The Bitsy Bug is dozing off a low-grade fever this a.m., which means P.J. and I are finally leaving her alone. Seriously. I fully realize that a fever under 104 degrees truly doesn’t warrant any more medical attention than a cool washcloth, the occasional Tylenol and a vodka tonic, extra limes- hey, the whole house is dealing with the kiddo’s discomfort, okay?- but you should try telling that to us in the middle of Taking Care Of Nora. We have entire, hushed convos In. Very. Clipped. Tones. Tempers flare. Books are consulted. Nora looks at us like “It’s prolly just my teeth, guys,” but her statements go unheard. For she is just a baby.
Sure, people say. JUST WAIT until your kid has the chicken pox/scarlet fever/The Grippe, but no. I don’t need to. I freak out when her boogs are too big for her nostril. A corner of her big toenail bent a little bit the other day and I wept. (Although, strangely, when she faceplanted on her blocks while trying to stand I actually applauded. Motherhood is weird.) Maybe I freak out about the stuff that I should directly control, the things that she clearly cannot do for herself. Clearly she’s on her own for the gravity thing.
So. Weekend. There’s this awesome game we play (no, it does not involve mallards or puzzles- ‘cept when it does) called Neighborhood Watch. Here’s how you play: Push your bed against a huge, street-facing window, turn out the lights, prop your chin on the headboard and…watch. Occasionally murmur something about informing the authorities. Mutter to each other that the Alderman should really put speedbumps on Troy- it’s not a flippin’ freeway! Marvel at the “kids” going out at 11:30pm on a Saturday night. (Sample dialogue: “I’m exhausted just looking at them!” “Boy, they’re gonna be late for mass!”) Translate angry, drunken Spanish. Giggle at angry, crazy-person English. Pretend that noise you heard was a firecracker. Yep. Loads of firecrackers. Awfully festive out there tonight! Doze off- momentarily- until you hear a car speed by. Jump back into position with a renewed zeal and an overly macho “I’m on it.” Wait for your husband to laugh at you, but then tell you how wonderfully stalwart you’re being.
This game can literally go on for twenty or so minutes!
We’ve also been watching a lot of Clean House: Search For the Messiest Home In the Country (2!). Remember when I said how much I hated reality TV? Perhaps I just hadn’t found my niche. Well, here it is, baby! Slobs. This show is incredible. It kinda focuses in on the crazy excess of Americans. We have so much that we could actually drown in our own collections of feather boas and sequined purses. Part of me used to think that in order to get on the show, people would empty out closets, desks, and dressers onto the floors. Then they’d stomp around, all “Look how I hafta live!” Turns out, people actually do live like that. We saw one episode where a woman had never thrown out any mail. Not since ’73. Another guy refused to make room in “his” house for his wife and young son, because that would mean getting rid of his long-deceased grandmother’s things. (In my mind I shot him in the face.) This show inspires rage in me.
Also, concern. I have a lot of hobbies. A lot lot. Sure, I decorate them prettily enough, but I am just one color-coded bookshelf away from an avalanche of romance novels. Also, Foucault.
That said, we’ve toyed with the idea of spilling stuff into a room, taking a picture and pleading ‘HELP’ to Niecy Nash. One part of the downstairs isn’t all that far off, anyhow. That that said, on the commercial breaks we find ourselves sorting bills and doing dishes. And shivering.
Sure didn’t stop us from going on a garden walk/neighborhood garage sale tour yesterday! Okay, the “gardens” were in Ravenswood Manor, where- technically- I do not live. But I sure do live right smack in Garage Sale Central. (As one guy said of his own wares- “Eh, it’s all crap.” Gosh!) We bought a vintage schoolhouse desk for eight bucks and found a small wooden wingback chair in an alley. Sure, it was painted turquoise and magenta. But, if you’ll remember- the inside of our house was originally even worse. Yeah, I can handle a chair. The gardens were fabulous and made me Think Thoughts. P.J. hates when I Think Thoughts. (That’s usually when rooms change place and he has to bring out the Little Giant ladder.)
And a big ol’ weekend thank you to my sister Kate. She’s been redesigning my blog (okay, building a new one from scratch) over on Typepad. She could also, quite possibly, give birth any second now. Seriously. Which makes her Radface Awesome[stretchy]pants. And kudos to my youngest sister Em for giving me free access to all of her jaw-dropping photography for use on the new site.
Leaving me only one thing to say to my middle sister Chel:
Slaaacker!
Insert defensive maternal rebuttal…here.
June 28, 2010 By Leave a Comment
Home is where the Swiffer is.
June 24, 2010 By 5 Comments
My Wii Fit was snarky to me this morning. We have a history, that thing and I do. Back in January it called me obese. Then the boxing instructor openly mocked me. And if it’s been a bit of time between sessions, the Wii console character is all- Well howdy DO, lazy butt!
My “trainer” is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I’m putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.
My favorite tip ever, though? “When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum.” Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I’m an Orca AND a danger to others!
I might start taking my ten minute [a week] cardio elsewhere.
Other household items of importance. Let’s start with the kitchen. I’ve recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You’d think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no.
This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue.
But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora’s always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She’s taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She’ll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she’s eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That’s only when she’s being a show-off.)
I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol’ thing of netting. Which I can’t imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that’s downright absurd. (“Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?”)
So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It’s been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I’ve been sticking with it. And here’s what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here’s what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass.
I’ve been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn’t it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad…and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It’s that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen.
Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.
And I’ll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. (“The other guards won’t show you this part…”) Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.’s favorite nighttime activity of mine is…the continuation of the dream.
I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let’s just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying “Well, go ahead!” And he kept informing me that I wasn’t doing it right. Or he couldn’t reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him.
“What?!”
“You can do it now,” I crossly informed him.
“Huh?”
“Go ahead.”
I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But…I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he “click” the sheets.
“WHAT!?”
“Click it!”
“I don’t know wha-“
“CLICK IT!”
And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went ‘CLICK’ to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.
Sorry, P.J., I’ll make it up to you.
You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.
Maybe a pan scraper.
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