

Me: Too late. (I start putting pieces back in the neato tin box)

Steve: Yeah, if you could not lick the pieces before you put them back, that would be great. (I immediately start pretending to lick each piece. When I finish, Steve shuts the lid on his neato tin box). Hey--thanks for that DNA sample. The results should be available shortly.

...a couple minutes pass...

Steve: (pops his head out of his office) Hey, Kristi? Your DNA results are back. It turns out you have Downs Syndrome. I'm sorry to be the one who has to break it to you...

Me: Are you making fun of my disability? Because I'm protected under the law.

Exhibit A: Neato Tin Box

P.S. Steve didn't actually say "See Exhibit A," although such declarations are to be expected from his ilk.

A recipe...for disaster

Keeping with the Starbucks theme, I would like to point out that all Starbucks drinks have recipes. You know--two shots of espresso, 4 ounces of steamed milk, 2 shots of vanilla...that sort of thing. So why is it that Starbucks beverages can taste wildly different from one barista to the next? I mean, I can understand some variance--they're human after all. But when I get a sickeningly sweet caramel macchiato from one barista and a bitter-to-the-last-drop caramel macchiato from the next, it makes me think that Starbucks isn't really doing a great job of teaching their employees the recipes.

Today's experience falls under the category of you-know-your-drink-is-going-to-suck-when... I nearly always order a caramel macchiato when I go to starbucks. That's my drink. Sometimes I change it up, but not usually. I ordered the old car-mac today and was presented with this question: would you like whipped cream on that? Um, no. Whipped cream is very much not in the recipe. Thanks for playing. A properly made caramel macchiato should have a nice-sized dollop of foam on top. Why would I then want to top my foam with whipped cream?

As it turned out, the drink was OK. Not the best I've ever had, but certainly not the worst. The award for worst drink ever goes to the girl who forgot to put the espresso in my cup. It's going to take something really special to top that one.

Dear Fellow Starbucks Patron:

When I walk into Starbucks with my well-behaved toddler in tow, please kindly refrain from looking at me like I just took a shit in your venti non-fat half-caf latte with a shot of vanilla. It's not the end of the world. You will survive the unpleasant experience of having to be in the same room as someone under the age of two, I promise. What's that? His talking is bothering you, even though you can't even hear it because you're wearing headphones and pretending to read The World's Most Important Book while giving me dirty looks? Get over yourself. A.) He's not talking any louder than the chick on her cell phone two tables over and B.) He's WAY more entertaining than her. Seriously. Oh, and here's a little news flash for you: Starbucks is not a library. People are allowed to talk. Maybe I should repeat that, because a lot of people don't seem to understand it: STARBUCKS IS NOT A LIBRARY. So, kindly keep your dirty looks to yourself. Thank you . Buh-bye.

Kristi

Karaoke, or, 12 minutes* of my life I'll never get back.

I'm hopefully going to karaoke tonight after work, and I don't care what anyone says, I enjoy it. I like to think I'm a pretty decent singer. I could use to work on my stage presence a little bit, though. I think I have decent stage presence when I do the Improv, but karaoke is another story. I have a difficult time accepting the fact that there are actually people out there listening to me sing, allbymyself, and I tend to concentrate on not messing up the lyrics or the tune. I think I'm a more entertaining performer when I sing a duet.

That being said, I plan to work on my Karaoke Entertainment Value (KEV). I feel like my KEV should be high, but I know it's not. I do get the occasional crazy, middle-aged, unemployed guy telling me how great I am, but that really just creeps me out.

Not too long ago, I went to karaoke night at a bar I don't usually visit. One guy who sang was just an amazing performer. He was absolutely hysterical, and very engaging. It turned out that he was the lead singer of a band (which, come on, that's kind of unfair, but whatever). I visited the band's website later, and it mentioned that their singer learned his audience pleasing techniques at the Second City Training Center. Then it made me all mad, because I trained at Second City as well, but the only audience pleasing techniques I got only work on crazy, middle-aged, unemployed guys. To be fair, I think this guy might have been an entertainer to begin with--a class clown type. Either way, I need to work on my technique. It will definitely help me attain my goal of becoming a Rock Star.

* Equals approximately 3 karaoke songs, which I hope to be able to sing tonight

When I go to jail for committing internet coupon fraud, please send care packages.

Hey! Want to know something really cool? Well, to bad, I'm telling you anyway. I currently have 798 Free Digital Prints available to me from http://www.shutterfly.com! 798! I can't even imagine possibly using that many free prints before they expire (most within the month of January, but some are good until March). How did I come about 798 free prints, you ask? Well, it's sort of funny, really.

I lied, cheated and stole.

That's right. I said it. The good news is that Shutterfly apparently has no rules against lying, cheating and stealing--I even read the fine print. The even better news is that I know several fantastic attorneys (hi Mom). So, when my mother disowns me for lying, cheating and stealing, I have some back ups (Hi Tina, Steve, rest of HLERK). If they too decide not to get wrapped up in my sordid affairs, I know a handful of promising law students (Hi Sue! Jill! Tomas! Todd!). The way I see it, I'm in the free and clear, but. But. Should something happen to me, please think fondly of me while I'm in the slammer. And welcome me back to your world with grace and acceptance like you did Martha Stewart.

You see, here's how it happened. Shutterfly has a myriad of codes floating around the internet for free this or that. Through my League of Information Sharing Mothers (LISM), I happened to come about, oh, 20 or so different codes for free prints. 30 free prints with this code, 10 for that code, 50 for yet another code, etc. Not only that, but Shutterfly also gives 15 free prints to new members, plus 15 free prints to old members who refer new members.

SO...it's not like I need nearly 800 free prints, but I developed this sickness, which was directly related to their lack of rules regarding internet ethics. I referred people I knew. Two of them to be exact. My husband (whose account is entirely maintained by me), and, ahem, myself, by using a secondary email account I have. So, I should mention that I have another 30 pending free prints, which will be released to me once my referrals make their first purchases.

So, there you have it folks. Unethical as all getout? Sure, but come on, they were totally asking for it!!!

"This DVD has Kid-Friendly Instant Play!"

Where by "instant play" they mean, "right after the FBI warning, production company advertisement and 3-minute commercial which will cause your child to lose any and all interest in this particular DVD." Gotta love it.

P.S. As an update to my last post, I'm still alive and HAVE NOT been to the ER. Yay!

Rule of Threes?

Do you believe that things happen in threes? Births, deaths, bad things, good things, etc.? Well, if you do, stop that nonsense right now. I mean it. It's for my safety. Here's the deal. In the past two weeks (week and a half, really), I have been to the ER twice. First it was with the baby (he's fine now), and today it was with my husband, who has a kidney stone, but will be fine. So, I do a little math and think, huh, with the rule of threes, we should have one more visit to the ER soon. Family of three...two of whom have already made their visits...let's see, I think that means...I'M DOOMED. Now, I'll happily go on record as saying that it's shocking that I've never in my life been to the ER for myself. However, I'll also go on record as saying I'D LIKE TO KEEP IT THAT WAY.

Now, here's a concern I have about the ER that is practically in our back yard (well, we can see it from our backyard, at least): the security guards who serve as the first person you see when you walk in have no sense of urgency whatsoever. I mean, I was really alarmed by their lackadaisical attitude on both of my visits (two different guards). The guard today couldn't even multitask. I really think that's essential for even the lowest man on the ER totem pole.

Here's another concern I have about the ER that is practically in our back yard: utter lack of hot doctors. Well, let me take that back. Both doctors that I've met now were pretty hot...females. There was no Dr. McDreamy to speak of, so I really don't want to have to go. Please keep me in your thoughts. I thank you.

Because if I take away the pacifier, someone might accidentally serve him ALCOHOL.

Where, oh where has my baby gone? Because that kid there is at least thirteen.

P.S. Nevermind the fact that we (I) make the poor kid wear a Cubs hat. And nevermind that that picture was taken in October, when the Sox were about to play in the World Series. HE JUST DOESN'T HAVE A SOX HAT. OK?

Parenting Tips?

In Target tonight, I decided to take a glimpse at my future and check out the selection of Elmo/Sesame Street DVDs (see previous post). I noticed that one of the DVDs had a little sticker on the outside that read, "Parenting tips inside." I had a little chuckle to myself as I imagined what the parenting tips could possibly be. In my mind, they went a little something like this:

1. Put Red Crack in the DVD player.
2. Quietly back out of the room.
3. Enjoy 53 minutes of free time.
4. Visit http://www.sesamestreet.org and donate your hard-earned cash. Remember, time is money, and we just gave you 53 minutes. Fork it over, fat man.

Red Crack

What is it about Elmo that toddlers absolutely cannot resist? I didn't even realize that Eric could pick Elmo out of a crowd, but just this morning, the Elmadness began.

Shortly after his normal wake-up routine of getting out of the crib and looking out the window to see what's happening on our street, Eric spotted Limbo Elmo on his book shelf. He pointed up to him. "elmo." "Elmo." "ELMO." "ELMO!" So, we got Elmo down and played with him for a few minutes. Then I announced it was time to eat breakfast, and Elmo was instantly tossed aside.

Immediately after we finished breakfast, it started again. "Elmo?" "ELMO??" Hmmm...think quick, mom! It's 8 am and "Elmo" doesn't come on until 10. We have a couple of Sesame Street DVDs, but I couldn't remember how prominently Elmo was featured. Thank god for Comcast On Demand! It's Elmo you want? Elmo you get.

Elmo came on the screen and Eric was enraptured like I had never seen him before. This is so strange to me, because he really never paid that much attention to the TV before. I might turn Sesame Street on a few times a week, but it mostly ends up being background noise. Anyway. Whenever Eric would see Elmo on the screen, he would happily and lovingly say his name over and over again. When Eric didn't see Elmo on the screen, he would ask for him, more and more frantically. I mean, the kid was nearly in tears by the end of a particularly long non-Elmo vignette.

It's almost disturbing how quickly he became so attached to Elmo. The strange thing is, he really doesn't want anything to do with his stuffed Elmo, just TV Elmo. Dancing Elmo dolls seem to be OK (lucky me). So, based on what I can tell right now, our Christmas lists will look a little something like this:

Eric:
All things Elmo

Me:
Hip Flask
Vodka
Mixers

Finally, some good news

My house will soon be clean. Isn't that the best news you've heard all day? Well, it is for me. You see, the other day, I was minding my own business, just trying to sweep the floor. But that darn baby of mine kept getting in the way, grabbing at the broom, throwing tantrums and being a general nuisance. I tried giving him the broom. He just stood there with it, looking a little bit happier, but that didn't really make my sweeping go any faster. Then I tried letting him help me sweep, but he wasn't too into that. Then I tried taking him to toys r us and buying him his own damn broom. All I could find was this entire cleaning kit:

I'm thinking, wow, now there's a win-win situation, wouldn't you say. So, now I'm sitting back with my feet up, eating bon-bons, while my 18-month old is scrubbing grout in the bathroom. Don't tell my husband. He'd probably make him clean at night, while I am at work, and then he'll be too tired to clean during the day for me.

A New Family Member

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to announce that I am the loving new owner of an iPod nano. Not only that, but it was a completely unexpected gift from my employer! How exciting!

Here's the deal:

I work at a law firm (ahem, where my mom is a partner *cough*) as a part time evening secretary. I work usually work from 4 to 7:30-ish. I have worked there since March, and I love it. It works out perfectly for us, in terms of making extra money and not needing a babysitter. Anyway, last week, I noticed the Office Administrator and her secretary in one of the conference rooms, with the door shut, but the blinds on the window open. It was after 7 and very few people were left in the office. I noticed that they had little gift bags spread out all over the table. I wondered what they were up to. I figured it was something for the upcoming holidays. I asked one of the attorneys if she knew anything about it. She said that she thought it was the holiday gift. She said that they usually give everyone a pointsetta, but this year she overheard that they were doing something different. She didn't know what--just something different. I assumed that whatever the new gift was, it would be on par with a pointsetta. So, when I got the all-staff email about the meeting at 3 pm on Monday, I contemplated skipping it and just catching up later, when I got to work at 4. Then everyone started encouraging me to come. "It's OK, you can bring the baby." So, I ended up coming to the "party" and Chris ended up getting out of work early because it's a really slow week for him.


One of the partners starts out the meeting by saying that this year was their 15-year anniversary. They never expected the firm would grow so much and that they would end up with so many exceptional employees (there are around 40 employees now, from 5 originally). They wanted to get everyone something nice to thank us for being so wonderful. So, they got everybody a 4GB iPod nano. Oh, and also a commerative silver box with the company's name on it. I thought that was really cool!


I have to admit that I don't know a great deal about iPods. I just knew that I couldn't really afford one, so I kept my distance so as not to be tempted. This one is really cool. It's teeny tiny. It is the same size as that picture, and maybe an eighth of an inch thick. It only took me four hours last night to get a few songs onto it (because I'm slow, not because it's difficult). Anyway, that's my latest excitement. I guess it's time to go write some thank-you notes.

Are you there Blog? It's me, Kristi.

Dear Blog,

I want to apologize for being so reticent as of late, and so remiss in coming to you. But, don't you see, Blog? It's times like these that I need you most! I know, I know, if I look at the internet history tracks in the sand, I will most likely see that this is the time that you carried me. But it doesn't always feel like that. No siree. And perhaps I don't deserve it. I've been a Blog sinner. I have coveted thy neighbors Blog. I have taken the Blog's name in vain. I have also killed, but that is a different story altogether--a story for the Blog, don't you see? So, Blog, here I am apologizing to you. Asking you to keep me in your good graces. Have faith in me, Blog, and I won't let you down.

Remember, Blog is love.

Yours,

Kristi

I am the eye in the sky

I've have this sneaking suspicion that someone who seemed completely uninterested in my not-secret-but-not-widely-publicized blog has, in fact, been reading my blog. And I don't know why, but it kind of bothers me. I mean, it would be one thing if he read it and acknowledged that he read it, but it's another thing altogether to read it on the sly, pretend like you're not reading it, then bring up a topic from my blog like it's just been on your mind.

It's not like these things couldn't be on his mind as well, but it's just the way he says them. We generally have different ways of talking, and when you turn a phrase in a way that you usually wouldn't, and in a way that would be a DIRECT QUOTE from my blog, well, I just can't help but wonder. So...let this just be a little warning. I'm on to you, Seaton. I'm on to you.

P.S. I love you. Stop secretly reading my blog. It makes me feel dirty (as in UNCLEAN).

Gratuitous Baby Pictures

Because he's so damn cute...

Also, now just know that this is very unlike me because I'm a CUBS FAN (unlike a certain someone who happens to be married to me). But, you know, play offs don't really happen too often in Chicago, so, OK, Go Sox. There. I said it. Go and do your baseball thing.

Inquiring minds want to know...

I don't fully understand; what does this MEAN??

They're a lot like people, only more so.

For those not in the know, it's a line from the Berenstein Bears cartoon theme song. I mean, what do I tell Eric when he gets old enough to wonder what it means himself? Forgive me if, once again, I just don't get it.

Oh, the bitter, bitter irony

Have you ever noticed that at the store, the birth control and pregnancy tests are all neatly stocked in the same place? I guess it makes sense on one level, but on another level, if we could've found the damn condoms in the first place, we wouldn't be looking for pregnancy tests, now would we? Why rub it in? I personally think it's somebody's sick little joke.

The Woman at the Rock Show

A couple nights ago, Chris and I went to the Weezer/Foo Fighters concert (which was awesome, by the way). It felt like we were the oldest people there (well, except, of course, for the band members themselves). Luckily for me, Chris is five years older, so I knew that I, personally, was not the oldest person in the crowd. The guys sitting behind us were *maybe* 16 and kept talking about "the Weeze" like they were old friends of the band. These boys were in diapers when Weezer's Blue Album came out. That alone nearly put me over the edge.

When I think of Weezer, and the Blue Album in particular, I am taken back to a much simpler time in my life. A time when I was in HS and my greatest care in the world was whether or not the boy I had a huge crush on knew that I existed. My friends and I called this boy (who was a big Weezer fan, hence the connection) "Hank." I can't even remember his real name, but due to my friend Erica's tendancy to loudly and accidentally talk about my crushes within earshot of them, he was ONLY to be referred to as "Hank." Obviously, judging by the fact that I can no longer remember his real name, I did not ever end up dating this chap. But, I still admire the way he got a black eye from crowd surfing at the Weezer concert. That's real devotion. Devotion that the boys sitting behind me thought they had, but didn't, judging by the fact that they were sitting in the last aisle in the arena, rather than crowd surfing down on the floor.

Anyway, after a while, I realized that Chris and I were far from the oldest people there. In fact, the more I looked around, the more old people I saw. Most of them were chaperoning their children, whose diapers they were changing as Weezer was suggesting that they looked *just like* Buddy Holly and/or Mary Tyler Moore. Hmmm...I wonder if Hank was there?

The funniest simile I've ever heard at Church

"Happiness is like wetting your pants. Others can see it, but only you can feel it's warmth."

I just don't get it.

As a small "reward" for working the past two weekends, and one upcoming weekend, Chris took today off. I thought, "Oh, that'll be nice. We can go do something fun with Eric, as a family." Wrong. When he first got up, he did suggest an excursion to the Northwest Cutlery, to get his knives sharpened. Either that fell by the wayside, or it's in the works for this afternoon--I'm not sure which (although, mind you, I still have to work this afternoon, so it likely no longer includes me...whatever). Anyway, so far the majority of Chris' day off has been spent in the bathroom--and not becuase he's sick or anything like that. He just keeps going in the bathroom for at least 45 minutes, presumably to read the book that sitting in there, and to escape any sort of dad duties that might arise were he out of the bathroom.

I think he got out of bed around 9. It's now quarter to 1, and he's spent at least two hours in the bathroom, probably more. The whole morning went to pot. (har har) Why is the bathroom a black hole for men? Like I said, I just don't get it.

Dr. Strangelove

One of the major downfalls to becoming hooked on blogging is that I have recently spent A LOT of time reading other people's blogs. People I know, people I know only through the internet, and people I don't know from Adam (except, I know Adam--hi Adam). It seems like I've come across a huge pool of bloggers who have nothing but interesting things to write about, and they all write the most fascinating, funny, witty, poignant observations about random randomness. I have to admit, I'm a little intimidated by this. I think of something that I want to write about and then I think, no, that's not important. I've been doubting myself, and hence, avoiding my blog. But, tonight I finally realized that it's MY blog. Who cares if what I write isn't important/fascinating/funny/witty/poignant? So, that's that. I'm going to learn to stop worrying and love the blog.

Why don't you just rip my heart out while you're at it?

Today started out like your average Tuesday. We got up, had some breakfast, played, watched some Sesame Street and ran to the grocery store to pick up a few things. That's where things went horribly, HORRIBLY awry.

Because I am, like, the LUCKIEST woman alive, my local supermarket just so happens to have a branch of my bank nuzzled gently into the corner of its confines. I didn't plan it that way--it just happened. This means that I get to do my banking and my grocery shopping in one fell swoop, which, with a toddler in tow, is absolute unadulterated heaven on earth. Perhaps the best thing about it, though, is that although there are people on staff who can answer your questions and open accounts for you, all of the actual transactions must take place through the ATM. The joy of this, for me, is that I don't need to have unnecessary human interactions or wait in obnoxious lines. I just whip out my little card, push a couple of buttons, and I'm good to go. Whoever thought of this is a god in my book. I mean, she is just one tiny step below the person who invented the Visa Check Card.

While we're on the subject of the Visa Check Card, let me just mention to you my new mantra: "Cash? Who needs it!" At any given time, I'm lucky if I have $1.12 on me. I use that damn card for everything. I only feel bad for the cute little kids standing outside the grocery store selling candy bars for Cub Scouts. I used to be a sucker for those damn kids, but now I have to blow them off because they don't take plastic (just give that a couple years, though).

OK, back to my horrific story. This morning, in a moment of apparent delirium, I forgot to remove my precious debit card from the ATM when I was finished making my deposit. I didn't realize this until 15 minutes later when I went to purchase my groceries. Thank god there was no one in line behind me because I literally dumped my purse out onto the conveyor belt looking for my baby. But, alas, it was nowhere to be found. For a moment I went into panic mode--how am I going to pay for my groceries! Then I remembered the emergency credit card. With a heavy heart, I broke that bad boy out.

I then went over to the banking area and explained that I had just used the ATM but could no longer find my card. I asked if anybody had turned in a dropped card. No. "Does the ATM keep the card if you forget to take it out?" I ask the girl. She stares at me blankly. Then a guy comes out from the back. She explains what I just told her and the guy says, "Oh, if you forget to take your card, the ATM keeps it." OK, this should be simple--open up the ATM, look in the left behind card compartment, and give me my card back. Apparently they can't do that. WHAT GOOD ARE THESE PEOPLE? DON'T THEY KNOW THAT MY LIVELIHOOD IS AT STAKE?????

The guy then says, "Well, if you're sure you don't have the card, we'll just get you a new one." Oh thank god, now this man is talking some sense. They bring up my account in the system and the guy says, "There are three cards showing up--do you know what the last 4 digits on your card were?" I'm practically hyperventilating--can't you ask me a less important question? "I'm not sure," I say, "Can't you look at the name the card is issued to? And by the way, there should only be two cards on the account." "Well, there are three and they're all issued to you." First of all, WHAT??? Second of all, clearly only one of them has ever been used, so that's the one. We get it all figured out and then he drops the bomb. "Great, you'll get your new card in five to seven business days! Have a good one!"

Excuse me? Have a good one??? Did you not notice the myriad $3 to $5 charges on my account? Do you not know how my life depends on this card? I haven't felt this helpless since I was all but shoved out the door of the hospital with a one-and-a-half-day-old baby in my arms. "Good luck with the kid! We're sorry about that thing where we insisted that you would have to spend the night tonight and then revoked that offer at 7 pm and promptly sent two strapping men to your room to pack your bags and physically remove you from the premises! Have a good one! Oh! Don't forget your stool softener!"

How am I going to survive the next 5-to-7 business days?? Oh no! Am I going to have to go to the actual bank? Please say it isn't so! This is terrible, just terrible! Oh my god--what if I actually had to write a check, IN PUBLIC? How horrifying would that be? What if people saw me? Would they whisper behind my back? "What on earth is that woman doing? Doesn't she know she's holding up the line? Poor thing...she's stuck in the '90s! "

I might as well just crawl into a hole and die. I'm suddenly reminded of one of my favorite movie quotes of all time (from My Girl): "Get outta here! And don't come back for five to seven days!"

Hip Hop Has Blown My Mind

Curling my birthday hair.

Letting my birthday hair down.

Letting my birthday hair swallow my birthday neck.

Wearing my pink birthday dress.

Rockin' the Casbah Since 1979

Donning my birthday tiara, fresh out of my birthday shower!

Kinda Pleasantly Satanic

Because last night's blog (and most others from the past few weeks, for that matter) sounded, well, depressing, here's an update to say that I am having a kick ass birthday. I went shopping with Eric this morning and found an outfit that a) I love and b) actually fits! As an added bonus, there were very few screech monkey noises coming from my offspring during the shopping excursion. I also found my Ike Reilly cd a little while ago, and popped that in. It really takes me back to a time when I used to be a lot cooler than I am now. Other than that, I'm pretty much just determined to have a fun day, and it's working. Yay!

On this, the eve of the twelfth day of September

I sit here and I reflect upon my life and the fact that tomorrow will mark the completion of my 26th year of it. If you had asked me a few years ago what I thought I would be like on my 26th birthday, I'm pretty sure the description I would have given you would be vastly different than the reality of today. First off, I probably would not have predicted that I would be a mother. In fact there are still some days when I wake up and it surprises me, despite the fact that my baby is 16 months old. Although, the role of "mother" has become deeply ingrained in me. Today, I went shopping with some birthday money I got over the weekend. All in all, I would say it was a pretty successful shopping trip. I bought a pair of shoes, a pair of pajamas, a pair of pants and a backpack--all for Eric. Oh, I got myself a cup of Starbucks.

I never would have guessed that my birthday would prove to be such a depressing event for me. Well, I suppose depressing is really the wrong word. It's more that it is no longer a big deal, where it used to be something I really looked forward to. I would start reminding people months ahead of time. I would have an idea of what I wanted to do to celebrate. I would make a list of things that I wanted as gifts. Now I feel like I couldn't care less. I want to do something to celebrate my birthday, but I don't know what. Everything I think of just sounds like more of a chore than it's worth. Due to poor planning, I didn't do anything with my friends this weekend--just my parents. I figured I could celebrate with the friends next weekend, but I just found out that my parents are going out of town and can't babysit. The weekend after that is another friend's birthday.

Oh yeah, that's the other thing. From August 29-October 30, six of my very close friends have birthdays. There are also several less-close friends who have birthdays in there too, and I may or may not get invited to celebrate those as well. I have a very limited window of time in which to celebrate my b-day before it's somebody else's turn. In the past two years, I've taken to convincing myself that all of my friends are pretty overwhelmed with birthdays this time of year, so no one will really care/notice if I don't do anything to celebrate. But they do notice and then complain that I'm not doing anything. If it bothers them so much, why don't they throw me a damn party? Then all of our problems are solved!

OK, now I am getting depressed. Better quit while I'm ahead. Happy birthday to me. Yay.

Hmmm...my birthday would probably be better if I had this get-up:

Why I Love Chris

Because when I randomly make my stuffed cat meow at him, instead of looking at me like I'm out of my fucking gourd, he says, "We can't go swimming now, Garfield. We just ate!" What a perfectly random way to respond to your wife's insane behavior! Love and craziness... It just doesn't get any better than that.

Meow.

The battle of who could care less

The avocado green patterned linoleum in our kitchen is grayed from a layer of dirt that needs to be wiped away. If the sun is coming through our kitchen window just right, you can see a myriad of darker, even dirtier spots around the refrigerator where someone has carelessly poured a glass of iced tea and sloshed it out of the cup. There are piles here and there of goldfish crackers or teddy grahams which were dropped over the side of the highchair, forgotten, then stepped on. The dishes pile high in the sink, unrinsed and sticky. There is an overflow pile on the counter next to the sink. The stove is covered in crumbs and spills. The kitchen table is covered in clutter--various things that just don't have a home for whatever reason. The white counters--what you can see of them, at least--have sticky brown rings here and there, presumable from the iced tea that also was sloshed onto the floor.

Walk down the hallway to the bathroom and you might notice dust bunnies and various crumbs piling up along the baseboard. Turn into the bathroom and you will once again be regaled with loveliness. It doesn't take a very thorough inspection of the pink and gray atrocity to notice little heaps of white toothpaste crusted in the pink sink or the little piles of splashed shaving gel dried onto the pink vanity. Luckily, though, the piles of sticky goo make for an excellent way to catch all the pesky stray hairs that meander about in a bathroom. The mirror, you will notice, has been splashed up to a foot above the sink, and also has streaks from where someone wiped steam off of it with a towel. The bathroom only gets worse from there.

Step into the master bedroom and you will be greeted by heaping piles of laundry. Some here, some there. Some in baskets, some on the floor, some piled on top of the dressers. Good luck determining which of it is clean and which is dirty. The bed is unmade and the sheets twisted and pulling off one side of the bed. The carpeting is just begging to be vacuumed, as is the rest of the carpeting in the house.

In the living room you will find a wide array of brightly colored toys strewn about. It's not a good place to take a stroll in the dark. The dining room table is piled with more random clutter which, much like the kitchen clutter, has no defined home. Everything in the room could used to be dusted. The two large, empty baskets which are turned on their side were once filled with the afore mentioned toys. It would probably take 4 minutes to make the dining/living room presentable, but why?

The last part of the chaotic mess is in the office. Just imagine more sticky, crumb covered surfaces; large, dark spills on the rug and futon; pretzel crumbs and salt lining the futon cushion; and more toys randomly spread across the room.

What I have just described to you, ladies and gentlemen, is what my house would look like if I were to go on a cleaning strike and left my husband to take care of the chores. Why is it that he is oblivious to filth? How is that fair? For just once in my life, I would like to be the one who cares less. But I can't bring myself to live in the inevitable squalor that would arise.

Last night I went on the kind of cleaning spree that would make Martha Stewart shed a tear of joy. As such I am proud to say that the above description of my house is far from accurate (thank god). It is not unheard of for my house to reach that state, but it's cyclical. The house gets a really good cleaning maybe once every four months. In between those power cleaning sessions, the house gets cleaned at least weekly, but less and less fanatically with each passing cleaning. By the time I reach that four month mark, "cleaning" amounts to kicking all like things into their own piles--toys in this corner, shoes in that corner, etc. Then, one night, like last night, I break down and scrub things meticulously from usually around 9 pm until 2-3 am. Each time I do that, I think to myself that if I just made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned nightly before I went to bed, I wouldn't have to spend six hours doing it all somewhere down the road. And for the first week or so, my house stays really clean. Then it all starts going to hell because it's exhausting being the only one who cares. This is why I implore of my single readers that if and when you are considering marrying someone, take a good and careful look around their humble abode. If his/her cleaning standards are not up to snuff, then ask yourself how you feel about becoming his/her personal maid til death due you part.

And breathe...just breathe

Ahhhhhhhhh. That's a sigh of relief. Relief that Millie has departed, not to return to Christmas (it's OK, I didn't want to have a pleasant holiday anyway). As soon as I knew she was on her plane back to her far-off land, my body untensed a little bit. I'm still reeling from her visit, so now, 3 days later, I still have some residual tension. I truly believe that everything she said and did to me was designed to be some test of how far she could push me, and how much control she could exert over me. She won't take no for an answer, and she doesn't listen to reasoning.

For instance, Chris will be going on a business trip in November, most likely to LA. He doesn't know the exact details yet, but it will probably be a 3 day trip, in which he will be working day and night for all 3 days. Millie tells me, "Oh, you should go with him! It would be like a second honeymoon for you guys!" I told her that when I first heard about it, I was jealous and wanted to go too, but it wasn't going to be a good idea. "Oh, nonsense, it will be great! I really think you NEED to go." I explain that Chris will be working all day and all night. "Well, that's fine. You can do your own thing during the day and then the two of you can go out for nice dinners at night." "But Chris will be working at night," I reiterate. "Oh, he probably won't work that late. You really need to go with him. You need to get away. What weekend is it? I can probably come in and watch Eric for you. YOU NEED TO GO."

I tried my damndest to make it very clear to her that I would not be going on this trip, but she just wasn't listening. As we were saying our goodbyes, Chris says, "We'll see you at Christmas!" She replies, "Oh, no, before that! I'm going to come in November so I can watch Eric while you guys go out of town!" Argh.

Honestly, that little episode was the least of my worries last week, but it just highlights her personality. It was a long week, and I'm glad it's over. I really don't want to dwell on her anymore...I just needed a little cathartic release. I'm just going to put her out of my mind until the next time I have to deal with her.

Family matters

On or about the time of my marriage to Chris, a new "friend" entered my life. Uh, let's call her Millie. You know, MILlie. Let me tell you a little bit about Millie. She is a nice lady with good intentions who happens to be passive-aggressive. She lives 2000 miles away and rarely calls us or returns our calls when we leave messages for her. She is famous for calling me at times when it is commonly known that I am not available to take calls. She will then leave messages that sound something like this: "Now, Kristi, you had better call me soon! I was just calling you because I hadn't heard from you in a long, long, long, long, long, long time and I want to know how my baby is. I would like it if YOU would call me sometime, not just Chris. OK? I'm starting to think that you don't like me and you don't want me to be part of your life. I just want to be part of Eric's life. [sniffle] I just don't want you to forget about me. [cry] You know, Eric does have TWO grandmas. [SOB] I don't think I can talk anymore. Just...I don't know. You had better call me back or else! [Gulp]" Then I will try calling her several times, leaving several messages until I eventually give up and a couple weeks later she leaves another message like that. When we do actually connect on the phone, this is how our conversation goes:

Millie: "How are you doing?"

Me: "Oh, I'm doing pretty well--keeping myself very busy. How about you?"
Millie: "Oh...me? Well, I'm just terrible--you know, the usual. [Insert 20 minutes of how bad she has it]. You should really call me more often!"

Me: "Well, Millie, as inviting as that sounds, I honestly dedicate the majority of my free time to sytematically ripping off my toenails."

Oh, wait...I don't really say that. In fact, it doesn't really matter what I say. She just says it as a pleasantry. Judging by the number of times I call and leave messages for her before she calls me back, she's really not that into talking to me.

In person, we generally get along fine. The way I describe our relationship to my friends is by saying that she is someone with whom I have very little in common and would not have ever crossed paths with were it not for the fact that we now have relatives in common. I fill her in on what's been going on for the past few months with Eric and our family, but other than that, it's a struggle to come up with things to say. She tries to be nice and helpful, but every once in a while, she'll say something that just really gets on my nerves. I think we have a bit of a power struggle wherein she feels that she has the authority to act like my mother while I don't feel that I have to take that crap from her--I already have one mother, thankyouverymuch.

I still can't tell whether it's her actual personality that gets on my nerves, or if it is her persona as Millie that gets to me. I think she has a certain image of how a MIL is supposed to act, so she acts that way. I know some things that irk me are really minor, and I shouldn't be so petty, but I just can't help it! First of all, MY child is a blend of both his mother and his father, in looks and in personality. He is not YOUR child, and he does not take 100% of his genetics from your son. I was not just some random vessel selected to carry the chosen one. Secondly, you see my baby once every three to five months, for a couple of days at a time--stop telling me what he likes and doesn't like, and that he "always" acts a certain way. And, thirdly, just know that my parents are going to buy him mostly practical gifts, at my request, for holidays, so don't waste your breath calling "dibs" on the most outlandish, overpriced pieces of crap you can find. Months ago, and then again a couple of days ago, she told me to let my parents know that SHE was going to buy him a Hummer power wheels for Christmas. I was thinking, "Uh, OK, Millie. I know my parents aren't going to spend $300 on something like that." And really, they wouldn't. It's not like they don't buy him nice gifts, but they tend to agree with me that $300 is too much for something like that. Another thing is that I know Millie really can't afford it. She just wants to buy it so that she can one-up my parents.

So, usually I just keep my mouth shut about Millie, because honestly I don't have it that bad. Mainly, I just find it fun to make an artform out of being annoyed by her. I kept my mouth shut when she caused a scene at Eric's birthday party and then stormed out. I suck it up and call her back when she leaves me messages that make me want to block her number from my cell phone. But this time, she's really gotten to me.

We found out last week, on Wednesday, that she was coming to town on Sunday (four days later). It was supposed to be a surprise, but her sister let it leak. I really find it insulting that she would come to town for a week, presumably to visit us, mainly Eric, and then not even tell us. She's staying with her sister, so I guess that takes a load off me. But, like I tell her every time I talk to her, I'm a busy person. Had I known she was coming, I would have planned for it. I wouldn't have made plans with other people. I might have even taken some time off work. The same goes for Chris, obviously. But now I just feel put out. Fuck that, I want to tell her. If it was important to her to see us or our baby, she certainly would have let us know that she would be in town. So, what can I deduce from that? It just makes me mad; I feel like the only way she can figure out how to deal with us is by hassling us.

We saw her on Sunday night. She slobblered all over the baby then handed him back to me and told me how she was sick as a dog and had been all week. "What do you have?" I asked. "Oh, first it was a cold and then it turned into the flu. I just feel miserable." Ugh. You know what...you haven't seen Eric in three months, another day or two is not going to hurt you. I mean, is it too much to ask that you be relatively germ-free before you get in my baby's face? Then she said something to the effect of how we'll have to get together during the week. OK, I'm not a complete ass, and I'm generally free during the day, until I leave for work at 3:30, so I say, "Yes of course." Then she says, "Yeah, you can just take some time off work and we'll go out some night." Uh, no...sorry. I completely forgot that this is the week that I have set aside to systematically rip off my toenails.

Cap it to travel

Just outside the city of Chicago, in a town called Elmwood Park, lives a Chicagoland legend. Johnnie's Italian Beef is a little sandwich stand that is home to some fantastic Italian Beef sandwiches, tasty Italian Ices and the most efficient fast-food service known to man. I haven't been to the Original Johnnie's in years, so forgive me if I mess up the exact details. What I have in my memory is a bit of a blur between what I actually remember and stories I have heard from my parents.

Johnnie's is remniscent of an old car-hop, only without service to your car. If you were one of the lucky few, you could park on either side of the building. There was a door on either side of the building, but you entered from the east and exited to the west. There was just enough room upon entrance for about 10 people to move along the counter as they placed their order and then scooted down to wait for it. A line usually formed outside well past the door. Under NO circumstances were you allowed to wait in the doorway with the door propped open. If space did not allow for you to stand inside Johnnie's, you patiently waited outside the closed door until someone exited at the other end and made room for you.

On many occasions, the man taking orders was a very large, extremely agitated man whom my parents referred to as "Johnnie." I don't know if they knew that for a fact, or if they just assumed it to be true. Johnnie was not only in charge of getting your order, but also making sure it was processed and packaged correctly, and, additionally, making sure that the door was not being held open. Johnnie had no patience for indecision. If you did not know what you wanted by the time you reached Johnnie, you shouldn't have gotten in line in the first place. Akin to Seinfeld's Soup Nazi, Johnnie held the key to your success or failure at buying lunch.

Johnnie would take your order and then shout it down to the next person in the assembly line, including--get this--the type of packaging they were to use for it. Let's say you ordered an italian beef, dipped in juice, with hot peppers, an order of fries and a medium coke, to go. Johnnie would yell over to a person standing all of two feet from him, "Wet Italian Beef Hot! Fries! Small Bag! Medium Coke! Cap it to travel! HEY, KEEP THAT DAMN DOOR CLOSED!" Absolutely nothing was left up to the discretion of Johnnie's employees.

I was reminded of Johnnie's overkill on efficiency because of recent dealings I've had with Wendy's. Much like the Walgreens of a previous post, Wendy's has absolutely nothing going for it except it's location three blocks from my home. After my I've-had-it-up-to-here experience with them on Friday night, I'm thinking of contacting the manager and suggesting he track down Johnnie and see if he does consulting.

Chris and I go to Wendy's once every one to two weeks. We always order the same thing, consisting of two chicken sandwiches, two orders of fries and one small order of Chili. Here's the thing--much to the dismay of the Wendy's employees, it just doens't fit in one bag. They try their damndest to make it fit--they really do. And they get pissy with me when they try to hand me a bag where my fries (which are always cold and chewy, by the way) are hanging out the top, and I nicely request that they separate my order into two bags. "[Insert exasperated sigh here] Fine." Surely I can't be the only person in the land who doesn't want to drive around with a bag of fast food that is hanging out of the top of the bag and a) getting cold and b) likely to topple and end up all over the floor. What's worse than cold, chewy fries? Oh yeah, that's right, cold, chewy fries strewn about the passenger side floorboard.

So, here's my question: do I start ordering my food the way Johnnie would shout it out to his workers? "Two number 7s in a large bag! One small chili in a small bag! One Dr. Pepper and one Lemonade--cap 'em to travel!"

Mad hatter

For as long as I can remember, I have been quite fond of hats. In general, and much to the dismay of my friends and family, I am of the belief that the more unique the hat, the better. It has been a while now, but I used to wear hats quite often. I'll have to dig out some of the pictures...

As luck would have it, I have been blessed with a hat-loving baby. Anything that even vaguely resembles a hat will be put on his head. He simply adores hats. How lucky am I?

Here are some shots of the baby Eric in all his hatted glory:

Sluuuuurp...

When I ask Eric for kisses, usually one of three things will happen. One of his long time favorite things to do is to bow his head down to my lips and allow me to kiss his forehead, as if he is royalty and I, some pleb who should be honored that he even cast his regal glance in my direction. Another kiss that Eric is fond of is a bit more straightforward. He simply presses his pursed lips against mine--no fanfare, no mushy stuff, just a plain old peck.

Then there's this third, new kiss. This kiss, I would say, falls into the "let's please hope you grow out of this by the time you reach your teens" category. This new kiss entails closing his eyes, opening his mouth, sticking out his tongue and slobbering all over my face. I honestly wonder if maybe he has access to my memory cells and has been watching replays of some of my more horrific dating encounters. In any case, I hope it's a passing phase because I don't want to be the one to have to tell my son that girls don't like sloppy dog kisses.

Here he is geared up for kiss type two:

And we meet at last...

Tonight I had the awkward pleasure of finally meeting someone I have heard about for the past seven years, Joey. He is the son of one of the partners at my mom's law firm. Shortly after my mom started working there, she learned that Joey and I were the same age. We were both in college at the time--at rival Big Ten schools. The school I went to happened to be the alma mater of both of his parents; the school he went to, well, let's just say it was second rate.

Over the course of the years, it was revealed through interactions I had with Joey's father that Joey and I had quite a bit in common. We were both involved in theatre. We both took improv classes at Second City. We both got our degrees in the spring of 2001 and dawdled all summer instead of looking for jobs. When the economy crashed in September, we both lost all hope of ever finding "real" jobs and started working at different locations of the same chain restaurant. We both have the same smart-ass sense of humor. We both liked the same bands and had been at the same concerts without knowing it. Etc., etc., etc.

From the tone of these conversations, I started to worry that a set-up was on the horizon. Luckily, I found out from my mom that his parents were still holding out hope that he would marry a nice Jewish girl, so it was unlikely that dad would be playing matchmaker with a cradle Catholic. You see, despite the fact that we had all these things in common on paper, I could tell from the stories I'd heard that we had very different personalities. I'm sure we would get along and have plenty to talk about, but he was definitely a little bit frat boy, while, I on the other hand, was a little bit band camp girl.

Anyway, fastforward to now... I work at my mom's office as the evening legal secretary. Joey comes into the office at least once a week to visit and use the laser printer to print his resume on his headshot. We have exchanged pleasantries and such, but have never been formally introduced. I wondered if he even knows who I am. I mean, don't tell me that hours of my life that I'm never going to get back were spent listening to Joey stories, meanwhile he never heard one kind word about me. And, even if he did hear about "Kristi," did he know that I was the Kristi?

Well, tonight we finally officially "met." We engaged in a good half-hour of conversation, along with one of the attorneys who knows us both well. It started to get awkward, though, because I really didn't know how to play it. Do I let on that, despite the fact that we have never said more than "Hello" to each other, I know that he once "lent" his dad a pair of black socks for fifty dollars and only under the condition that they would be overnighted back to him the moment they were clean. Do I just ask him how the acting career is going, or do I wait for the fact that he has acting ambitions to come up in casual conversation? It was a bit surreal. It also wasn't helped out by the fact that he didn't act as though there were any spark of recognition regarding me whatsoever. After I made a couple of references to things I knew about him, he finally let it slip that he knew some things about me as well, so I felt a little better. But, seriously, what is the socially acceptable way to handle that situation? Lay your cards on the table right off the bat? Offer tasty morsels of knowledge in hopes that they'll nibble? Pretend like you don't know anything about them? I'm still not sure, because honestly I felt fairly awkward throughout the conversation (conversation number two will probably be much smoother, though)...

Kicking my coke habit

Well, friends, I'm not going to lie to you; it's been a tough week for me. I've been detoxing for five days now and hopefully the worst of it is behind me. If I can just make it a few more days, I think I'll be in the clear. Last night, though, I was seriously jonesin'. I had to work late and I just didn't think I could get by without it. First it was the angel and the devil scenario. Then, the devil pummelled the angel into submission and I almost gave up. "Come on, man, it's not that bad for you. It's only a quarter. Don't worry about it. You can get back on track tomorrow. All the cool kids are doing it." But I stonewalled that mother fucker and I held strong. "Tonight is not going to be the night that I relapse!" I told myself over and over again. I got a headache. I got the shakes. It was tough, but I made it through.

This isn't the first time that I've tried to quit. I've quit before and been successful for a short while. I quit once after college for a while and obviously I quit when I found out I was pregnant. The first time I quit, it was horrible. I worked at a restaurant at the time. That shit is in abundance in a restaurant. I couldn't get through a single shift without some jackass bringing it up in conversation. It was as if I had engaged in a strange form of self-loathing torture. What on earth was I thinking? But you know what, I made it through that time and I'm going to get through this time as well. I mean, this time I've got a family to think about!

Oh man, if I can just get through this first week, I think I'll stop feeling so strung-out. In order to get by, I have taken solace in other stimulants, namely coffee. It really can't compare, but it helps me get through the day. I haven't told anyone that I quit cold-turkey, but I don't think anybody really realized how bad my problem was. I was really good about doing it discreetly and destroying all evidence afterwards.

The biggest problem that I am having right now is that it is so fucking ubiquitous. Coca-cola, I hate you and your evil empire. Let me have my life back. I want to free my brain from your strangle hold. I don't want to feel compelled to turn into every drive-thru I pass just to get you. I don't want to crave you anymore. I don't even like any of your family members--in fact most of them repulse me. I can't stand your partner "Diet" and I think your sister "Sprite" is a poor excuse for a carbonated beverage. Oh, and your arch nemeses, the Pepsi gang? I had a relationship with one of them on the side--Mt. Dew. That's right, Coke, take that. You wanna know what? Sometimes I found Mt. Dew to be more fulfilling than you. There, I said it. Oh man, the weight of the world is off my shoulders! Goodbye Coke! I know I can do this now!

Back in the Saddle Again

Just got back this weekend from a weeklong trip with the Baby Eric, my parents, my brother and other assorted oddballs. Whew. That's all I can say right now. Whew. I'm sooooo looking forward to going to work this afternoon. My brain is too fried right now to write anything very interesting. Later, though, for sure. I'm going through some serious blog withdrawal. Eeek.

Guttural noises

A really special part of motherhood is learning to communicate with your baby. In the beginning, you try to figure out what their cries mean. You know, if it's high-pitched, he's hungry, if it's squeaky, he needs a diaper change, etc. I never really trouble deciphering Eric's cries, or should I say cry. He only really had one and it meant, "I'm really fucking pissed off and I won't calm down until you try at least seven different calming mechanisms at which point I will suddenly be happy as a clam because on the inside I'm chuckling heartily at your foolishness." Luckily for me, he didn't cry too often.

Well, these days, Eric is at a much different spot in the communication continuum. He is at the point where he seems to understand the concept of language, but is as of yet unable to use it very meaningfully. Sure he has a few words--ball, dog, woof, bear (although he says it like he's from New Yawk), ba-ba, uh-oh, dada and daddy (more like da dee). He has a wonderful range of sounds that he enjoys making, from the adorable "v" sound to the ear-piercing squeal and many things in between. Unfortunately, as with most toddlers, he has the patience of a drunk girl in line for the bathroom at a college bar. Combine the limited knowledge of language with a limited amount of patience and an unlimited amount of curiosity, and you get a lot of pointing and grunting and moaning and whining and general frustration. I mean, unless he wants to tell me, "Uh-oh, dada, dog woof ball bear uh-oh, baba" (translation: Oh, no, mother, that dog's ball was just stolen by a grizzly bear! How tragic; I'd like to contemplate that over some milk.), then our day is basically an extended version of 20 questions, where he knows the answer and is PISSED that I don't know it as well.

Take the other morning for instance. It's breakfast time, and Eric and I are enjoying one of our three favorite breakfasts: waffles and fruit. All of a sudden he starts pointing up at the top shelf of the baker's rack in our kitchen. At first I thought he was pointing to the sky to alert me of an airplane overhead (we live near the airport). Then I realized two things: first, there was no airplane noise, hence, no airplane, and second, he was definitely pointing over, not up. So, I'm trying to figure it out...I look up to the shelf. Baking soda, herbes de Provence, a stack of Cooking Light Magazines, a fancy strainer thing and a roll of paper towels...which could it be? He's getting frantic, and I'm clueless as to which of those items is so intriguing that he's willing to throw a tantrum over it. So, I start pointing to stuff. He shakes his head no. I point to something else, he shakes more frantically. And on it goes, with him getting more upset by the nano-second. Finally, I see what he sees. Tipped over, behind the stack of magazines, with just a tiny little corner sticking out, is a bag of Goldfish. I fish it out (pun intended) and there is a collective sigh of relief in the kitchen. So, allow me to correct an earlier statement: Eric and I are now enjoying our new favorite breakfast: waffles, fruit and goldfish.

This stage of communication is as adorable as it is frustrating. I want so much for him to tell me what he wants, but at the same time, part of me is going to miss the pointing and the head shaking stage. As with every other stage he's gone through, this one is going to be gone in the blink of an eye...just another date in the baby book. All too soon, he'll be turning those grunts into real mommy-defying words. I just read somewhere that between 18-24 months, kids can add a new word to their vocabulary as often as every 90 minutes. Fascinating, although I guess that means it's time to stop playing Snoop D-oh-double-g all day long.

867-5309...Not just your Grandma Jenny's phone number

I remember hearing this song as a child and thinking it was a fun song. It had a catchy tune--that sort of thing. Up until recently, if you had asked me what the song was about, I would have told you, "Well, it's about this girl named Jenny whose phone number is 867-5309." As a child, that's all I got out of the song. If you asked me about that song today, I would tell you that it is proof that human beings are indeed able to retain phone numbers despite the widespread use of cell phones and speed dialing. I would also tell you that it's about a creepy guy who spied Jenny's phone number on the wall in the bathroom and has since become obsessed with her.

I'm almost embarassed to admit that I really didn't figure that out until recently. As a kid, I really didn't pay attention to that sort of thing--it was more about the music than the lyrics. Of course I've heard that song on the radio since I was a kid, but I guess I still didn't really pay attention to the lyrics. It wasn't until I was taking guitar lessons in January that I really even noticed what the lyrics were. A couple of the teachers were rocking out to the song during our break and I realized how easy it was to play. When I went home, I went online to find the chords and lyrics. Just reading the lyrics without having the music really makes you pay attention to what the song is actually saying. And, honestly, it's pretty damn creepy!

Jenny Jenny you're the girl for me
You don't know me
but you make me so happy
I tried to call you before but I lost my
nerve
I tried my imagination but I was disturbed

Creepy, no? I'm a little relieved by the fact that he was disturbed by "using his imagination" (do you think that is a euphemism for something else?). But come on, to fall in love with a girl just because the you read a sign in a bathroom that says, "For a good time call..."? There's something not right about that. Yet we still like the song. It all goes back to that catchy tune.

I've decided that I need a catchy tune for my life. That way people won't notice how incredibly boring I really am. Wouldn't it be cool if we could all walk around and just sort of eminate a song that tells the rest of the world something about us? It would be distracting, I guess, but an interesting idea (to me, at least). If you'll excuse me, I need to go compose a catchy Kristi tune.

My husband the chef

When people first hear that my husband is a chef, they inevitably ask, "Does he do all the cooking at home?" I'm pretty sure that they automatically think that we eat seven course meals on fine china every night. Can I let you in on a little secret? Being married to a chef is really not glamorous at all. It is very, very rare for Chris to cook at home. Maybe once every six months or so, I'll get a fancy-ish meal out of him. About once a month he cooks a less-than fancy meal, or grills something for us. About once a week I can get him to throw a frozen pizza in the oven while I head home from work. That's pretty much the extent of his cooking at home.

When he and I first started dating, I was amused by how small his kitchen was in his apartment. It was so small that it only had room for one of those college dorm sized refrigeraters. I was also amused by his utter lack of kitchen ware. He had 4 plates, one large mixing bowl, a set of silverware and various glasses. Oh, and probably a bottle opener too. Couldn't forget that. Oh, and of course he had a knife bag full of expensive and scarily sharp knives. The only food he ate outside of work was cereal or takeout.

When we were engaged and registering for wedding gifts, he had a field day. Oh, we need this $300 blender. We should get this $600 All Clad cookware. We can't get by without this Kitchen Aid mixer. He almost had me tricked into thinking he might take an interest in cooking at home. I thought, "Oh, he just hasn't been cooking in his apartment because he doesn't have the necessary appliances!" Interestingly enough, when people find out that you're marrying a chef, they seem to head straight for the "kitchen" part of the registry list. We got lots of stuff to stock our kitchen so that Chris could cook at home (because god knows I don't know how to use half of this crap). Well, now that we have a kitchen aid mixer, a hand-held mixer, an immersion blender, a regular blender AND a food processer, we have a lot of extra things to catch all that pesky dust that floats about the house. So, that's kind of nice.

Over time, I have decided that not only do I not mind that Chris doesn't cook at home, but in fact I would rather that he didn't. What happens when a chef cooks at home is that every piece of cookware and every utensil gets used. He can't make a sauce without using two pans and a pot, a spatula and 4 spoons. And guess who gets to clean up when he cooks?

Another downside to having a chef in the house is that when I cook, I feel like I'm under constant scrutiny. He treats me like I'm someone who works in his kitchen. He wants to watch what I'm doing and see what I do wrong before he tells me what I should have done. Since I'm definitely no master chef, I ask him for help and he always tells me, "Do whatever you think is right." Now, let me tell you, that drives me nuts. If I knew how to do it right, why on earth would I be asking for help? Not too long ago I was stirfrying some vegetables. He was watching me like a hawk, so I start asking him questions. I was going for a particular flavor, and I asked how much of each ingredient I should use. "As much as you think you need." So, when all is said and done he says, "Now here are some tips for next time. Use less oil, and put the mushrooms and peppers in first and the squash and peas later because they cook faster." OK, this isn't culinary school, this is dinner. When I ask you a question, answer it BEFORE I end up with soggy squash. Thanks, I appreciate that.

From all this discussion of food, you would think it was common for there to be a homecooked meal on the table in our house. Unfortunately, that is so far from the truth it's not even funny. Since I work through dinner time, Chris and I ususally fend for ourselves. I think both of our diets suffer because of that, but it actually helps our sanity. As for all the small appliances, sometimes I'll get out the immersion blender and stick it some chocolate pudding, just so it doesn't feel useless.