Dear gastro-intestinal unit,
What gives? I thought we had something special! I feed you, you process the food that gives my body energy. We had a groove, baby! But no. Now you have to get all crampy and unpleasant on me. What went wrong?
Oh sure, the schmancy Indian food on Saturday night didn't help, but come on! We've been through plenty of Indian food together in the past, and always came through it just fine—appreciating each other all the more. I suppose it may have added insult to injury getting spicy Korean rice noodles with fried tofu for lunch today, but again, I though you loved that stuff! What more do you want from me?
Think back on all the years we've had together. The Minnesota State Fair mini-donuts and cheese curds, the day-old sushi with extra wasabi, Bulgarian worm-infested cherries: all smooth sailing, baby!
Oh, sure, there was the Incident of the Cheap Chardonnay and Black Beans, but hey—it was the early '90s! Everyone was doing it. And I suppose you'll dredge out the mushrooms-of-questionable-origin omelette in Bulgaria summer of 2000 to hold over my head. Yeah, just like you to hold a grudge. I've told you I'm sorry and we've made amends . . . or so I thought.
Even during my pregnancy, it was great. OK, there were the two times the mint toothpaste didn't sit well with the OJ, but I learned my lesson and we worked it out. Right?
OK. I see you're hurt. I'm sorry. Here, how about some toast and peppermint tea? And look what else: an ouzo chaser. Yeah, I know. It's OK. It makes me feel better when you feel better. Let's just move on. (((hugs)))
This is our neighbor. I love how they describe her as "piratical": it suits her, in a good way. I don't know anyone else who can brag about having a pirate next door: Swashbuckling out to get the mail; cutting the grass with her rapier; tapping her hook on our window to borrow a cup of sugar. . . . Click on one of the MP3 samples to hear what we hear when they rehearse. We assume the first sample, "Davis," is named after her sweet pit bull. And the dog is named after Bette, of course, for the eyes.
I like what she says in the interview about being a woman in a male-dominated field. She's lived in West Philly for a long time and is invested in the neighborhood. We're really glad to have her as our neighbor.
[Disclaimer: We actually used these techniques, so I'm making fun of us and no one else.]
Ceiling fan + classical music radio = White Trash "Baby Mozart"
Old Crock-Pot = White Trash Steam Humidifier and *bonus!* White Trash Bottle Warmer
Hot radiator + wet wipes = White Trash Baby Wipe Warmer.
And finally, I give you . . . diaper changing pad + cats = White Trash Cat Tree
From left: Loki, Stella
So Itso found out about the blog. Hi Itso! I had pulled it up over the weekend, he was next to use the computer, was navigating back to something, saw the name, and thought "what's this?"
I've seen this pattern happen in other people's blogs. They write about an issue, and then the very next day the issue reaches some resolution. So I am hereby summoning the karma of the Internets. My issues:
On another note, we had a lovely weekend! I took Monday off; Shmoo's daycare was closed and Itso's work was optional. You know, I'm thinking "Itso" just doesn't roll off the tongue like it should. I think I'll start calling him "Handsome Ponytail Ranger" the way Iowadrift refers to her man as "The Tall Doctor" (TTD). OK, so HPR and da Shmoo and I all had a relaxing Monday together. Our only outing was to the white trash zoo and then to Famous Dave's (HPR wanted me to call it White Trash Restaurant, but I refuse. I'm loyal to it from my Minneapolis days. Interesting aside: whereas the Minneapolis Dave's is made up to look like a Chicago alley, the South Philly one is decorated to look like a hunting/fishing lodge "up north.") We had considered going to the New Jersey aquarium, but the nap of da Shmoo ran long and, well, $17 per ticket plus $7 parking plus $3 toll to get back into PA. . . . We will go sometime, but honestly Shmooie probably had as good a time looking at the fish, puppies, birds, and rodents at the pet store.
While I'm on the subject, remind me to post our "white trash parenting" photo series from a year ago. It's 9:45 now and my bed is calling . . .
Itso doesn't know about my blog. Well, I haven't told anyone about it, except for commenting in a few other blogs. (Hi 2 readers!) I was going to tell him about it the first week I started it, but now I think I'll wait to see how long it takes for him to discover it. I'm not actively trying to hide it. And a few months back I told him the name I would give my blog if I had one.
So hi Sweets! Let me know when you see this!
Here are some of the all-time favorite things I've read online:
The joke may be lost with the absence of the close-up shot when they updated their site, but I give you: “Go ahead — Buy the butter! IF YOU’VE GOT THE PLUMS!”
How not to make a pot roast. “The extra thumb means extra yum!
And many more that I don't have time to look up right now . . .
It is clear to me why sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture.
Here is a snowShmoo photo, posted just in time before the snow all disappears.
Loki helped Itso organize the above-the-fridge cabinet.
Another thing our time in Bulgaria taught us is how to drink!
At the auto show, the favorite was the Mini.
And an update from last night. The snack-before-bed trick worked . . . sort of. Da Shmoo didn't wake until about 2:15 a.m. I nursed him and put him back in the crib, got settled back in bed and was just dropping off again (about 2:45) when he woke up again. He wanted another nurse. I got back to bed at 3:15. He woke up for the day at 5:15. I am realizing that I just need to go to bed at 9 at the latest. Itso is willing to help out (and tried taking a shift at the first waking), but da Shmoo is very stubborn and only wants me at night.
S. survived two shots at his 15 mo. checkup today, poor Shmoo! But honestly, he didn't cry any more for the shots than when he was weighed and measured, because to do that he had to lie down and he didn't WANT TO and he rather wanted to be FUSED INTO ONE BEING WITH THE MAMA. So, you know, just an ordinary day.
So, he is average height, and above average in head size and weight. Tubby McTubbins! In the examining room he insisted on sitting "UP" in a big-person chair (his latest obsession) and babbled and babbled as I talked with the doctor. He was very loud with the babbling. Seemed like he was auditioning for a School of Conversation run by my mother's family (main rule: the person who talks loudest and longest wins!), and doing pretty well.
The Dr. had a few suggestions to try to cut down Shmoo's several night wakeups, but admitted that there is no miracle solution. The most surprising idea is to feed him his favorite thing as a snack just before bed. (My Grandpa P. used to call it "bedlunch," an expression I love.) So we'll be popping some Newman's Own and maybe doing some olive and fruit slammers at 7:15 tonight.
Here he is, red-overall-bedecked, offering you a toy cold one from the toy fridge at stage right. Because of the doctor visit, he got to take his "transitional object" to daycare today. Her name is Ella Fitzgelephant, and she is the lump of gray fluff by the blue pillow. (Isn't that a line from William Carlos Williams?)
Doesn't it seem that Monday the 13th should be the omen, not Friday? Even if you have bad luck, it's still a Friday, right? I'm not complaining about today, because it's been a lovely quiet Monday morning. I walked in to work bedazzled by the bright sun shining on the snow.
The best part of this storm (I haven't looked up yet how many inches we got in Philly—maybe 10 in West Philly?) was that Itso had a snow day yesterday! Normally he works Sundays and his "weekends" are Fri-Sat. So we were together the whole weekend like a normal family! And . . . we cleaned and organized! That may not be most folks' idea of a good time, but I get stressed out and blue when our place is chaotic. Which is always. My constant joke is that our house not a house but is really one of those bars where people are encouraged to drop peanut shells on the floor. Anyway, plugging away and making a dent in the chaos and grime really lifts my spirits. As a result of our toil, you can see the floor of the "office" now! The floors on the main floor are clean. There's still a long way to go, but it's a start. We have heaps of paper to recycle. (Itso said he was tempted to make a big bonfire for a more dramatic riddance. I suggested instead that he pull out the Bulgarian bagpipe on Saturday when we process to the recycle dropoff spot a block away.)
I am discovering that our approach to the domestic workload is so different, but that can be—is—a positive. My forte is the smaller tasks to keep the ship running--laundry, grocery, tidying, cleaning. Itso is the project guy. After all the status quo stuff I do on a regular basis, I run out of energy for the bigger picture stuff. Itso is more feast and famine, but when he starts on a project, it is inevitably organized well and logically.
When I lauded our differences to my parents, Itso thought it was a nice way of saying he's doesn't do crap around here. But that's not what I meant at all. His talents in the big picture complement my detail orientation very well.
The boys went to the Philly Auto Show on Friday. Da Shmoo is truly a boy in his obsession with vehicles, and they had a blast. And I didn't have to go! I met them at a brew pub after work. Da Shmoo was a model child, busying himself with inserting and removing crayons from the little box they came in and feeding himself mashed potatoes, grapes, fries, tomatoes. He had a mini meltdown on the trolley on the way home, but it was nearing bedtime and was to be expected.
The snowstorm was really cool, thundersnow!—the first I've experienced—in the wee hours of Sunday! When da Shmoo awoke and looked outside, he stared and stared and said "uh-oh!" I don't know if that was the "uh-oh" of Things Being Concealed or of Things Falling Down.
I forgot to bring the camera to upload photos, but I'll try tomorrow! And here's the view from our front porch from a snowstorm last winter. January 2005—da Shmoo was 3 months. (Oh how I miss the Baby Bjorn.)