On Monday night I went with my friend Ashley to see Andrew Bird in concert. We had joked ahead of time about throwing our bras on stage (because I don’t know about you but I think Andrew Bird is not only insanely talented but also sort of hot, in a skinny, distracted-by-his-own genius kind of way) and I realized that if I were to actually do such a thing I would have to purchase a bra especially for the occasion, because there are two main problems with removing my own bra and hurling it at an unsuspecting musician: 1) my bras are of the sturdy German-engineering variety and there is nothing remotely sexy about them (you can imagine how a black lacy barely-there piece of lingerie might look, tantalizingly draped over Mr. Bird’s violin bow for a brief moment before he smiles and tucks it away in his pocket, but in my case there would be this foam insert D-cup four-hook monstrosity flying end over end through the air and smacking him soundly in the face, possibly covering his entire head and asphyxiating him or at least impeding his ability to whistle), and 2) if I took off my personal support garment in public then my boobs would immediately tumble out of my shirt and clunk onto the floor, and believe me, no one wants to see that.

Anyway, so I didn’t throw any underwear at Andrew Bird, which was just as well because he was so amazing, so utterly impressive and mesmerizing and awesome, it surely would have sullied the experience to interrupt the reverie by chucking a slightly dingy Wacoal in his direction. He did astounding things on that stage, and best of all he appeared to be nearly lost in his own music at times, his eyes closed and his face sort of grimaced with effort/pleasure/intensity (I have an inappropriate term for this, which is Musician Sex Face), and it was truly blissful to be a part of it. The man is a phenomenal artist, and if you ever get the chance to see him perform, I can’t recommend it enough.




On a different topic, we are in the midst of yet another sleep setback with Dylan, and I’m guessing it’s tied to the fact that he’s given up on crawling COMPLETELY and spends his day staggering excitedly from one hazard to another. It is exhausting keeping up with him and constantly prying things out of his mouth or removing him from dangerous situations and it seems entirely unfair that at the same time we’re in the midst of this Stage of Bug-Eyed Vigilance he’s decided to start waking up every four hours again.

I once wrote an article for a client on babyproofing your home and how to efficiently remove all the various deathtraps an average household offers to a small child. My advice included getting rid of cords, installing cabinet locks, putting gates up — I even recommended getting down on your hands and knees and checking your floors, because you never know what a baby can find that an adult will miss.

Of course, my OWN house is basically a giant bear trap filled with angry bees whose stingers contain pure Drano. Riley wasn’t much of a cabinet-nosing kid, so we got rid of the locks during our remodel and never put them back. I have a gate, but it mostly just sits in the office. I’d get down on my hands and knees, but jesus, have you SEEN my floors?

So it’s mostly my own damn fault that I have to chase Dylan all day long and pry his curious little grippy-paws off handles and out of drawers and pull wads of dog hair out of his mouth and so on. Of course, there’s also the possibility that I haven’t learned a DAMN THING about Objects Babies Really Shouldn’t Have Access To over the last 3.5 years:

Riley at 12 months with the big heavy dirty splinter-y doorstop stick.

Dylan, currently obsessed with the EXACT SAME FUCKING STICK.


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15 years ago

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