Apr
1
If I were prone to panic attacks I would currently be having one over the fact that in less than a week we’ll be traveling seven hours to Oregon with both kids: one whose nutritional, entertainment, and hygienic needs require intervention on an unpredictable and often-frequent basis, and one who’s taken to moaning “I want to go hooooooooome” five seconds into a drive.
I am also finding myself greatly entertained by some recent commentary over at ParentDish about how people just can’t understand why Kids These Days are allowed to watch DVDs during road trips because back in their day they didn’t even have radio, by gum, they sang songs and played with rocks in the car and they were JUST FINE, except for the fact that they grew up to be, you know, kind of a sanctimonious dicktowel. I sure wish I could hire some of these bucolic song-singing folk to drive my toddler in a separate car, I bet they break down and whip out the Blue’s Clues videos in freaking Olympia.
I don’t know how we’re going to fit all of our stuff in the truck, except we HAVE to, because if you think I am bringing Dylan on a weeks-long visit anywhere without his swing you must be out of your damn mind. Oh, did I mention the “weeks-long” part? Yeah, this would be the trip where JB flies off to Asia for 10+ days and I stay back in Coos Bay with his parents. I like his parents, don’t get me wrong, but man oh man, this will be a long trip. The alternative, however, was staying at home and flying solo parenting-wise for the entirety of JB’s absence and STILL having to do the Oregon drive soon for visitation purposes, so I figured this would be, if not exactly an ideal situation, the least painful option.
We had planned to board Dog because 1) she’s old and long drives are hard on her, and 2) it’s kind of rude to bring your smelly Lab to someone else’s house for 10 days but all the local kennels are FULL next week. WTF. One lady told us it was because of spring break, which made me scratch my head because spring break? Isn’t that this week? Is spring break more than a week long now? Has MTV taught me NOTHING?
Anyway, I don’t know why I’m jumping the gun on stressing about this trip, except what the hell, maybe power-worrying burns calories. Hopefully I’ll work off enough so I can enjoy a decadent bowl of yogurt and cottage cheese later.
Mar
30
Hooray for Sunday, day of rest. The end of the weekend, when you can lie in bed until sheer embarrassment finally drives you from your sheets, and the coffeepot stays warm all day long as you dawdle over the paper. What to do with the long, lazy hours stretching before you? Maybe make some french toast out of croissant bread, maybe take a little stroll around the neighborhood, maybe curl up on the couch and plow through a good book from beginning to end?
Go ahead and open your eyes from THAT pleasant little dream, dipshit, because you’ve got CHILDREN now. Hop to, because just like Lionel Ritchie those diapers have been partying all night long. Perhaps you should have spent more of your pre-parenthood Sundays reveling in the fact that your mornings never included pre-dawn scrotal fold poop-shrapnel mining duty, but NO, you were too busy ramming croissants in your french-hole to appreciate your sweet, sweet, feces-free freedom.
Ah well. Hindsight, 20/20, etc.
I did escape the House of Rugrats long enough to get a haircut yesterday, and while I’ve always enjoyed a good indulgent salon experience these days I feel like I go into something like a pleasure-triggered fugue state as soon as the stylist touches my head. My eyes roll back, my tongue lolls drunkenly, I have to consciously stop one leg from shooting straight out and jerking up and down like a dog from the pure bliss of it all. I mean, the humming, product-scented atmosphere, the sensation of my scalp being massaged, the complete absence of anyone shouting NOOK MOMMY MY HAS A BALL—dude. If it didn’t cost so damn much I’d make a standing appointment for every weekend from now until the kids are old enough to be sent to a nice Asian sweatshop.
(What? Oh, sorry, I meant “Montessori-themed Latin immersion preschool”.)
I got the same shortish A-line cut I’ve been getting over the last year, which initially looks a little like whatshername’s hair, Slutty Tyra from Friday Night Lights, before rapidly growing into a mass of split ends and exposed roots. I always think I’m going to get something drastically different but I never do, I suppose I just like the vicarious thrill of thinking about a wild new haircut but am ultimately too much of a pussy to make a big change.
My brain (stuck in 1992): “Fuck the man! Dye this shit fire-engine red! Shave the sides! Play the Circle Jerks on the way home because you just want some skank!”
My mouth: “Let’s trim up the ends, but keep the same overall shape. Thanks, I would like some chamomile.”
:::
In other news, the weather has gone batshit crazy around here. Behold the view from our backyard last night:
Is it not almost April? What the hell, Seattle.
Also, I noticed this while I was snapping photos:
I have told him and told him and TOLD HIM that chainsaws aren’t a particularly effective weapon against zombies, but does the man listen? Feh.
Lastly, I’ve really been enjoying Amazon’s grocery delivery service lately, but I wonder what kind of return policy they have?
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