momtrolfreak

BAD BAD BAD HORRIFYINGLY ODD BAD ADS: Dude, PETA, WTF?

I am against circuses, so I have no problem with the recent bit of twitter-fodder about the baby elephants. People need to know to go to people-doing-cool-things circuses like Cirque du Soleil and Chicago's AWESOME "Midnight Circus,"which is super kid friendly (and not at Midnight) and includes only one animal, their family dog. I kind of don't get PETA though. I mean, they get attention, for sure, with stuff like recklessly sending non-seaworthy animal lovers out in tiny inflatable rafts to harass Japanese fishing vessels, and throwing paint on people's fur coats and shit. I am with them in spirit/intent if not in methods. And I even like some of their "I'd rather be naked than wear fur" ads (except maybe the potentially painful one I tweeted about this morning), but holy God, look what fresh Hell the cat dragged in.

I was on board with Madonna when she did the whole "Like a Prayer" video, but I'm not even Christian and this shit makes me a little woozy with discomfort.

Jingle Bell RAWKS! (or, A Jaded Urban Buddhist Gets All Verklempt About Christmas)

We haven't really "done" Christmas that much with our kid. We bought a few presents. Last year we didn't even have a tree. There was certainly no Santa Claus, Virginia. We just didn't put that much thought into it.

I myself never believed in Santa (my parents didn't even try to trick me, I was so onto them from Day One), and my husband was disappointed year after year when he didn't get the big-ticket item he wanted (usually involving a motor and the ability to potentially decapitate oneself): he never understood, if the Big Man could bring you anything, why a rough year financially for Mom & Dad would factor into it.

It was partially the lying.  I'm over that now: I mean hey, I lie to my kid all the time:

"Sorry, sweetie, McDonald's is CLOSED today."

"Nope you need to go to school NOW because Mommy has to drive to the office today (he has no idea I telecommute some days. He would be so mad if he knew I was here, a block away, and he could be watching Little Einsteins all day instead of, sigh, LEARNING all the time)

"I don't know what happened to your last cookie [that Daddy ate]".

[Incidentally, I fussed at Aquaman last night for eating Frog's Organic Sandwich Cookies, and told him if he's going to do some midnight snacking to get his OWN, cheap-o, non-organic craptastic store brand sandwich cookies.]

[Also incidentally to that side comment, if you are not from the South you may be wondering what exactly "fussing" is. The best way to explain it to a Yankee would be, I suppose, that it's somewhere between commenting and yelling, maybe a good-natured, not-loud, commentary. By a woman. About something a man is doing wrong. I am usually not yelling at him, I am fussing at him. It falls in the same category as "ugly." As in, "I don't know why you have to be ugly." If I am fussing at my mother about her being out of the freaking country for a year, for example, she might reply, "Oh, stop being so ugly, I'll be home in December." It's all about maintaining the niceties while still getting your point across. You draw more flies with honey than with vinegar, etc. Though why anyone would want to attract a bunch of flies is beyond me. Anyway.]

So back to my husband eating our son's organic cookies.

Aqua: "You don't care if I eat healthily?"

Me: "If you can't grasp the irony of scarfing twelve organic cookies at 2 a.m. while smoking a cigarette, then I can't help you."

Partially it's also been that neither of us is technically a Christian, so we're undecided about how much to "commit" to a holiday that is really about the birth of the Baby Jesus. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE ME SOME BABY JESUS, but is it hypocritical to do Santa and Christmas if you're not a Christian? I'm a Buddhist and Aquaman is agnostic (grew up Baptist and ran screaming), but we were both raised with (secular, half-assed, present-focused versions of) Christmas and have fond memories of it. So we want to do the tree and Santa and all that jazz. We're just struggling, now, with what to do about the "meaning" of Christmas. Can it be about the holiday and renewal and the solstice and spending time with family and doing charitable acts, and not be about the birth of Jesus? I mean, we can TELL him that stuff--I plan to teach him about ALL religions, as my parents did with me--but as far as what we specifically celebrate, as a family? I don't know. I mean, it's not as if Santa has a ton to do with Jesus, right? Santa was not one of the wise men, as far as we know, so the Santa thing is a dubious connection at best, right? Also, trees were pagan symbols celebrating the solstice, so a tree is not necessarily Christian either, right? RIGHT??!!? I don't know. I tend to overthink. But I'm interested in others' thoughts. (get thee to the comments box, down there V). 

For now I'm going with, we celebrate Jesus' birthday the same as we do the Buddha's birthday, just in different ways. On Buddha's birthday we light candles and do a fun parade at the temple. On Christmas we celebrate Jesus' birthday by having a tree and giving presents. Some include Jesus in the secular pantheon (I know, oxymoron) of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. The parallel teachings of Buddha and Jesus are pretty amazing to read, side by side. LOTS of similarities there. So, you know, I'm a big admirer of Jesus'--it's just the one-and-only-son-of-God thing that's problematic for me. 

None of which has anything to do with Santa.

So we committed to Santa. And the tree. A REAL one, for the first time ever, in my house. I don't even have real HOUSEPLANTS, so this is a big deal. I'm fine with it, as long as I don't get too close, or else my eyes start stinging. (NOTE: This is because I'm allergic to some trees, not because I'm all "religion, ow, my eyes, the burning" Though if I get some sort of burned-out cross image somewhere on my body, or stigmata, or struck by lightning, you'll be the first to know.)

And when I say committed, I mean, C-O-M-M-I-T-T-E-D.

It's just not in my nature to half-ass anything. Anything worth doing is worth OVERdoing, I say.

So, in addition to the tree I have a wreath on the door (that I have cleverly converted into a peace sign, see above), and an adorable train-shaped advent calendar that I spent literally three hours stuffing with little candies and nuts and notes that led to other presents (this was part of my $300 Target shopping spree, which I forgave myself for because I had not been to Target in literally three months, at ALL), and a tree in Frog's room (the Charlie Brown one he decorated with his friend Monkey in my last post), and snowman cookies,

and carols playing, and a stuffed Santa, and we're reading all sorts of Christmas books (I'll have to add them to my amazon thing on the right sidebar for you, as well, if I can figure out how to do that, and then if you click through MY site to get there and then you buy one, I will receive a percentage of the sale so small as to actually withdraw money from my checking account) and at night Frog has requested that his bedtime song switch from his two previous favorites, "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music and "Stay Awake" (apparently from Mary Poppins but I only know it from the AWESOME lullaby album "Now the Day Is Over" by The Innocence Mission (see sidebar), given to me as a gift when my son was born) to now, ALL "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," ALL THE TIME. Somehow he is comforted by the thought of Santa watching him while he sleeps. How effed up is THAT?

Not any more effed up than Sinterclaus, written about to HILARIOUS effect in David Sedaris' essay "6 to 8 Black Men."

Not any more effed up than that old favorite bedtime prayer that asks God to take the child's soul "if I should die before I wake." I mean, seriously? Yikes.

Though, similarities abound. Santa is very much like the Old Testament God: there are repercussions for naughty behavior. The stocking full of coal is slightly reminiscent of the whole locusts thing. Or maybe the i'll-take-your-first-born child thing. Which is also like Rumpelstiltskin.

In short, DO NOT FUCK WITH SANTA.

Or GOD.

Or RUMPELSTILTSKIN.

SERIOUSLY.

THEY WILL FUCK YOU UP.

Oh, and, we're also going to the ZooLights Festival, and shopping downtown to see the window displays and Michigan Avenue all lit up, and this Saturday we're having Breakfast with Santa at Macy's (I will hold my breath and pretend it's still Marshall Field's), and going to see The Nutcracker Saturday night (hoping that his love for SYTYCD will hold up for three hours of ballet, HA! as if. We are So leaving that shit early), and then Winter Wonderfest at Navy Pier, which will include ice skating and riding a Santa Train and seriously, I think I have a problem. I went from 0 to 60 in a matter of days.

My interior monologue is SANTASANTASANTASANTASANTA.

Why? Because my kid LOVES it.

I seriously am chomping at the bit for us to write a letter to Santa together.

It's the closest I'm gonna get to praying, so I've got to make it good...

Do ya'll still sacrifice animals, these days? 

Ah.

Just the milk and cookies, then.

Bad Ad: Halloween Edition

First of all, if you want me to buy a Halloween costume from your ONLINE store, try shipping me your little catalog flyer doohickey earlier than October 30th. And try not calling a picture of a totally hot babe PLUS SIZED. I mean, REALLY? THIS is plus-sized now? Really? Seriously.

 

The only thing plus-sized about this model is her ta-tas. Also maybe her jaw. But overall? Normal body type. a "Medium" if you will. Not even "big boned." [Also, gotta level with you, Halloween Party Palace, if a woman IS plus-sized, I can guarandamntee you she's not wearing that pumpkin costume in the background (modeled by a size 6, by the way).]

This seems to go along with the disturbingly misogynistic trend of slutty little girl costumes, somehow. Do we really need four year old girls dressed up as "zombie cheerleaders" in short skirts and thigh-high tights? Or skeleton brides? Or anything that sports a triangle bikini top (slutty little mermaid, anyone)? Even an adult female has to buy a male costume to be a doctor, because in that genre for women all you've got is "Naughty Nurse." Two years ago when my son dressed as Luke Skywalker (a two year old Luke Skywalker is pretty damn cute, I have to say, even though personally I was a Han Solo fan, Luke was waay too whiny, but then again whiny is perfect for a two year old), I told my father that I was going to dress as Leia to take him trick or treating. Even MY OWN FATHER was appalled at this idea because, over the phone, his default for "Princess Leia" was the metal bikini, Jabba's prisoner version of Leia, and he could not believe his daughter was going to wear that in public. Yeah, uh...no. I guess I went for the "Plus size" version: white robe, silver belt...and big buns. 

Once Upon a Mattress, or: A King-Sized Douchebag

Just so you know, I'm not a spoiled person. I buy most of my clothes at, like, Target. I have never spent more than $99 on a pair of shoes, and that was a splurge and they were real leather and they were knee-high boots so I felt like there was more square footage for the dollar. My favorite meal is macaroni and cheese. I have never owned anything that says Coach or Gucci or Manolo Blahnik on it or, now, Tory Burch, whoever the hell that is. But where it really becomes apparent that I do not have expensive tastes is the bed I sleep in (on? whatever.). When we first got married, we were starting college (yes, and no I was not knocked up) and we slept on the FULL mattress set that my husband had as a teenager at home, directly on the floor. When the rusty springs finally started poking through and giving us lockjaw in our sleep--sometime in 1995, when we moved to Chicago--we bought a new, still FULL-sized, mattress set at American Mattress (donotevergotoAmericanMattress). We are not big people (and back then we were even more not-big), but said mattress set--which was still directly on the floor--got big scooped-out places in it pretty quickly. Despite that, we slept on it for, oh, another TEN YEARS. About halfway through that, we bought a headboard/footboard from a coworker of mine. Well, we thought she was giving it to us, actually, because the company had sent her one that was missing a bolt, and she had contacted them for the bolt and they sent her a whole new set, so she wanted to know, when we were moving, if we wanted to come pick up the one that had a bolt missing. Sure, we said. We picked it up. Thanked her profusely. Went home and put it together. And when I went back to work on Monday she asked me for $100. I gave her $50. She was always doing, shall we say, "endearing" little switcheroos like that. Anyway.

Only when I got pregnant did I realize how freaking ridiculously uncomfortable our bed was.So as soon as Frog was born, we bought a new, comfy, Simmons Beautyrest Mattress set. On craigslist. Actually, awesome bed, extra firm. Barely used because the owner realized it was just too firm for her tastes. So we've slept on that until now. And our frame has been an antique sleigh bed that my husband got for FREE and refurbished. So that's been our bed until now. Until now. NOW = when I have decided that if my husband so much as breathes near me when I am trying to sleep I will kill him. 

I should mention: I love my husband. And we get along great during the day. But oh my god, if ANYONE tries to talk to me at night or disturb me in any way they will wish they were never born. 

Enter: KIIIIING SIIIIIIZED BEDDDDD!!!! <insert chorus of angels singing Hosanna, etc>

So, I splurge. I still seek out a bargain, but I buy a NEW mattress set AND a new wooden frame, from www.us-mattress.com. (So far I am very pleased with their prices and their service, but that's not what this post is about. They are great so far, though.)

So, I realize have a choice, I can either PAY them $200 to take away my old bed, or I can sell it. I am a craigslist FANATIC (I have sold baby clothes, baby toys, my maternity clothes, that dollhouse I wrote about on here, my old kitchen cabinets, my old refrigerator and stove....Aquaman is lucky I didn't sell him. Only thing stopping me was the free labor.)

I listed my bed frame and mattress set on craigslist over weekend. Had a TON of people who would have come Saturday and paid me $450, but because the renovation on my building's elevator has gone past schedule (gosh that never happens), they have very strict rules right now about move ins/outs and deliveries, meaning I could sell the bed only to someone who could come weekdays between 10am and 2pm. Ridiculous. Only person who could come at that time was this polish guy Iulian (<-- not a typo, begins with an "eye") who wanted to pay only $250 for everything. Finally after a weekend of no other nibbles for a weekday pickup I relented and said fine, if you can come at noon on Monday, you can have it for $250. 

So our man 'Yoolian' shows up an hour late (because he got in a fender bender in the U-Haul) with his eurotrash sister and some dude he hired at U-haul (you know, the crackheads that hang out on the corner waiting for work?). So he comes upstairs into my home with the guy, who starts casing the joint: "Wow, this is a really nice place you've got here...nice TV." This is when I became really glad I have a doorman and 24 hour security and a buzzer system to get up. They come into my bedroom (you know, as I retell this, I am thinking, "Wow, this could have been the next episode of Dateline") and I'm all nice, asking if he's OKAY after the accident, etc, and then I look down and realize that the crackhead he hired has tracked mud onto my cream-colored bedroom carpet. 

Except, oh, it's not mud....

IT'S DOG POOP. 

And then i realize MY BEDROOM SMELLS LIKE DOG SHIT. 

uguh *passes out* <thud>

So I am CLEARLY not amused and I make the "helper" go wait in the hallway. He asks "Do you have newspaper?" No i don't have any fucking newspaper. Go stand in the hallway. So I'm complaining in my "nice but HINT HINT YOU SHOULD COMPENSATE ME FOR THIS" tone, "oh noooo, if the hallway has to be shampooed I'm going to get fined, PLUS i have to rent a shampooer for my bedroom, this is terrible"). So skinny little Yoolian in his white and blue track suit (yes, really) has to lift the whole frame by himself because I won't let his hired hand back in my house. So he gets it all out in the hall, and then he comes in to give me money and says, "Oh do you haf shange, all I haf is hundthred dolar beels." He shows me and, in fact, he has SEVEN one hundred dollar bills. I DON'T, actually, have any change.

Let's recap, shall we?

Mattress set plus wooden frame beautifully refurbished by my husband, listed for: $450

What I am talked down to because of circumstances beyond my control: $250

SHIT ALL OVER MY CREAM COLORED BEDROOM CARPET: priceless

So he says...

(wait for it...)

"Vell can i geef you $200?"

<insert RAGE BLACKOUT here>

I let him HAVE IT. And by "it" I do not mean, "the bed for $200")

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING MEEEE?!?!?!?!? You should be ROUNDING UP to THREE hundred so I can get my carpet cleaned! What the hell is the matter with you?"

He says, "Eef you vant tree hundred I vill just bringing ze bed back inside." So I say, "Like HELL you will! I have taken apart my bed and slept on the floor for two nights BECAUSE YOU SAID you were coming to get it, and I gave you tips on where to rent a truck from" [U-Haul is cheaper than Home Depot, where he was going to go] "and you did all that and got the truck and picked up your sister and hired a worker but you didn't have the foresight to BRING EXACT CHANGE? Are you fucking JOKING?" Let's keep in mind that he had shown me the contents of his wallet (to prove that he had no change) and there are SEVEN hundred-dollar bills in there.  So then he empties out his wallet and miraculously comes up with $248, so he's two bucks short. So I said, fine, gimme that and just get the fuck out of my building.

I slammed the door and sent them our to hold their own goddamn elevator doors open and hopefully get locked out of the building and have to go around front to get the second load. But maybe that's just wishful thinking.

The GOOD part of the story is, I saw Youssif (one of our engineers) downstairs and asked him if I could borrow the carpet shampooer. He sent Mario (sweet smiley young maintenance guy) up with it and he came in and he listened to me tell the whole story and said, "I'll take care of this for you, don't worry." It took him five minutes and I tipped him $20 and now my carpet smells like shampoo and NOT SHIT.

The even better part is that, after two nights of sleeping on a FULL sized aerobed that Frog has broken by using it as a trapoline, so that I had to inflate it 8 times over the course of the night, the NEW bed was delivered yesterday (just the mattress set, not the wooden frame yet) and OH MY LORDY is it comfy. I got a plush firm, "Monrovia," Simmons Beautyrest. In case you're in the market. It's awesome. I hit the snooze button four times this morning. Aquaman slept through HIS alarm and missed swimming laps. I woke up so relaxed and happy, I'm actually thinking that therapists might not be necessary if everyone had this bed, in a king. I woke up WITHOUT AN ABIDING HATRED FOR THE MAN WHO HAD KICKED ME ALL NIGHT. Because he might have been a-kickin', but he COULD NOT REACH ME. I am in my own little sleep country, folks. Similar to Camelot, it's not allowed to rain til after sundown.

Also in my sleep country, we have high thread count sheets. 

Alarms sound really really far away.

Everything smells like freshly shampooed carpet.

And no one here speaks Polish.

Ego Boost of the Day

Shopping with Frog at Target...

Me: "Okay, in this section we need toothpaste, hair dye, and a new thermometer."
Frog: "Mommy, what is hair dye?"
Me: "It's shampoo with color in it that I put in my hair to cover the places where my hair is gray instead of brown."
Frog: "Why do you do that?"
Me: "I don't know...so I won't look old."
Frog: (Laughing) "That's silly, Mommy, you're ALREADY old!"

Great. Thanks for that. I even let you wear a completely hideous outfit today that you picked out yourself, and this is the thanks I get? Remind me to hide your toys when we get home.

Bats Incredible

Hey ya'll, still recovering from our sojourn down South, but wanted to post a follow-up to say my sister Margot is doing great and was sent home from the hospital this morning.

Also, I just want to give a shout-out to ProFlowers and their specialty/local component, Florist Express, who aided me in sending my sister the most awesome flower arrangement known to man, at least if you are my sister. My family is not big on flowers, but my sister in particular is big--very, very big--on Halloween. Actually, all of us are. Halloween in our house is bigger than Christmas. One of the best things about having a kid, in a long list of good things about having a kid (and yes there are bad things but let's be positive for at least today, shall we?), is that you can dress up for Halloween without being a total douchebag. (I'll have to do a piece on that in October.) I put almost as much thought into Halloween costumes as, say, college applications.

So, Margot was stuck in the hospital for five days and I was already back home in Chicago and wanted to send something. I thought I'd probably have issues sending a bottle of baby oil through the post, so I decided to go with flowers. Normally I'd just google it and end up at 1-800-flowers or something but honestly, I have had not-so-great experiences with them in the past, so, no. Then I remembered I had a random gift certificate from my swag bag at BlogHer from ProFlowers. It was just this random thing tossed in the bottom of the SocialLuxe Lounge bag--no attached card or anything, so I assumed it was for like $5 or something. I called and it was for $50--whoa. But I actually don't technically have to disclaim that I got free flowers because I used the special "FloristExpress" Service which is a separate-but-affiliated company, and the card wasn't good with them. (Though, to be clear, I do still have a $50 gift card to use in future, so technically I do have an inescapable tinge of subconscious goodwill towards the company. But I would not be writing about them at all if they hadn't been so completely awesome). Even though the card didn't work for that transaction, the agent was SO NICE and SO HELPFUL that I just ended up doing it anyway. Because here's the thing: I called them in August and asked them to send a Halloween arrangment, and the agent said it was an awesome idea and that he'd make it work. Most places would be like, "Uh...no." But Alex, nothin' doin'. Alex contacted three local florists until he found one that had stuff in stock to make this arrangement (pictured), suggested by Alex, which Margot literally squealed about to me on the phone.

Like, dolphin noises.

Apparently, it was the highlight of a day which also included her first solid-food meal in two months, so that's saying a lot.

So: well played, Pro Flowers/Florist Express. You have earned my loyalty.

Just wait, maybe I'll call you on October 31st asking to send poinsettias. I know how you like a challenge.

How to Piss Me Off at Home Depot, Method #47,983

So. I'm at Home Depot with AquaMan and FrogBoy, and FrogBoy needs a snack, and thank God there's this girl handing out fresh popcorn in tiny bags, perfect, so I'm un-pissed-off at first, yay Home Depot for feeding my kid, thank you. We get our faucet and our non-skid rug backing crap and our grout for the backsplash tile please God will this be over soon, and then my husband makes the mistake of pilfering ONE. PIECE. OF POPCORN from FrogBoy's bag. FrogBoy, being three, is very good at sharing, but he had a point, DADDY DID NOT ASK FIRST. Three year old crying in Home Depot, my favorite sound effect. So I send Daddy off for a "time out" (to smoke a cigarette in the parking garage) while we check out. The cashier asks why my son is crying and he tells her and she oh-so-helpfully offers the following two tidbits of information:
1. YOU CAN HAVE MORE POPCORN. GO GET TWO! YOU CAN HAVE AS MUCH POPCORN AS YOU WANT.
2. You should stop crying because BIG BOYS DON'T CRY.

Neither of these statements, of course, is true. First of all, it is 2009. Secondly, last time we went to the movies, to see the new Ice Age sequel (review: Eh.), he ate so much popcorn (BECAUSE I AM A HORRIBLE MOTHER AND I DID NOT REGULATE HIS INTAKE) that he had a belly ache for two days. So NO, he may not, in fact, have as much popcorn as he wants. Thank you. Bitch.

And in case you are making excuses for her in your head because you've envisioned her as a kindly old lady, allow me to enlighten you, this was not WalMart, which employs kindly old ladies, this was Home Depot, which generally employs people who can lift stuff without breaking a hip or having a heart attack, and this woman was about 30ish.

Back to my story.

Quit interrupting with your annoyingly inaccurate interior monologue.

So, I ignore her comments the first time she says them and I pay. Frog is not crying anymore, so there's no need to belabor it. And yet as we walk away she says, "Don't forget to get more popcorn! Annnnnnd remember..." she says, as if she's effing Captain Kangaroo, "Only babies cry!"

Everything in my power, people. EV. UR. EEEEEE. THANG.

I just walked away.

Aren't you proud?!?!?

What I wanted to say was, "Bitch, it is not nineteenfiftyfuckingtwo, for the love of god. He is three years old. He can cry every now and then. He hardly ever cries, but christ on a bike, he hardly gets to make any of his own decisions and we just made him leave a playground and come to Home Depot to shop for GROUT without feeding him a snack first and then his Dad stole his motherfucking popcorn, so you know what? He's entitled. But nooo, you have to call him a baby AND tell him he can have all the popcorn he wants, awesome, thank you. Not to nitpick but, babies can't even EAT popcorn. So in your opinion, is he a) a baby who can NOT, in fact, have more popcorn, or b) he CAN have popcorn because he's a big boy WHO CRIES. Which is it? Hmmmmmm? Thought so. Quit talking to my kid."

And then of course on the way home I dissect it: does he cry too easily? Is he a wimp? Were the eight months of repeatedly being bitten by the same kid at his almost-not-anymore school (yay, hallelujah) enough to lead him to a pattern of always being victimized, never sticking up for himself? When he got pushed off the teeter-totter the other day by that seven year old, should I have stepped in as i did or should I have let him handle it himself? (I mean look, if it was another three year old, hands-down, he can handle it, but a SEVEN year old whose parents/nanny/parole officer are nowhere to be found? That's like me against Andre the Giant. No contest. If I were him, I would want backup.)
What to do?

The question I ended up asking myself is this:
Is teaching my kid that it's ok to have emotions, and to let others have a turn and share nicely and wait in line instead of pushing forward, and to say please and thank you and yes ma'am and no sir actually so out of the norm in today's society that he will be considered a total pussy just because he's polite? I'm not going to stop teaching him those things, but should I counteract them too, sign him up for Judo or something? Pee Wee Ultimate Fighting?

Can I just go to Home Depot without encountering these sorts of existential crises?

Would that be so much to ask?

Suck it, Home Depot Cashier.

Sincerely,

Momtrolfreak

2, 4, 6, 8, We Effing Hate to Renovate!

We hate it! Yeah, yeah, we hate it! Yeah, yeah!

So here's the progress:

BEFORE (Les Miserables)

DURING (A Tale of Two Fridges)

Old cabinets removed from premises by nice craigslist dude building a kitchen for his mom: +$200

Craigslist dude also taking and dumping 5 bags of construction debris and a bunch of old flooring for us since we live in a high rise and can't dump it here: $0

New appliances from Abt, the best appliance store on the planet (this is not a paid review, I just seriously effing love those people): -$2700

New water line and electric for new fridge location done by husband: $0

Some more construction debris carted away by Abt dudes just because they are nice: $0

Old stove taken away by building manager: +$100

Old fridge taken away by some Craigslist lady tomorrow: +$225

New floors for entire condo purchased: $4000

New floors 80% installed after one week: $0

Seven gallons of paint: $200

Entire house painted in one weekend: $0

Cabinets being delivered on the 11th: $6000

Cabinets being installed on the 11th: $0

Total price of entire kitchen makeover:  $14,000

How much it WOULD have cost if my husband didn't DIY the whole damn thing: $40,000

Sleeping with your contractor: PRICELESS

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The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem

Aquaman was in a groove with the home improvements this morning so FrogBoy and I got out of his hair (and out of La Casa de Drywall Dust) and went on a "date," just the two of us, to the Pancake House. Because there were only two of us, we got to sit UP AT THE COUNTER. WITH THE AWESOME. SPINNING. STOOLS. You would think I had taken him to the effing Taj Mahal. Except that would be boring as Hell for him.

The ladies at the Pancake House love him. He's been going there since he was 5 days old, worn in a sling on my body. I had to wash the sling later because I got syrup on it. Jesus, that was a long, long time ago. I saw a photo of that first outing the other day. I looked like ASSSSSSSSS.

Okay, so, anyway, the hostess is giving FrogBoy crayons and toy dinosaurs and all sorts of other preschooler crack and I'm checking my e-mail to see if there's any activity from the shit I've posted on craigslist (have i mentioned I FUCKING LOVE CRAIGSLIST? If our kitchen costs us $8000 and I sell the old appliances and cabinets on craigslist for $1200 that means I get to SAY the kitchen only cost me $6000. Fuck you, I round up, get over it.).

I'm not really paying attention to the fact that he has removed the straw from his sippy and is bending it until he gets my attention:

Frog:   Mommy, look, a Zeee!!!

(I look over and he has indeed formed the straw into the letter Z rather nicely.)

Me:     That's awesome, Frog!! Good job!!

Frog:   Zee for ZEEEBRA!!!

Me:     That's right! (Subtext: My kid is so smart, I am so proud, let's make
           all the letters with utensils and straws and scrambled eggs and he'll
           be reading by naptime Monday).

Frog:   Zeeebra Zeebra zeeeeebraaaaa.....

Me:     What else starts with Zee?

Frog:   Um....

Me:     There's a PLACE that starts with Z that's our faaaavorite place to go....????

Frog:   (pause...thinking...then Eureka:) TARGET!!!!!

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IKEA: The Swedish Word for "Bullshit"

Dear IKEA,

You almost had me, you Swedish bastards. I hadn’t seen you in over two years, and I’d almost forgotten in that span of time how crazy you make me. Inexplicably drawn by your bright little androgenous stuffed animals, I forget that almost everything you make is so flimsy that it might as well be disposable.

You can’t blame me. You see, it was Mother’s Day. I woke up to breakfast in bed and a pretty necklace (from Kohl’s, not diamonds or anything, but picked out by my kid and what’s more, bought two weeks in advance, unheard of from my husband, and thus, better than diamonds), and it seemed that the world was my oyster. So I thought, why not press my luck. Skip my kid’s nap and head out to IKEA in one of two far-off suburbs outside the city. Suburbs are the only place you can exist, IKEA, because that’s where the square footage is, I get it, but seriously, a $4.99 table lamp becomes somewhat less affordable when civilized people must spend $20 in gas just to gain access to it.

Anyway, IKEA, you fucker, I should have known. I’m about to do my kitchen, though, see, and it was Mother’s Day and the sun was shining and everyone was in a good mood, and so I thought, let’s give it a shot. This is spite of The Incident, in which we spent $400 on two rugs when our son was a wee crawling thing and we needed rugs, SOFT rugs to crawl on and roll around on and—oh but wait, yes, apparently what we needed was a rug that would disintegrate, so that not only would little red rug hairs get attached to our precious baby, making him look like he was made of Velcro or a new species of mobile Brillo pad, but that the backing on the rug would turn to white powder, so that when we pulled it up to take it back we weren’t sure whether to quarantine the house in a plastic bubble á la E.T. or try to find a silver straw to snort the whole thing. So we rolled them up and took them back, it being only two months after purchase and having used a credit card, and you, IKEA, seeming like such a delightfully whimsical and bright company that we just naturally assumed you would greet us at the door, tsk-tsk at the trouble we’d gone through, and escort us to a table for three to eat lϋtfisk and lingonberries while waiting for you to retrieve a nice, intact rug for us to take home. Little did we know that your “generous return policy” meant within 30 day, even if you have a receipt. PERIOD. No, we cannot look you up in the system. No, if it’s 31 days it doesn’t count.

Real Housewives of Armstrong Kitchens

Advertising fascinates me, always has. According to my mom, from a young age I took exception at false or misleading advertising. When I was five I would sit in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons, yelling, "Based on what?" or "You can't prove that!"  My mother specifically remembers my reply to the part of the Slinky jingle that claimed "it's fun for a girl and a boy": "Well why WOULDN'T it be?!?" Yes, an angry feminist fact-checker, just what my parents always wanted. I did my own tests at home, swishing my father's dress shirts around in mixing bowls filled with different detergents to see which one really did remove stains better. He probably wouldn't have minded this if I hadn't actually intentionally drawn on them with ballpoint pens and ketchup first. I was a one-person, adolescent Consumer Reports test lab.

So, last week I was talking about our upcoming home renovation project, and I mentioned some oddly sexy modeling going on in some kitchen design ads. I still cannot seem to find the particular one to which I was referring, but let's just take a look at these for the time being: two ads by Armstrong Cabinets in different Kitchen & Bath magazines. I'm perplexed: who is Armstrong is aiming for, here, exactly?

Snacks Made out of Cute Things I am Allergic To

Have I mentioned I don't cook? Hi, I don't cook. This does not stop me, however, from seeing a cute snack idea that requires merely ASSEMBLY and spending $20 on shit to assemble said snack. Nothing makes you feel like a good mom like presenting your three year old child with a snack and having him look at you like he is waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the refrigerator and tell him he's being punked. I saw this in Family Fun magazine, a subscription I inherited when my subscription to Wondertime ran out (a wonderful magazine--and the first place to publish anything I wrote--that recently went under, booo hissssssss), and immediately ran out to purchase all the crap I needed to make it happen. I can't boil water, but dammit, mama sho' knows how to stick some chocolate on some fruit. And this gets a better reaction out of a kid than presenting him or her with Chicken Kiev any day. Screw cooking.

Here's the "recipe" (can you legally even call it that? it's more like "assembly instructions"), if you're interested. White-chocolate-chip nose, mini-chocolate-chip eyes, almond ears (i used pumpkin seeds), Twizzler tails. Biiiiiig hit. Boys especially like you to do voices for the mice, and plead for mercy before being eaten: "Oh no don't eat me! Help! Help!" Hilaaaarious.

Besides strawberries, I am also allergic to shellfish. This is where being friends with lots of Jews really comes in handy; no one ever serves me any. However, Family Fun is surprisingly bereft of shellfish-themed snacks.

They also offer no snacks made out of my other allergy, kittens. This must be rectified.

I'm writing a letter to the editor now.

I'm Bringing Sexy Bath...

We're about to embark on a DIY remodeling project: our kitchen. It's not that bad as-is, actually, it's just not our taste. We're more espresso-finish, silestone countertop, stainless appliance, wood-floor type people (rather than yellow maple cabinet, black-and-white linoleum, white appliances, laminate countertop type people). We pay a premium for the land our condo is on (right on the lakefront) and for the preschool our son goes to, and after that, there just ain't much left over. I've been stockpiling cash for some time now (you know: year-end bonus, tax refund, prostitution) and have jusssst enough money saved up now to do this project, but even then, only if my husband and I do all the work. And even THEN, only if I ignore ALL of Suze Orman's advice and throw caution to the wind in regards to that whole extravagant "eight months living expenses in your savings account" notion. Which is a GREAT idea during a recession. I am smart.

So anyway, my financial folly is not the point. The point is....wait.....ah yes, the point isssssss, I am now OBSESSED with home renovation magazines, and as part of that obsession, I've noticed something interesting: there is a LOT of odd marketing associated with kitchen and bath renovation. Very few ads for kitchen cabinets or hardware or appliances feature families or people actually USING said kitchens. Mostly, they each feature one scantily clad (dare I say, slutty-looking) woman standing in said ktichen, with a knowing, pre-coital smirk on her lips. Perhaps it's the whole "having sex on the kitchen counter" thing thye're trying to subtlely evoke (and come to think of it, if one does plan to be doing that a lot one really SHOULD invest in Silestone with Microban antibacterial technology). But other marketing is less overt. Take, for instance, the ad I saw the other day for a discount kitchen hardware site:

Yes, that's right.

My knobs.

Dot com.

I was scared to type it into my browser.

As if that's not bad enough, check out this feature from "Ultimate Kitchens and Baths" magazine. I've never before seen such a blatant homage to meat and two veg.

Does this bathroom seem, oh, I don't know, a little penisy to you?

Or is the house just happy to see me?

p.s. In case you can't enlarge it (heh heh), the copy from the magazine says:

"Elongated Elegance: grandeur, both faded and fresh, touches this classical bath. Even though the tub is squeezed by the narrow room, its fluid lines give grace to the space." 

It's almost a Harlequin-romance-style deflowering, no?

As if Bratz dolls aren't bad enough...

While grocery shopping with Frogboy yesterday, browsing near the Spaghettios (mmm, soooodiummmmm), I spotted the following BUH-RILLIANT new product. I am convinced this is the same Genius Ad Agency that came up with our previously discussed (see April 2009) Surge Protector Doll and I-Have-Stories-for-Guts Stuffed Animals. It's bad enough that this is a tomato-and-meat-based pasta product that comes in the shape of SEA LIFE (uhguh? I can't deal with seafood shaped things that aren't seafood. Even pasta shells creep me out).

But look at what they've called it:

Really, Chef Boyardee? Is this REALLY a word we want to allow to enter the kiddie lexicon? FORKABLES?!?!? Seeing as how the kiddies tend to mispronounce from time to time, this is a linguistic accident waiting to happen. For instance, Frogboy's favorite movie of all time is CARS, and there's a character in there called "The King." At one point in the movie, Lightning McQueen calls that car--McQueen's racing idol-- "Mr. The King." My kid can't do "th" so well just yet, so "the" is usually "vuh" or "duh" or "fuh," depending on the sentence. So my kid has all the little cars from this movie as part of his collection and calls that one, yup, "Mister Fuh-King." It's awesome when it happens it public, like at the pancake house last Saturday: "Mommy! Can you hand me my Mister Fuh-King car?"

"Forkable" is not an adjective that I want my son picking up: "Oooh, that looks really forkable, mom."

What's next...MILF and cookies?

From the Bad Mommy Files: Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

 

It should be apparent from the name of this blog that I'm a fairly Type-A, multitasky perfectionist. I am never late for appointments, have had 4.0 GPA's my entire life, throw damn good parties, and write thank you notes for everything. That said, I don't know who the hell took over my life this week.

In the space of ONE WEEK, I effed up the following three important mommy tasks: