To Whom It May Concern;
It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I’ve seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.
I’m not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to “fix” this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?
Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth
***
And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe “seahorse female” should be new term of derision.)
Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby’s development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)
Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in ’09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.
Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy’s & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see “Where the Wild Things Are.” (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.
The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week’s Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he’d ask a question, she’d look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.
Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.’s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!
A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy’s help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This ‘having a kid’ thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)
We also saw “The Man Who Was Thursday” at New Leaf Theatre and “Lucinda’s Bed” at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal’s monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.
Tell them Keely sent ya.
Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.
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