September 26, 2006

Once upon a time, Workplace provided a biweekly housecleaning service as a benefit. Eventually it was dissolved in favor of providing the monetary equivalent increase to everyone’s salaries, which meant I cancelled it, because I couldn’t quite justify paying the fee back out to the service from my own pocket. If that makes any kind of sense.

Now I’m thinking of calling them again, or better yet, hiring someone who runs their own business so the person who does the actual cleaning gets paid a decent hourly wage. I know some people like to make me feel guilty about wanting to outsource the toilet-scrubbing, coughcoughJB, but I figure the only people who get to have an opinion are the ones who know where the 409 is located. YOU KNOW?

Oh, I give JB a lot of shit but he definitely pulls his weight and more around the house. Here’s the thing, though: if he doesn’t like cleaning, and I don’t like cleaning, and the pets and child are totally useless on that front, then I think it’s time to build on what I most love about the Roomba: the notion of the house becoming clean without my involvement.

JB doesn’t like the idea of a stranger being in our house. Let me repeat that with some clarification and our helpful friend, the Caps Lock key: JB, the man who hired eighty SKILLION random people to troop through our living spaces for HALF A GODDAMN YEAR, who tracked dirt everywhere and blared the radio nonstop and once left a tube of PERSONAL LUBRICANT in the BATHROOM, doesn’t want an unfamiliar cleaning lady in the house.


Lately I’ve just been realizing how fast the days go by and how hard it is to get the things done that I want to do, never mind the things I don’t want to do (see also: toilets). Paying for my house to be cleaned doesn’t seem like a frivolous luxury anymore, it seems like purchasing actual blocks of time that I can use elsewhere.

Because god knows I need to spend more time sitting on my ass in front of a computer. Hey! Speaking of! New reviews at SundryBuzz, in case you’re not looking all on your own: Roomba, Griffin iTrip, Sierra Trading Post, and…uh, cuticle oil.


This morning I was walking Riley down the hall, holding his hands in my own, when he stomped directly onto my bare foot in his clunky Toddler Shoes, and you know, it fucking hurt. I’ve been suspicious for a while, but that’s it, the truth is undeniable now: Riley is no longer a tiny baby, he’s a little boy. A little boy with some heavy-ass feet, apparently.

Also, guess what I learned about myself last weekend after the fair? I can do a spot-on imitation of a rooster. No shit. The whole “Err-err-err-err-ERRRR” sound? I’ve got it down. This is my new foolproof trick for cracking Riley up, because he thinks it is HILARIOUS. We do a lot of animal sounds in our house (don’t even ask about the Naughty Chicken who says “Bok bok bok BUKKAKE”!) and the rooster is his current favorite.

Me: “What does the cow say, Riley?”
Riley: “Deh deh deh?”
Me: “MOOOO, that’s right! Mooooo. What does the sheep say?”
Riley: “Teh. Teh.”
Me: “Bahhhhh, that’s right! What does the rooster say?”
Riley: *expectant pause*
Me: “Err-err-err-err-ERRRRRRRRRRRRR!”
Riley: *laughs hysterically, poops pants*

So maybe I sound like a deranged barn animal who doesn’t know what the hell time it is, it could be worse. For instance, the animal noise JB is particularly good at? Sea lion. At least the rooster has a smidge of dignity.

September 24, 2006

At the semi-sucky, horrifyingly crowded fair on Saturday.

Today’s geocaching outing; JB discovered a very handy way of carrying the GPS (clipped to the top of the stroller).

Taking a break on our walk this afternoon, it was surprisingly warm all weekend.

Riley’s incredibly loud, freaky zebra toy. Which he loves. Of course.


.004 seconds later. Man, babies are psycho.


Is it possible to just sort of hit a wall, caffeine-wise? To develop such a large tolerance no amount of Starbucks or Diet Coke can penetrate? If so, what does one do about that, go cold turkey for a while to detox? I can’t nap (see: small child, neediness thereof), I can’t snort giant lines of cocaine (see: jail, avoidance thereof), and I’m tired (ooh, somebody call the wahmbulance). I need GO-JUICE, preferably in the form of a tasty beverage rather than, ha ha, “exercise” and “eating right”, and I swear my tried and true methods of caffeine delivery are FALLING DOWN ON THE JOB.

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