Thanksgiving Recap: Quick Shots

Here are the highlights.

TWO TURKEYS (!!) lovingly crafted by the Turkey Nazi Master, Carl.

(only some stuffing with chestnuts and raisins, so as not to scare off those seeking the utmost in stuffing tradition). For those not in the know, it is best to vacate all areas occupied by the Turkey Master while turkey is in progress. Those choosing to disregard this warning in effort to give stuffing advice or offer basting assistance imperil life and limb. It is best to simply clear out and let the magic happen.

My totally freakin-cool pumpkin apple soup with chives and bananas on the side (inspired by a friend at Friends Thanksgiving) served IN A PUMPKIN (inspired by Alton Brown). I am so fancy.

My new niece, Ava. Also, my take-the-picture-now face. I was holding the mask aside and holding my breath so I didn't steam my cough germs down onto the baby's perfect non-diseased-riddled face. Despite my purple-puffy eye circles, I am quite blissful at this moment. November has been an exhausting month-exhausting, delightful, and endlessly amazing.

The first snow of the year!

Apparently, Ava made her great entrance at the precise moment that the snow started to fall.

Wendy insisted on going outside and licking flakes out of the air for as long as I could park my preggo hipposaurus butt on the cold front step.


Also pictured: the Great Dark Blur. Commonly known as Duke the Un-Photographable. He was enchanted by the snow as well. Later, he was enchanted by the random turkey and stuffing scraps dropped surreptitiously near his nose by guests. It was a good holiday for Dog, too.

All the Better To-

For the past few years, Carl and I have had this conversation:

"What are we going to be?"
"I don't know. Are we going to parties?"
"Yeah. I want to. Do you want to? What Are We Going To Be?"
"Aren't we supposed to be smart people? Who are at times funny? And smart?"
"No, the baby ate that. So what are we going to be?"

There is added pressure this year, because how often do you get to be a giant preggo in a costume? Really. But, true to our procrastinating form, we left it til the last minute. Saturday morning, about eight hours before there was a party to go to, I decided to pick a lane and go with it.

Behold, our whipped-together semi-lame, semi-amusing Halloween:


I can't decide what amused me more; the perpetual pained look on the wolf's face, or the basket full of condom treats. These are better pictured here:



(Hey there Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are lookin good...you're everything that a big bad wolf would want...to impregnate....ahooooo!)

A Lesson in Cultural Mores

Or, What Happens When I Send Carl off to the Celtic Faire in a Sexy Kilt with a Cute Kid

Wendy: There was a nice lady there. She had a husband but then they had a fight and I told her that she could come home and play at our house-I have a great idea!! What if Daddy had two wifes?

Me: *laughing*

Wendy: Mom, fights with husbands are not funny. So, okay, I think she should come and be Daddy's other wife, because she was nice and looking for some new friends, and she was nice.

Me: Yeah, that might be fun. Does she clean bathrooms?

Wendy: She let us use her bathroom in her apartment.

Me: Really. Her apartment.

Carl: Her hotel room. We were only there for a minute to use the bathroom!

Wendy: SO, Daddy told her about you are his girlfriend and you live at our house. And then she decided that maybe she didn't want any new friends today, and she had to go.

Carl: I'm kind of insulted too. Like, just because I have a girlfriend, I'm not even worth talking to anymore? I don't have anything to offer, as a person? She totally objectified me.

Me: *bland stare*

Wendy: She can't have Daddy, cause you already have him, right? That's silly, because if she wants new friends, she could share him. Wanna see my sheep magnet I made? This other girl was really nice and helped me make it....

Dear Cuppey-Cake,

We had an eviction hearing to go to on a Thursday, and on that following Sunday, you brought home a piano. A. Piano. Before we found out if we were to be evicted this month. (We were not. Maybe next month.)



You are stubborn like-

irrational like-

utterly confident in your righteousness like-

Some kind of daughter of yours. They like the piano. They like playing it together. It is very sweet.


I suppose that I should say that they are, in these ways, like you-but you are still responsible. Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I'm not the one brazenly shoving a piano into our already over-cluttered home when we might have to move it out again in three weeks because it was free. I shall remind you-we already have three extra (ugly and free) couches in this house. THREE! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Upon considerable contemplation, I have decided that you are more charming than exasperating in this matter. I will not punish you, as I originally planned, by learning to play the entire book of Joyful Christian Children's Hymns that we found in the bench. I think a smashed finger, smushed elbow, and strained back are punishment enough. Not to mention Marc's horrendously ripped shorts, which I won't, because of the PTSD I am experiencing after practically inserting my head into said shorts whilst reaching for the rolling thingie beneath the piano, every bone in both hands perilously close to being crushed...my face moments away from the a high probability of sharing a sharting incident, as he valiantly sweat and strained and quivered, trying to not drop the whole piano on me.


Ahem. Like I said. Charming. I have decided to rule this one "charming." I have actually decided that I like the piano, and you may just be insane.

However. I do require your assistance in putting back all of the stuff that you moved out of the way to make room for the piano. I am pregnant, so I shouldn't really be moving stuff. I'll learn how to play the score of Oliver and some choice Disney tunes while you do that, k?

Love you!
Mean it!

~Mo

Dearest

-Carl,
Though my prenatal vitamins do look much like your Glucosamine Chondroitin, they are not, in fact, the same. Maybe all of the folic acid and B vitamins will make you lactate or something. That would be cool. And teach you not to take random pills laying around on counters.

-Wendy,
Please stop using my hairbrush to brush the dog. Uncool.
Also, yes! The new toilet paper is "soft and wonderful just like velvet." Thank your daddy. Apparently, your bums more than just resemble each other, they are also share some sort of hereditary desire for being powdered by baby angels with hands full of marshmallow clouds and fairy laughter.

-Baby in My Belly:
Stop giving me midnight migraines. Stunts like this lead to names like Ingleborg. Fair warning.

-Carl (again),
Thank you for rubbing my neck while I cried last night and holding me til I went back to sleep. Breastfeeding together is going to be awesome!

Love,
Mo

We're in Deep Kimchi Now....

After staring at each other for a few hours this morning with our thumbs up our bums, we blew this popsicle stand. We had that moment in the driveway, where we were trying to pick a direction...should we go to Target? To Zerns (the big farmer's market/flea market place)? To Cabellas for a kid-sized life jacket for Carl's planned canoe trip of hazardous doom?

We ended up picking Target.

But then, BUT THEN! We stopped at this International Food Market place, that we have been wanting to check out, and OHMYGOD. This place is totally full of international foodstuffs.

I'm talking giant bumpy melons of undetermined origin. Crazy spices that come in root-form, like ginger, but not ginger. Aisles and aisles of noodle packets and dried seaweed and strange little Asian donut dumplings filled with random stuff. LIVE EELS.

Craziness.

Carl did not realize til we left that he was wearing his dragon shirt with Chinese symbols all over it, and probably went tramping through the Asian food place with "American Asshole" stamped all over his shirt, for all he knew.

Anyway. Now we have a giant jar of kimchi in our fridge.

Kimchi is basically pickled cabbage, shallots, garlic, and spices. Sometimes, Carl will roll past some place in his old stomping grounds, and tell stories about his past kimchi conquests. "That used to be a Korean store. Kimchi." "This one time, I stopped at that Indian deli, and KIMCHI." "I had a Korean aunt when I was little. KimCHI."

He also tells a story about how kimchi is traditionally made by burying all of the ingredients in a clay urn and letting the whole thing ferment for months and months. So yeah. He'll have fermented garlic-cabbage breath for a month, but he'll sure be happy.

(KIMCHI!)

The Novelty of Weekend Togetherness

Friday, Carl's mom and stepdad took us out to sushi.

Sushi: A delicate, thoughtful, precise dining experience full of subtlety and grace.

Unless it is served buffet style. There is something really, really wrong about shoveling a whole plate heaped with complicated, hand-rolled sushi into your gob in under seven minutes, and then going back for seconds. And thirds. And fourths, especially if those fourths contain little squares of cake spread with green tea cheesecake stuff. OH MY GOD THAT WAS GOOD.

By "really really wrong," I of course mean "TAKE ME HERE ON MY BIRTHDAY FOREVER."

Wendy mastered eating sticky rice with chopsticks. Also, watermelon with chopsticks. She is a delicate flower. Full of subtlety. Grace.

Saturday, Carl suggested that we finally take my sewing machine down to King of Prussia to the Vac n Sew where I get it serviced, like I've been talking about for three or four years. I abashedly explained to the older gentleman repair guy that my bobbin casing was broken, which had thrown off the timing of the machinery, and the whole needle-end was packed with thread and fabric lint, and that the machine hadn't been serviced in....I don't know....three or four years? "I ride this baby kind of hard." I expected reprimands (like those that I expect when I bring my Ford Exploder in to the shop when it is again exploding through no fault of my own); but he just said, "Cool. That's good. Better than letting it rust and die in the attic."

So...cool. After dropping the machine off, I dragged Carl and Wendy to Trader Joe's, where we purchased a few items to improve our tree-hugging, wind power-loving, granola munching cred. The guy at the cash register had an insane mohawk. Wendy gave him the kind of skeptical look that said, "have you made your point? Great. Now get a real haircut, Zippy." Carl and I tried to show her that guys with mohawks who work in hippie stores are cool by talking to him like he wasn't sporting a ridiculous head, but she was less than impressed. In fact, I think she was embarrassed by us.

Dear Wendy,

WELCOME TO THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

No hippie is complete without blue chips, hummus, and herbal dietary supplements. Our dietary supplements of choice? Ginko and Spirolina. According to Wikipedia, the health benefits of Ginko and Spirolina are ENDLESS.

Carl: "Three layer hummus? What is the green layer?"

Mo: "I didn't really read the fine print. They had me at Three Layer Hummus."

(it turns out that it is Zesty Cilantro! SCORE!)

We celebrated our acquisitions with supreme nachos at the Mexican place down the strip from Joe's.

Sunday (yesterday), we hung out at home. It rained all day. We snuggled on the couch, watched Wall-E, and made cookies.

In celebration of life being good, and our weekend not being the pit of unfulfilled expectations that it usually is, here is a picture of Wendy in a poncho:

Cheers!

A Post About a Teapot

Because this blog is so edgy. And badass.

When Carl and I promised not to buy each other Christmas presents, there was always the potential for cheating.

My mom and her guy also decided that they were too broke to get each other gifts this year. She then very clearly intimated to a friend that a very specific piece of jewelry must appear in her stocking. Or else. In her defense, she had not seen this piece of jewelry when she committed to the "no gifts" idea.

Anyway. Carl and I were deadly serious. And I really meant "deadly serious," not my mom's girl-style "like, sooo serious! P.S: this is a trick and a test, and you will pay for all eternity if you fail" kind of serious. (Given my tendency to either not tell him what I want at all, or give him vague, uninspired directives like "buy me a sweater," I think Carl was just deadly relieved.)

But...slight cheating did occur. I got "us" a firewood caddy for next to the stove, so that "we" don't have to go out on the porch early in the morning for wood to stoke up the fire. He found "us" an awesome green teapot, because "we" had been complaining that the old one was full of calcium buildup and had a leaking, rusty spout that splashed boiling water everywhere whenever "we" made tea.

We are just so sweet sometimes, I could yak.

Right now, I am off to the piles of unsorted 2009 receipts and bills. Look for my next post, entitled "TAXES ARE BALLS! MUSTY BALLS WITH LINT!"

Yay 2010! Go team!

Cheer For All

I sit here at 1:20 on Christmas Eve afternoon in smugness. I am done (DONE!) all of my Christmas crud.

The smugness is made more smug, because as I type, Carl is out doing his yearly tour of the lower circles of the Inferno-Target, the Big W-Mart, etc.-having been informed on Tuesday that yes, sweetheart, there is a Santa Clause, and Christmas Eve is two days from now. P.S.: You are Santa Clause.

Christmas has actually been nice and low-stress for me this year, having no money with which to shop. (OOOH! More silver lining to unemployment! Score!) (By the way, I may have an interview for an office job on Monday! *knocks on wood*)

Fun tricks to play on yourself when you are poor:

Horde gift cards from last Christmas all year, and buy Christmas presents with them this year! I am good at hording gift cards. So, thank you, all you past family selves who didn't know what to get me last year. You made shopping possible this year. My mom even gave me our family gift card early this year. I bought some home stuff for us that I wanted, wrapped it, and put it under the tree from her and my step dad. Nice, right? COOL TRICKS!

And then there is the handmade stuff. I can't tell you about most of it, because some of the recipients own computers and will probably be idly dicking around on them tonight. (HI STEPH! HI JAIMIE!) Back in November, my mom suggested to me that she might want a cabled beret/tam (there was an argument about which was which and if they were in fact the same thing) in cream. So I found a pattern and knitted. And knitted. And knitted until I was cross-eyed and arthritic. She does not own a computer, so I can show you:

Because of this hat, I didn't get to knit Carl the fingerless gloves that he would like, but that's okay, because we promised that we wouldn't buy each other anything this year, and knitting something would be like cheating via a loophole. Dirty. Underhanded. Low. (One fingerless glove may just show up in his stocking yet. We still have twelve hours before Christmas is actually here.)

Since Erin is busy being newly 16, and Carl is busy with his annual pre-Christmas Igottaworkgottaworknow freak-out, Wendy and I have been busy providing cheer. Hanging stockings. Stringing lights. Baking cookies, wrapping presents, decorating the tree. This is okay by me. Last year, I was a haggard school teacher strung out on coffee and working-mom turmoil. Last year, all I wanted to do on Christmas Eve was to drown myself in a large vodka and pomegranate 7up. And I did. This year? This year, I have time to help Wendy hang ornaments at her eye-level and then laugh my ass off at my bottom-heavy tree.

This year, there is cheer. I am actually enjoying my Christmas. So SUCK IT, shit economy! SUCK IT, job/lackofjob stress! I don't need you! I got to spend time making this filmstrip of Wendy and snow and stuff with grainy pictures from my cell phone! My digital camera is dead and requires expensive batteries!



Merry Whatnot, everybody. I hope it is awesome, and full of many happily enjoyed cocktails. (My choice this year: nog. Spiked with less bitter tears of frustration and more whiskey and joy.)

Saturday Snapshot

After day of torching villages and terrorizing the countryside, Baby Dragon curls into her nest and sleeps soundly. She is lulled by the gentle rumbling emanating from Daddy Dragon's snout, and by dreams of tomorrow's conquests.

Monkeys at a Moby Concert on Sunday Night

(Because we are hip, hip, hipsters.)

Me: (about thirty seconds before we see Moby) We’re going to see someone famous!
Steph: I KNOW! And he’s going to look just like himself!

He did, too. Steph and Ryan took us to see Moby on Sunday night. He looked just like himself and we were about ten feet away from him. I am pretty sure that he looked right at me.

Sure, there were only a thousand people there, and he was bound to look in the general direction of ten feet away at some point, but gimme a break, people. I live *this* close to the Pennsyltuckey part of PA. I don’t see famous people. I also don’t do much in the way of things that are fun, and it was exhilarating to be in the city at night. A Sunday night, no less. (How do I still get the out-on-a-school-night charge, even though I have no school the next day? I don’t know!)

The opening act was a woman named Kelli Scarr, and to be honest, I don’t think anyone was initially wowed. She stood there in a shapeless black tunic, her hair in a messy bun, half-crying into the mic, “I…want…to break…uuuup,” kind of like, as Carl put it, “Sinead O’Connor on Quaaludes.” Something about the sincere, vulnerable quality of her crooning compelled Carl to actually rub my shoulders every time she began a new warble. In fact, as I looked around at the crowd, all of the hipster boys were absently caressing the hipster girls. This woman’s voice actually has the power to induce group comforting behavior. We were self-soothing monkeys, grooming and hugging each other until the distressing feeling went away.

Her songs were very pretty, but between the keyboard-synthesized beats and the green/gold disco light swirling around her, Steph and I were forced to conclude that we were at the saddest underwater-themed Junior Prom ever. When she reappeared later-hair brushed, in a dress-to provide the soulful power-vocals for Moby’s music, I was actually blown away.

Dear Kelli Scarr, Don't hold back. Belt it right out. Do the thing you did when you sang Wait for Me. You're better that way.

Maybe people who are in on the music scene will not think so, but small-venue concert etiquette is a little weird. We were at the Theater of the Living Arts on South Street in Philadelphia, which is basically a big room with some balcony space and a bar off to the side. While the sound guys checked wires and fiddled with stuff on stage, I was overcome with that strangers-in-an-elevator feeling. I have been to two concerts in my life, both of them in stadiums, so I felt like the most awkward duck in the pond, especially while the lights were up. Everyone faces front, arms folded, no eye contact. Monkeys in trendy fedoras trying not to start shit with other monkeys.

Once the band took the stage, though, it was all good. We were not able to get full-on rave-revival, because Moby apparently likes to talk between songs, but that was okay. I love Moby music. (He was doing the geeky-normal guy thing. I would totally talk food politics with this guy in a bookstore.) We bopped and swayed and jumped and fist-pumped. When Moby ran over to wail on the bongos, me and Steph freaked out and threw our hand in the air even more. Two days later, my calves and abs are still sore.

I was a little worried that Carl would not like it. Was it anxiety that he and my friends will not ever blend well? Maybe. Not fair, right, considering that we haven't really had much of an opportunity to try it out? He did like it, though. He bopped and fist-pumped and sung along to songs I didn't know he knew. I forgot; he likes things that are bluesy and full of soul and also rock. He confirmed the feeling I had as we spilled out of the TLA at 11:30 on a school night: "We need more of this."

"This" = get out. see interesting things. take part. enjoy life. Be free-range monkeys. Possibly with say-something hats.

This was the best thing for us right now. Thanks, Steph and Ryan. You guys techno/soul/rock my world.

Unemployment: Tales from the Dark Side

or, This whole Staycation thing isn't really doing it for me.

Feeling useless does strange things to a person. For example, on Wednesday, when I made this, I was rolling on the floor laughing:


...and now it just seems like a unsettling cry for antidepressants. On the bright side, Wendy and I had a good time drawing pictures together for four hours and then jumping in the bath, covered with marker. She claims to have had no part in the laundry basket incident, and resents my slanderous representation of her character. See? Innocent.

Carl and I have been knocking around house together; both of us combing the Internet for jobs, both of us scared of what will happen next, both of us frustrated to the point of irrational outbursts regarding crumbs on counters and deleted TiVo. We find ridiculous reasons to storm out of the house-with half-explained purpose, in half-hearted anger, because we desperately need something from the store. A LEMON! WE NEED A LEMON RIGHT NOW, GODDAMNIT! If we don't have a lemon, the enchiladas will be ruined, and we might as well give up now and eat 89-cent pot pies from the freezer for the rest of our lives! I don't want that for our children! To Giant!

It is kind of a mania-coaster that is half-submerged in swamp water, and we are stapled to the seats. I have to remember to breathe at the right times, or the green bile of bitter fear rises up to choke me. The choking makes the lung-full of air that much more thrilling, though. Wendy and I are good together, mostly. Marker parties. Library jaunts. Park picnics. It's sweet. And when Carl and I find something new to laugh about or something good to do that's free, it's like we just discovered Peanut Butter Captain Crunch again. Whee! The the top of the coaster! And there is Captain Crunch here! WHEEEEEE!!!

*Erin, if you are here for some reason, I cannot vouch for your continued mental health, should you read the following.*

We have had pretty good-ahem-relations, lately. Apparently, there is something about the thick atmosphere of suppressed impotent rage that makes everyone want to…pollinate. (I know several scientists that have done scientific experiments proving this. With science.) Which is SO not the thing to be doing when no one is working, no one is on birth control and about nine months from now, we will be either moving and/or buying a house. This is not the time to be pollinated.

It was different before. Before, when I quit delivering pizzas for my 24th birthday because I didn't want do it anymore, and I didn't care where I worked next, I wasn't unemployed. I was bumming around. Before, the news was full of reasons that other people should worry about their futures, while I snapped on my name tag and went to mall to mock my boss and his small, petty life in middle management.

That was a different version of me, who was not wrapped and tangled around other people who depend on my being useful. That was a rootless version of me that did not care if I was useful or not. It is different now. I'll be 28 in a few months. Those four years that have elapsed since the era of willful job-quitting are vast oceans of time zones when you throw a family into the mix.

Excuse me, I have a sudden, crushing desire for a lemon. *storm storm storm*

KAMPAI!!!

Last Saturday, I ran into two of my students from this past school year.

They traipsed into the sushi take-out place screeching, "Ohmygod noway," and we had a great conversation. They oohed and ahhed over Wendy's cuteness while we all waited for our food. They were fashionably dressed for a party; I was schlubbing around in jeans, a purple fairy tee shirt, and beat flip-flops. I poked myself in the eye while their backs were turned to subdue the awkward self-conscious nausea that was creeping into my throat. (Sometimes I need a stab of searing eye pain to remind me that I am not actually still in high school too.)

My order came out, and I was mid-silent-sigh of relief when Carl came tearing through the door with his crazy eyebrows and a bag from the new grocery store across the parking lot. The crazy brows indicated that he had purchased something awesome and that I should look in the bag. "Giant beers," I said, peering into the bag.

"Giant Japanese beer! From a grocery store! In Pennsylvania!" He did a little hop-jig of joy. Carl's hair was even excited about this discovery. It was all escaping from his ponytail and giving him a very distinct mental-patient halo.

(A quick aside: I am totally on board this celebration boat. Despite the fact that most other states allow it, and that PA has recently begun to build casinos, we are still not allowed to buy a bottle of wine or a six-pack in the same building where we buy lunch meat. We are all held hostage by Quaker/Olde German/Mennonite wisdom, which tells us that placing alcohol in a grocery cart right next to pancake mix and laundry soap will surely lead to drunken laundry and pancake parties. And then it's only a matter of time before the incense burning and wife-swapping begins. Only a matter of time.)

Anyhow, I could feel the spark of interest at my back. I could hear the girls putting this picture together for their friends later: "She said that she wasn't sure if she was coming back to school this year. I wonder if they fired her. She was wearing a tie-dye tee shirt and had a bag full of 40's. I think her husband is a war veteran, or something." I hustled my kid and Crazy Brows out of there, trying not to trip over the ruin of my already-thin professional veneer on my way out the door.

We ate dinner at home, at the coffee table. I very effectively drowned this encounter in sushi and Japanese beer. Carl told me a great story about he and his friends getting drunk with a sushi chef in California a long time ago. In this story, the sushi chef told his own stories about living in Japan, and everyone perfected the art of yelling "KAMPAI!" in a hearty, throaty voice while drinking beer and eating raw fish on rice.

Now, a week later, Wendy is still telling us that we need to yell "KAMPAI!!" before we take a swig of anything. Because she's awesome. Because it's good to bring your children up in a culturally diverse household. Because I did such a good job last week yelling "KAMPAI!" into the the void where my job should be before every chug of Japanese beer, that Wendy now thinks of this as the proper way to indicate her approval for any and all beverage at hand.

I can live with this development.

Dear Chestnut Hill Investment Banker,

You're right. It is not, in fact, 2005 anymore. Brilliant.

Let me ask you something. Why is it okay for you to hire Carl to do a job at a rate of which you were fully aware, and then chew him out about the invoice after he has done the job? Because it's not 2005 anymore? Really? Is your national economic crisis somehow worse than our national economic crisis? Does it hurt you to have to postpone your purchase of a second IPhone 3GS for a week or two more than it hurts us to make our mortgage payment?

Why didn't you just build your own stupid shelves or fix your own stupid pipes? Right. Because you are a spoiled freak. You are used to paying others to do your hard work, but very recently and suddenly, the world told you that you are not entitled to twelve times the income your skills are actually worth, and dicking around with someone else's blood-and-sweat livelihood is the only way you can recoup some of your crumpled manhood and face your ball-busting-spoiled-freak wife in bed tonight. You cannot imagine a world where you simply can't afford goods and services, because your clean-cut corporate-lackey head is small and important thoughts like this simply do not fit inside.

I suppose I should feel bad about berating the Cranially Challenged. Your pinched forehead squeezes in on your brain too much for you to produce complete thoughts about how people have whole entire lives unconnected to you. They have kids to feed and hobbies to pursue. They have a great list of things they would rather be doing besides driving an hour to and from your house through shitty traffic to do work for you. I know you don't really understand, so here's what I'll do to help you out. I'll put it in small words that will go in there easier: Shut up. Fork over the F***KING money. Get over it.

Wait-what year is it again? I need you and your tiny flea head to tell me.

Also, you suck.

Love,
Mo

(*I do not hate the rich. I am simply annoyed by jerks.*)

Couch Wars

Again, the couch:house ratio is out of balance. Last weekend, we scored a giant Ikea job that will not fit in Steph and Ryan’s apartment, and put it in our living room. As is our practice, we have retained the old couch-i.e., shoved it in the Christmas tree corner of our living room-while we bond with the new couch. The new relationship with the younger, prettier model might work out. In that event, we will have the old couch as a fall-back. While we deal with our commitment issues, we have two couches in our living room. The new(er) one in the picture is the discontinued Ekescog model, as we discovered online. It turns out that I could have just looked at one of the slipcover tags, instead of fruitlessly combing through Ikea’s annoying website for an hour. Dur. (Also, do you like the My-Size Barbie legs poking out, Wicked-Witch style? Me too.)

Couch time is usually family time. Carl and I attempt to watch grown-up TV, and Wendy wedges herself between us and demands Dora or Max & Ruby every thirty seconds. We think that making screeching noises, planting her head in my armpit and lodging her big toe between Carl’s ribs provides her with a sense of security. It reminds her of the baby-hood she spent in our bed.

The periodical double-couch situation provides the novel option for both adults to lie like broccoli at the same time while watching The Daily Show. In theory, one of us will get a whole couch to ourselves. A beautiful whole five minutes, baby-toe free!

For the proprietor of The Toes, this set-up precipitates an ultimate conundrum: which parent can I monopolize most effectively? Can I do both at the same time? How can I effectively streamline my attention-gleaning strategies to maximize cuddle-time while disallowing cross-cuddling, thereby assuring my genetic dominance over this genetic pool?

Wendy: Daddy, read it again.
Daddy: I want to go over and cuddle Mommy.
Wendy: Actually, I want to cuddle Mommy.
Mommy: You can cuddle Mommy too.
Wendy: But I want Daddy to stay on that other sofa.
Mommy: Mommy wants both of you to cuddle me.
Wendy: Only Wendy.
Daddy: That's not fair.
Mommy: What if I cuddle Daddy over there?
Wendy: That's my Daddy, not your Daddy.
Mommy: True. Also Irrelevant.
Wendy: Daddy is my best friend.
Daddy: Wow. That’s nice.
Mommy: Don’t let her play with your emotions. That’s how she gets you.
Daddy: But-can’t we all just cuddle on the big couch?
Wendy: *flings body across Mommy* NOOOOOOOOO! I DON’T LIKE DADDY!! ONLY MOMMY!!
Mommy: It wouldn’t hurt so bad if you steeled yourself against her wiles.

Living with a two year-old is kind of like having a jealous sibling. If you and your sibling were both under five and negotiated territory deals with third world country war lords.

In Which I Use My Wifey Voice

Carl: There's this canoe on Craig's List. It's only two hundred dollars.
Me: You know, we could really use two hundred dollars for other things that are not canoes. Like closing costs.

Carl: But. I want a canoe. I've wanted a canoe for a long time.

Me: You know what you've also wanted for a long time? A house.

Carl: But...two hundred dollars is a really good price for a canoe. Don't you think that I work hard and deserve a canoe for the purpose of much-needed rest and relaxation?

Me: I love you and I know that you deserve rest and relaxation. You know where you can rest and relax? A house. That you own.

Carl: .........You're really not going to help me justify this one, are you?

Me: Nope.

Carl: Damn.

*two days later*

Nana: I thought that if you wanted some fishing time or something, I would volunteer my services.

Carl: That would be awesome. Yes. When?

Me: We have a new canoe, don't we.

Carl: .............*grin*

I would say that I need to work on the inflection of sour disapproval, but I know that he heard it. And I don't really mind. (Except that we really do need to be saving the dough for house stuff right now. Frack.)

Still Trying to Blog This....

It's been a while since I've had a chance to blog. But don't feel bad, wide world of Internet friends... I haven't had a chance to read a book or to cook a nice meal or to teach Wendy how to play the violin or anything.

In fact, I've been trying to get past those few sentences and on to a real entry for four days.

Teaching is hard, you guys. All right...not so much hard-(if you are into that sort of thing it's actually really fun)-as time consuming and stressful. And I also have that Wendy person at home....

Yeah.

I've been joking a lot lately about how I wish there was a pill for this. The stress, I mean. The stress of making a million decisions all day about where kids should sit and how they should pass papers around and whether or not they should go to the bathroom and which words to use so I don't crush egos/receive emails from parents. And then there is the paperwork. And trying to appear smart and professional in front of co-workers. And portfolio reviews.

Did I tell you guys the story about how I cried in front of my direct supervisor?

It's a great story. It has everything you want in a blog entry: Anticipation and angst over potential failure, humiliation and emotional seepage in place of the blindingly impressive intellect that one planned on displaying, eventual relief when one realizes that not only is one not going to die, but that there is actual approval and understanding in the universe...

I'll tell you that story sometime....

Right now, I should tell you the story about our kitchen.
Once upon a time, Mo had off from work for a non-denominational two-week "Winter break." Carl was there too. I don't know why. Holiday togetherness. That sounds good.

Anyway, all it took was a few days of dewy-eyed, loving togetherness before we started ripping the paper off the walls. Literally. Ripping paper off the kitchen walls and painting them orange. Why orange? BECAUSE. That's why.

Good story, huh?

Here's a picture of Wendy wanting nothing to do with Santa:

He didn't take it personally. She still got some good loot for Christmas. :-P

October

It's been a busy October for us. We've all been working hard and squeezing as much family time as possible into the weekends. We've managed to do some cool Autumn harvesty type things, like drink cider and hug pumpkins,


...and Carl and I even mustered all of our collective creative energy to get a costume together for Wendy. Behold! The butterfly costume from Old Navy!


I didn't say our creative juices amounted to much. Hey, we had to choose between the butterfly, the kitty cat, and the poodle. You try to make that decision before lunch, surrounded by swarms of snarky moms and cranky kids, all rabid for spectacular Old Navy Halloween deals!

Wendy did love the Trick-or-Treating, though. As soon as she realized that she would get TREETS! LOOK DADDY! I GOT TREETS! just by knocking on doors, she was all about it. Her favorite Halloween treat is candy corn. Weird kid.


She got a good haul for someone so short. We came home with that black bucket filled to the top. We-I mean she made out pretty good!

"At last! My manhood has been avenged and redeemed! By my fourteen year old daughter!!!"

~Carl, after he was foiled by the ever-popular hammer-and-bell attraction on the boardwalk six times, and Erin sauntered up and cracked the midsized one twice in a row. She won a nubbly beach ball. We were very proud. (and avenged.)