Aug
8
August 8, 2006
I walked out my front door this morning and locked it securely behind me before realizing my keychain was inside, dangling uselessly from a hook in the kitchen.
Have you ever locked yourself out of the house? Did you do what I did; circle the entire house, eyes narrowed, looking for a point of entry that you’re positive isn’t there, but, you know…just in case?
After casing the joint and discovering that in fact my house is nicely sealed against the elements and does not offer a cracked window or handy gaping wall-hole through which people, raccoons, or wild dingos can enter, I searched the backyard for the extra key I knew we put somewhere, looking under planters and birdbaths, discovering all sorts of wriggling invertebrates and ancient tufts of dog hair but little else. Fine, I thought, mentally throwing up my hands, I’ll have to call JB. That’s when I discovered my cell phone was not in its usual place in the side pocket of my purse but was inside my car. My locked car.
You’d think this would be enough to deter a person from making any further attempts to get to work, but this is the week I will brave lost keys and locked vehicles and even, if necessary, zombie infestation to fight my way into the office, for it is the Magical Week of No Engineers at Workplace.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love the engineers, with all their decompositional reasoning and hair-splitting and endless fussiness over everything from mustard brands to the pound weight of business card paper stock, but this is the one time I can flagrantly misuse hyphens in place of em dashes without causing someone’s head to explode, and go several days in a row without receiving a work email containing the terms “obviously” or “of course”. Sweet.
Speaking of my job(s), I’ve been more than a little discombobulated lately on my Mondays and Fridays away from the office. Sometimes they just feel like this endless stretch of boring, lonely hours where I do nothing but repeatedly piss Riley off by continually repositioning him away from various pointy/electronic/inedible things. I think the word I’m looking for is unrewarding.
I don’t expect that the time I spend at home with Riley shouldn’t be work, because that’s what it is: work. It’s sometimes wonderful and often funny and occasionally frustrating beyond all description, but it’s work; it’s just that I don’t think I’m especially good at it recently. Now that Riley is so active and curious he needs stuff to do, we can’t just spend our days together in the living room, battling over whether or not it’s okay to chew the laptop cord.
I met Karli for the first time this Monday; she was nice enough to ask me over to her house, and while I visited with her and her two cute-as-hell daughters raced around and played, I kept looking over at Riley and commenting about how he’s never this content at home, at home he would have gone through at least two crying fits and one outlet-licking episode by now. It may have been the fact that Karli’s house has soft carpeting in place of skull-cracking, knee-hurtingly painful hardwoods, but I think what Riley really likes is activity. He’s happiest when he’s surrounded by people and noise, and how JB and I – two of the most introverted, solitude-embracing folks who ever managed to shack up – produced such a tiny social butterfly, I’ll never know.
The key is to get out of the damn house, I think; I don’t want to spend one more afternoon sitting around wearing pajamas at 2 PM wishing Riley would take a damn nap already so I can check my email. I only have two days a week where it’s just us, I should be making the most of that time.
(GUILT! GUILT! GUILT! God, does it ever end? Is there any parent on this fucking earth who thinks they’re doing a great job?)
Anyway, my resolve is to figure out some activities each week with Riley, and to get over my goddamn shyness and do the playdate thing more often (which I hope Karli will be on board for, even though I accidentally cussed while her kids were in the room and also spilled Lime Diet Coke on her floor, jesus). There, I’ve written it on my website and therefore it must come true or haunt me forever.
:::
Random things I recommend:
• The Three Burials of Melquiadas Estrada. Tommy Lee Jones = brilliant.
• The Contortionist’s Handbook. If you like Palahniuk, you’ll like this.
• Prada perfume. Magically delicious.
• The Six Feet Under theme ringtone. Doodle-do-TOO-too, doodle-do-TOO-too…AWESOME.
Aug
6
August 6, 2006
Highway…to…the Danger Zone!
Ride into…the Danger Zooooone!
Is that song totally stuck in your head now because I sure hope so. I don’t want to suffer alone, over here. I’ve had it running on a mental loop ever since we watched the air show on Saturday.
(I had this joke about the other Kenny Loggins song from Top Gun, “Playing With the Boys”, something about Tom Cruise and dirty pilot-holes and sausage-jets, but this is way funnier.)
The in-laws were visiting this weekend, which allowed JB and I to briefly escape to a movie theater where we watched Talladega Nights, which was either fucking hilarious, or the giddy thrill of being outside of the house without the boy – after 7 PM – turned me into the sort of drooling idiot who laughs at the Cingular commercial that runs before the previews. I don’t know for sure, but either way I think I’m sort of in love with Will Ferrell now.
In other news, JB finally convinced me to allow him to clipper Riley’s hair. He promised that he would be careful and that the results would not be horrific, despite the historical evidence fueling my deep misgivings.
Luckily, the boy looks fine. Like a tiny (slightly moth-eaten/suspicious) boot camp inductee.
(Note JB’s shirt: KEEPIN’ IT RURAL. Hee.)
Also, I feel the need to share this fact: tonight, the boy pooped so vigorously it ended up on his shoulder. Perhaps you remain unimpressed? Well then, let me inform you that he was standing upright at the time. Parenthood is a never-ending magical garden of delight and wonder.
(Redneck baby sleeping through the Blue Angels. Not pictured: sippy cup full of Pabst.)
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