Everything's bigger in Texas

Well, we survived our Thanksgiving trip down to Forth Worth, TX.  First time on a plane with a toddler, and man, I was dreading it.  That's the best part about having an overactive, morbid imagination.  Things are almost never that bad, and, if they are, they make medication for that.  It's called vodka.

Anyway, even though we were up before dawn and on the first plane out of Minneapolis, Sena did really well.  Minimal screaming and wiggling, and was easily amused by the in-flight catalog of completely useless crap that no one ever buys, to the barf bags, and vaguely calm and orderly drawings of what to do when your plane crashes.  I don't think the artist was using their imagination when they were commissioned to do the project.

Who really is calm when the oxygen masks fall out of the overhead bin?

Does anyone ever know how to use their seat as a flotation device?

Honestly, have you ever tried to climb through a smoke-filled fuselage with your gigantic flotation device while other people are screaming and clawing their way over seat backs and aisles that are narrow enough to trap small rodents?

No?  Me, either.

But I don't think the drawings I would make would look like that.

I believe in truth in advertising.  But no airline would ever publish and laminate my artwork to be perused by a half-drunk acrophobe while the plane is taxiing down the runway.

I tell this to Matt, but he pretend to ignore me.

I ask him, "Quick, don't look, but tell me how many rows we are from the emergency exit?"

Matt thinks.  "Umm... Six?"

"Wrong.  Four.  You're dead."

"Why?"

"You think you can see in a crash?  Dude, you have to count the seat backs with your hand so you know how far away you are from the door."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Everything."

We are quiet for a while.

Then:  "Do you know you can fart really loud in your seat and no one will hear it?"

"Yeah, but they might smell it."

"That's what the baby is for.  You can always blame a baby."

"What happens once she doesn't wear a diaper anymore?"

"Then I just go back to blaming you."

I promise the next post will be about our actual trip to Texas.  Sort of.

I'm bringing sexy back.

So with all this stuff about sexting and whatnot, I decided to give it a try.  With my husband.

We've been married a long time.

A long time.

But there is a problem.

I don't text.

So I sent my husband an email instead, and in the subject line I wrote: SEXY SEX

Me: Hey, can you get the number of that roof guy and see if he can come out sometime for an estimate.

Matt emails back.

Matt: Yeah, that is not a sexy email.

Me: I know, but I figured if I wrote "roof" in the subject line you would delete it.
How smart am I, mofo?

Matt:  You can't outsmart me!

Me: It looks like I just did.

Matt: Your mean.

Me: It's you're, not your.

Matt: I don't think you understand sexting.

Me: I don't think you understand grammar.

A little while later.

Me: Can you pick up some ~~~millllk~~~ on your way home?

Matt:  What's ~~~~~?

Me: It's how I say milk very sexily.

Matt: I give up.


On a side note, I only ever received one obscene phone call in my life.  And it wasn't even obscene.  And I didn't realize what was going on until after it happened.  I was in high school and even more stupid than I am now.

Scene: My parent's house in 1990.  Near dinnertime.  I'm in the kitchen and my mom is sitting at the table when the phone rings.

I answer.

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hi!

Me: Hi.

Caller: How are you?

Me (thinking it's one of the neighbor adults or a friend of my dad's or something): Fine.

There is silence for a moment.

Me: Did you want to talk to someone?

Caller: Yes!

Me (in my snotty fifteen year old voice): Okaaaaayyyyy?

Caller: What are you wearing?

Me: Clothes.

There is silence. I still haven't figured it out yet.

Me: Well???

Silence.

Me: I think you have the wrong number.

*click*

As I hang up the phone, I realize what just happened.

Me: Oh my God!

Mom: What?

Me: I just got an obscene phone call!

Mom (horrified): What did he say?

Me: He asked what I was wearing.  I said, "Clothes."

Mom: What else did he say?

Me: Nothing.

My mom starts laughing.

I hang out by the phone, half hoping he'll call back.

He never does.

I am a horrible wretched excuse for a human being, but that snotty waiter deserved it. Maybe.

Okay, I'm not really sure why this story popped into my head today.  Maybe because I'm hungry.  Maybe because the very first posts on this blog were about my trip to Italy.  Maybe because sometimes I remember some horrible things I've done and am filled with self loathing.

This post includes all three.

There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.

Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.

You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"

Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.

I'm talking about a waiter.  In Rome.  A Roman waiter.  Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators.  Or the mafia.  They never forget.

Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.

The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!

It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant.  I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum.  After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.

It was dusk.  It was chilly.  We looked at the menu.  It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good.  I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full.  With locals. Which is a good sign.

The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door.  There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!"  Blah blah blah.  And implied we wanted a table for two.

The host nods and disappears into the restaurant.  Eventually he comes back with two menus.  We think we are going inside.  It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.

But no.

He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.

I am not exaggerating.

We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"

I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"

Matt says, "I don't know."

I narrow my eyes.  "Yes, you do.  They are assholes.  They don't like us."

"Oh?"

"Because we're Americans."

Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you.  It's like sexual harassment for women.  A look.  An intonation.  A turn of the head.  Just a manner of speaking.  It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there.  You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.

Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt.  "You think so?"

"I know so."  Now I'm pissed.  "He doesn't even KNOW us!  That dick!"

After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.

Other people come and are seated inside.  We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.

I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy.  I'm waiting for the check.  And waiting.  And waiting.

Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette.  He smokes and stares into the restaurant.  After a moment he speaks.  "You know, we could just run off right now."

He said the right thing to the wrong person.

"Yeah, ha!  Let's do it!"

He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation.  I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk.  "Hahaha!  Assholes!"  I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.

He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me.  I'm laughing like a loon.

Then a problem happens.  Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine?  No?  Well, I don't recommend it.

A hot stabbing pain enters my chest.  Perhaps I'm having a heart attack.  Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser.  Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.

I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode.  "Uuunngghh!"  I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.

It's Matt.  He's wheezing and laughing.  "Hurry!"  I scream.  "Let's go this way."

I ignore the pain and go down a side street.

It turns out to be a dead end.  We ran up the one road that has no outlet.  We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.

"Shit!"

"Oh my God, we have to go back!"

"They'll see us!"  I really feel like puking now.


Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant.  They still haven't come out to bring our check.  We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare.  I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."

"He deserved it.  Jerk."

"I bet he really loves Americans now."

We both start laughing.

A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."

"Running up the hill?"

"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."

Open House

We put our house on the market a week and a half ago.  In the worst seller's market in a thousand years.

So far, we've had about five showings.

Yesterday, we had two.

Which is annoying.  It meant I had to make the bed, pick up cat hair and Legos, put away clothes and wash the dishes.

I do that anyway, but I resent having to do it.  You understand?  Good.

So the second showing was from 6-7pm, so around 5:45 Matt and I grab Sena and head out for a long walk.  We stop at the playground and fart around.

We get back to the house at 6:40, but we can't tell if anyone's been there.  Usually, they leave a card on the table but not always.  We go back inside; usually I can tell if someone's been in the house - a light is off or on or something looks different.

Well, I was starving so I proceed to make a turkey, spinach, cranberry tortilla wrap with avocado hummus (Awesome!  Thank you, Holy Land.)  I'm sitting there eating and I tell Matt that Sena needs a bath.  Her pants and shirt are filthy (because we do not have a sandbox I let her sit in the garden bed that afternoon and dig in the dirt with her little plastic shovel and bucket, which she did for a half a hour, happily scooping dirt into her pail and getting plenty on her body).  Her hair is disgusting and her face is covered with a combination of drool, sunblock, dirt, yogurt and tomato sauce so that it forms an orange crusty paste.

Suddenly, I hear voices.

I look out the window.  A strange car is parked in front of our house.

I get up and go to the window.  Strange people are on the front step.

I run back, still holding my tortilla in my fist.

"Someone's here!  Shit!  Run!"

I feel like I'm twelve and trying to hide from my dad after he busted me and my best friend having a party at her parent's house when they were out of town.

Sheer panic.

Matt throws me Sena and I head out the side door, thinking he'll clean up the kitchen.  There's a bunch of food out -lunch meat, bag of spinach, cup of milk,a plate of toast and peanut butter that I was making for Sena.  The cupboard doors are open.  Dirty knives and forks and crumbs all over.

Matt forgets to do this.  He runs behind me as if we are fleeing Nazis and even forgets to close the door behind us.

We run over to the neighbor's yard and hide by the swing set.

"What the hell?  What time is it?"

"6:55."

"Christ, why are they so late.  Jerks!"

They don't stay long.

They probably saw the kitchen and decided freaks live there.  The whole rest of the house was spotless - we might as well have put a flaming bag of dog poo in the middle of the floor.

We go back inside, half complaining and half laughing.

"It could be worse."

"Oh?"

"You could have been sitting on the toilet taking a poop when they walked in."

"Yeah."

"And you always leave the bathroom door open."

"That would have been awkward."

Career Opportunities

Conversation with Matt while driving to Easter dinner at Grandma's house.

Me:  If you could do anything you want, what would you do?

Matt: --silence--

Me:  Anything?  Any profession.

Matt:  Hmmm...

Me:  See?  You don't even know?  People always say they want to do whatever they want.  BUT THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY WANT.

Matt:  Have you been drinking?

Me: I only had one..(burp) two glasses of wine.

Matt:  It's not even 3pm.

Me: stares blankly -- So you don't know what you want to be?

Matt:  I kind of always wanted to be an assassin.

Me:  Really?  Me, too!

Matt:  Yeah, that would be cool.

Me: Well, that's what everyone thinks.  But it's not really like that.

Matt: Oh, like YOU know about being an assassin.

Me:  Well, I've thought about it.

Matt:  Where does one learn to be an assassin?

Me: The military.

Matt:  Hmm..

Me: Dude, you need military background.  You need weapons instructions.  You need contacts.  You need top secret government clearance and shit.  Like, you don't meet these people and arms dealers and shit at your kid's PTA meetings.

Matt:  That would be cool, though.

Me:  No, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.  Not like James Bond.  I bet it would be stressful.

Matt: Yeah.

Me: And forget about sleeping.  You'd always need to have one eye open and wondering whose gonna try and shiv you.

Matt:  Shiv you?

Me: Kill you and stuff.  Forget about having a family too.  Nuh, uh.  I think being an assasin would not be very cool.

Matt: Yeah, but you get to kill people.

Me: Yeah, but your employers are probably the very people who DESERVE to be killed.  Not their targets.  It's always these rich, shadowy Dr. No people who hire trained assassins.  You'd be working for total assholes.

Matt: Yeah, probably.  But I do that now.

Me:  Yeah, everyone does.  You obviously did not think this through.

Matt:  I guess not.

We pull up to Grandma's house.  Sena is all ready to receive her second Easter basket of the day.  And I'm ready to eat all the candy in it. 

I look back at Sena, sitting calmly in her car seat, and I wonder how much of our conversation she understands.  More than she can say, I'm sure.

A few years from now I will be able to ask her what she wants to be when she grows up.  Maybe she'll even write an essay about it when she's in school.  What I want to be when I grow up.

And I'll be waiting for that special phone call from her teacher to call me in for a conference.

Expanding Vocabulary

Sunday morning - EARLY
I am reading the paper. Matt is reading the sports page. Sena is sitting on the floor playing with my Santa Russian nesting dolls that I dug out of my ornament box.

Me: Bunghole. (Laughs)

Matt: What?

Me: I was reading this Mark Twain quote about teenagers. He said, "When a child reaches the age of 12, he should be put in a barrel and fed through the bunghole. When he turns 16, plug the bunghole."

I thought bunghole was something COMPLETELY different.

Matt: Yeah, it's that little hole in the barrel.

Me: You didn't know that... you only know that now because I told you.

Matt: Nuh-uh.

Me: I used to say that word all the time. Bunghole. Bunghole. My name is Cornholio and I need t.p. for my bunghole!

Matt: You're a bunghole.

Me: I should bring that word back. Make it popular. Bunghole!

Matt: Stop talking.

After the Fall

Today we are supposed to get a combination of sleet/snow/freezing rain/insert other hellish weather option here/.

So instead of pictures of what it actually looks like outside (drab gray frozen crud with scabs of icy snow) I will post some pictures of what it looked like only a month ago... the blue and gold splendor that is October.






Also some of our family pictures that were taken down by Lake Nokomis and Minnehaha Creek by our house.

Our photographer, Andrea Rothstein, managed to get great shots of Sena smiling, while also managing to make me and Matt look like normal people. We usually look like our (drunk) idiot selves in photographs, so this is no small feat.








Thanks, Andrea!

Happy Thanksgiving

Role Models

Dinner conversation a few days ago:

Me: Sena, do you want a cookie?

Sena: Gaaeeepadoogoo!

Me: Okay, here you go.

I break little Crunchin' Graham Honey sticks into bite-sized pieces. I look at the box, by Nature's Best. They're organic (Yeah!) and I examine the ingredients. I start to recite the ingredients to Sena, who couldn't care less.

Me: And look! It has Elmo on it!

I turn the box and point it out to her.

Me: Elmo's a total pussy.

Matt (choking): What?????

Me: Well, he is!

Matt: You can't say that!

Me: Well, now I can. But later I probably shouldn't.

I add this to the increasing list of things I shouldn't do in front of my daughter. Like burping and farting, and generally being a disgusting person.

Matt: Elmo's a pussy?

Me: Yeah, you ever listen to him? Total pussy. We didn't have such pussy Muppets back in the day.

Matt: Ernie was a pussy.

Me: Ernie was annoying. Bert was anal-retentive. Wait, Grover WAS a pussy, though. Yep, Grover.

Matt: You know who the biggest pussy of all was?

Me: Who?

Matt: Big Bird. God, I couldn't stand him.

Me: Yeah, that whole Snuffleapagus thing pissed me off. (He always disappears right when the kids come back and no one believes Big Bird that he's real)

Matt: I mean, he didn't move that fast!

Me: Yeah! He was a woolly mammoth! Huge!

Matt: Stupid.

I look at Sena and realize that we are having one of the dumbest conversations in the history of dumb conversations.

Because that's what we do here in this house.

Nodine, MN

TRAVELING ON I-90 EAST, SATURDAY MORNING, 10ish. THE BOONIES.

Matt: We need gas.

Mindy (points at sign): There's a Kwik Trip ahead.

Matt: Not for 14 miles.

Mindy (looks at gas gauge): So. It's not even on E yet.

Matt: What if we run out?

Mindy: We should have at least a gallon left. We can make it to Kwik Trip.

Matt sees a small blue GAS sign and pulls off at the next exit: I'm gonna stop.

Mindy: Where's the station? You don't know how far it is?

Matt drives off the highway and gets on a road to nowhere.

Mindy thinks: Why does no one listen to me?

Mindy says: Why didn't you get gas in Rochester.

No one answers.

Drive along frontage road and pass farms and farmers and livestock.

Mindy (pointing at man mowing his lawn with a giant John Deere): I bet that guy has gas.

Mindy looks down and realizes she's wearing sandals and not running shoes and wonders how long it will take to lug a gallon of gas from 5 miles away.

Matt finally pulls up to a service station with two gas pumps out front, circa 1955. It looks like a forelorn scene from an Edward Hopper painting. Except crummier.

Edward Hopper


Reality



It looked very much like this, except it read: No out of town checks. Cash only.

The place was locked and deserted, even though it said it was open until noon.

Mindy (wondering when the zombies were going to attack because that's what the scene looked like): See! This is how people run out of gas! Or get eaten by zombies. Never get off the highway! Why doesn't anyone listen to me?

Matt: It says Nodine is ahead 7 miles.

Mindy: Yeah, where the Kwik Trip is.

They get back in the car and start driving. Amazingly, they make it to Kwik Trip.

Matt (sounding surprised): Hey, it's right OFF the highway!

Mindy: Yeah, that's the point. That's why it's a Kwik Trip.

Sena slept through the close-call and we made it to Onalaska more or less intact. More pictures to come of our weekend visit to come. Plus, Sena meets her cousin Lilah for the first time.

Stay Tuned.

12 for 12

Yesterday, Sunday August 15th, was our 12th anniversary. It went kinda like this:

Wake up at 6:15, hearing the Smooshy babbling in her crib. We call her Smooshy because she's, well, she's smooshy.

Realize it is no longer 100 degrees out. Thank Jesus and Buddha. Open all the windows and let that icy fresh Manitoba air clean out the funk.

Give the Smooshy her bottle. After two gulps she throws it down on the floor. Screams at the cat, who is lying on the rug. She wants that cat. Ever since she figured out this crawling thing she's been on a mission. Mission Impossible: grab that fuzzy cat and squeeze it.

Put Sena on the floor and watch her crawl over to the cat, who promptly jumps up, whines, and trots out of the room.

Notice a peculiar odor.

Change Sena's poop loaded diaper.

Eventually she finishes the bottle. Decide to be nice and let Matt sleep in.
Me and Sena go outside and play.

Around 10 am I walk upstairs and yell at Matt, "Are you getting up, today?"

Matt grunts, "Happy Anniversary."

I say, in my best Cameron(from Ferris Bueller's day off) voice, "Haaaaapeeee Annaversireeee...."

We both start laughing like dorks.


That afternoon we drop the Smooshy at Grandma and Grandpas and go downtown.

We sit outside at Kieran's and have a drink and listen to the roar coming from the Twins stadium as someone hits a homer.

We go and see Eclipse at the movie theater. There are 2 other people in the theater and we pretend we are having our own private screening.

Laugh and make gagging noises every time Jacob, Edward, or Bella says something ridiculous and cheesy, which is about every 5 minutes.

Decide we both like the movie. As we walk out of the theater I say, "Jacob annoys me. Teenagers don't talk like that!" In my best moony voice say, "Bella, I know you want me, too! I can feeeeeeeeeel it!"

We laugh like dorks. Again.

We go out to eat at an over-priced fancy Italian restaurant. I order an overpriced bottle of Barbera. It is good. So is the meal. We both decide that every anniversary we will go out to dinner because we both suddenly realize that we no longer can go out whenever we feel like it. Or do whatever the hell we want whenever we want to.

Not that we ever did, anyway.

I think about this and decide I'm okay with it. I also decide I'm pretty lucky to have been married to someone who gets my jokes. Or at least does a good job pretending he does.

"What happened these past 12 years?"
"I don't know. It went by fast."
"Well, the first couple didn't."
"Huh?"
"You know what I mean. They were long years. Looooooong."
"But not anymore?"
"Nope."
"Is that good?"
"I don't know. I'm old."
"God, we ARE old."

We laugh like dorks. Again.

Brief History of the Flood

It was a dark and stormy night. (Last Friday)

I had just put Sena to bed.

Matt left to go play poker.

ENTER THE RAIN.

More rain.

Then some more.

Add some hail. Plink! Plonk! Plunk!

Then I heard a different sound. Not lightning. Not thunder. Not a crying baby.

It was the sound of a giant tree limb hitting the ground. CRAAACK! Whoosh! Thud!
I didn't know what it was at first, so I had a few thoughts in my head. Actually, only one: "What the hell was that?"

I ran to the window and saw the tree limb. A biggin. Landed on the sidewalk and thankfully not a car. It would have crushed a car. As I'm contemplating this my eyes are suddenly draw to a sight I was unprepared to see.

A geyser.

A geyser was geysing! Is that a word? I don't know, but that's what it was doing. It was the manhole in the intersection at the end of the street. I actually ran outside into the driving rain to watch it, my mouth agape. A geyser! We got Old Faithful in the middle of South Minneapolis. It shot up once, blowing the manhole up into the air. It gushed again. The third time it went over ten feet high.

I thought, "Holy Shit!"

I wasn't the only one that saw it. And while I stood like an idiot in the rain I watched as it took approximately 2 minutes for the entire street to flood.

Our street has done this before. It's low on our end and the storm sewers can't handle massive amounts of water. The last time it was bad was five years ago. But this time I have pictures of it.

Because our neighbors hadn't been here when that flood happened and I noticed they had cars parked out front I ran next door to warn them. They had seen the whole thing and were in the process of getting on their galoshes to go move them. By this point the water is halfway up the tires on the cars.

"Better move them!" I say. Because I still have the memories of what happened five years ago in October.

SCENE: 5 YEARS AGO (OCTOBER) NIGHT

There had been a heavy rain all day. I remember because my brother was flying into Minneapolis that night. He was coming back from a trip in Scotland. He'd been gone two weeks and I was going to pick him up from the airport.

Because of the rain the flight was delayed. And delayed.
And delayed.

I stop checking at the airport and wait until he calls me to say he's arrived. It's about 9pm. It's still raining.

I fall asleep on the bed holding the phone.

At 9:45 I awake to a heavy pounding on the door. I'm disgruntled, and stumbled downstairs, thinking, "What the fuck?"

I open the screen door. It's still raining.

I see my neighbor. And some other dude. They're both soaking wet.

"Is that your car out there?"

"Huh? What?"

"Your car?"

I peer out into the dark. The street looks weird; it's all shiny and shimmery. I rub my eyes and see the reason the street looks weird is because it is now a lake of water.

I'm still confused. "No, I don't have my car out front."

Then I have a horrible thought. A terrible thought. Mindy had a horrible, terrible thought.

My brother's car is out front.

I see it. A maroon station wagon island. In the middle of the lake.

I run outside without putting shoes on. I run toward the lake, run into the water, screaming like a loon. I keep repeating one thing.

"My brother's going to fucking KILL me!"

I don't even feel the water. I'm wearing sweatpants and suddenly they are all soggy. Then I remember something. "Shit! I need keys!"

I run back to the house. Matt is standing at the door, taking in the scene. I wave my arms like a baboon on meth. "Bucket! Keys! I need a bucket! Bucket! What are you doing? I need a fucking bucket!"

Matt looks at the lake with the dispassion of a stoic. He disappears while I run back to the car with the keys.

I get the door open and when I sit down to start the car my butt freezes. I'm sitting in water. I don't start the car. For some reason I'm afraid it will blow up. I put it in neutral and my neighbors push me out, back up toward the high end of the street. I sit there like a ninny with my ass in the water, trying to think.

Then I get out. Open the doors and start scooping out the water with my hands. Like a ninny.

Matt shows up with a small plastic cup. He is wearing his swim trunks and water socks. Talk about presence of mind.

I look at the idiotic cup. "I need a fucking bucket!" I think I say the F-word about fifty times, in various incantations.

"Does the car start?"

"I don't know. I haven't tried it."

I try it. It starts. I drive around to the back and park it by the garage. I get out and look at it. "Shit! He's going to kill me."

We had just gotten a shop vac, thank God. I start using it. Trying to suck the water out. It is slow going but it does work.

Eventually my brother shows up. He took a cab from the airport. I think by now it is almost midnight. Luckily, he doesn't kill me. He actually doesn't seem that upset, probably because he thinks his car is okay.

His car is not okay.

After a long involved story, the car is totalled. The electrical system is ruined. He tells me it's fine because the insurance will cover it and he said he wanted a new car anyway. I still feel like a shithead. Right now, typing this, I still feel bad about it.

But anyway, that's the story. And here are the pictures, which weren't as bad as the storm from 5 years ago. Sena slept through the whole thing and missed it.

Bump in the Night

I've always been a light sleeper.

I like to sleep. But I'm also easily awakened.

By a weird thump. Or knock. Or ticking noise. Or a humming sound that only dachshund could hear.

Matt could sleep through the sound of a 747 landing on the back of a fire truck that is screaming down the street to put out the inferno that resulted from the Fireworks manufacturing plant explosion.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

This annoys me.

In the morning, sometimes he'll say something like, "Gee! Sena must have slept really good last night."

"You mean you didn't hear her cry at midnight, 2:15, 3:45, and 5:02?"

"Huh? No."

Sometimes I have dreams that she is crying and I wake up. I think I could hear her whimper through the sound of a tornado.

But the other night I didn't wake up to the sound of Sena. It was a different sound. A sound I had heard before, but was just as bad, if not worse, than a crying baby.

"Huaaah... Huaah......Hurrrrrghkk...Guuurrrrch.... HUUUAAAAACK!
BLAAAUUUUUUURRRRRRCKKKK!"

It is the distinct haunting melody of a cat puking somewhere in the darkness.

Somewhere in the room. Somewhere on the carpet. Barfy old cat puke.

Normally I would switch on the light, jump up and go, "Oooh God! No! Stop it! Dammit, you shit, I told you not to eat that grass! Shit! Shitters! Shitty Kitty! Oh, Jesus Christ amighty..."

Then I would run and get paper towels and Resolve carpet cleaner.

Now I have changed.

I didn't jump up swearing. I have no energy for that anymore.

Instead, I make a mental note. "Try not to step in cat puke when you get up." Then I roll over and go back to sleep.

When I get up in the morning I see that the cat barfed on the landing of the steps to go downstairs. Right in the middle of the landing. And yes, it has a bunch of grass in it. Somehow I was lucky enough to completely dodge it with my bare feet when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Sena.

Matt wakes up and thinks that Sena was such a good baby because he didn't hear her make a peep at all during the night.


I debate leaving the cold cat sick there so that Matt can step in it.

The cake is on fire

This past weekend we celebrated three birthdays.

Matt: 36
Will: 16
George: 2

To celebrate all in one fell swoop, the entire passel headed to The Cheesecake Factory for dinner, or what I call: The place with the never-ending menu.

Seriously, have you seen their menu? It's a book. A picture book of food, drinks, and advertisements for no-wrinkle pants and denture cream.

Because I'm still trying to get off the last few pounds of baby weight I ordered the "Weight Management" salad, which said it was under 590 calories.

590 calories. For a salad. Which makes me wonder what the hell is in the other dinners. A tub of Crisco?

Well, the salad was huge so I only ate half. I made up the other calories by drinking wine. Oh well.

Sena behaved herself. Though it wouldn't matter if she screamed her head off in that place. It sounds like drunk soccer hooligans took over the jet engine test room at NASA. Somebody could get shot in that place and you would think it was just the busboy dropping a bucket of silverware.

So Sena alternated gnawing on her toys and then throwing them on the floor. Matt went to the restroom several times to wash them. Lesson learned: Always bring anti-bacterial wipes. Or a shitload of toys.

Then we went home to open presents. Matt who is 36, going on 12, got golf balls, wiffle baseballs and a really neat wiffle ball bat.

We got George a book and a solar system puzzle. I still feel sorry for Pluto, who is no longer considered a planet.

For Will, who is 16 today, Matt found a funny book called: 400 Secrets of Chuck Norris. Or something like that.

The problem was that Matt didn't READ the book he bought a sixteen year-old boy.

I did.

As I was getting ready to wrap it I decided to read it. I had heard a few funny Chuck Norris lines before.

Chuck Norris doesn't sleep. Chuck Norris waits.

Chuck Norris counted to infinity. Twice.

The boogey man checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas to bed.


I opened the book and read a really dirty anecdote about Chuck Norris. REALLY DIRTY.
They used words that rhymed with Chuck but started with the letter F.

Then I walked into the other room.

"Umm, Matt? Did you read this book?"

"Huh?"

"You didn't read this book, did you, before you bought it?"

"No, why?"

"Uhhh, maybe you should read this..."

"Oh. Oh! That's pretty bad."

"Yeah, I don't think you want to give a teenage boy this book. At least not in front of his mom."

"Probably not."

"I still have the receipt. You can take it back."

"Ummmm...."

"Or are you going to keep it for yourself?"

"Mmm... maybe for myself."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

A Mad World

So I've just started watching this show on Netflix called Mad Men. You may have heard of it.

I don't know why they call it that. (Actually, I do because they explained why). But I think a better title would be: The Smoking and Drinking Show.

It's about smoking and drinking. And drinking and smoking. Plus a little about advertising in the sixties. Plus smoking...

Seriously, I felt like I had a hangover after watching the first episode.

I had to ask my parents when they visited if it was really like that. With the smoking and drinking and drinking and smoking.

Short Answer: Yes.

Long Answer: Oh God, yes!

No wonder everyone was thinner. I think I lost my appetite just SEEING all that smoke. Because you just can't stuff Krispy Kremes in your gob when you are busy puffing on Lucky Strikes every two minutes...

No wonder no one made it past sixty.

But anyway, it's a good show. Besides the drinking and smoking it is insane the way women were treated, let alone any other minorities.

I asked my mom if it was like that. Now, my mom graduated high school in 1970 and she did public relations for the S.C. Johnson company. You know, the Glade people? (I have a whole separate story about growing up with Pledge and Glade products). She worked in an office designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and she even said the chairs were designed by Mr. Wright with only three legs. She said you had to sit on them properly or you would tip over. Another way to keep people from falling asleep at their desks. And another reason Frank Lloyd Wright is considered a genius. An evil genius.

Confession: I still remember going into the S.C. Johnson office building as a kid and looking up and seeing these giant lily pads soaring up to the ceiling. I thought I was on some weird spaceship and it creeped me out - the reason why today I don't really care for that style of architecture. Also, everything was seventies burnt orange. And not a good burnt orange.




So I asked her: Were men that bad?

Short answer: Yes.

My dad didn't have any experience with that culture since he worked in manufacturing and didn't work with women, but my mom definitely said men talked to her like that and there was not much they could do about it.

But back to the smoking and drinking show. Good God.
Now, I'm one of those people who has a hard time separating facts with fiction.

Case in point, when Betty Draper wakes up and gives her husband Don a passionate kiss, I'm revolted. Not because I'm eight and think kissing boys is gross.

Because she just woke up. In the morning. And smoked a Kent. And made out with her husband whose breath has to be nearly as bad as hers. This is what I'm thinking when I see stuff like this: "Eeew! Morning breath! NAAAASSSSTEEEEEE!"

I would never do that.

I would never make out with Matt after I just woke up. I might as well be licking a toilet seat - a public one. That's how appealing that idea sounds. Sometimes when he breathes on me in the morning I think that someone has slaughtered a cow. Three weeks ago. And stuffed it with load of rotten fish. And cat turds.

And I know my breath probably isn't much better. So it bugs me when I see stuff like that in movies. Because it isn't realistic. I can't help it.

This is me when I'm watching a period piece movie. You know, one of those victorian romances with the bodices and knights and ladies. The romantic ones? This is my commentary watching one of those sexy scenes.

Me: Why are her legs shaved?

Matt: What?

Me: Her legs. And her armpits. What year is this? She's supposed to be all hairy. People didn't shave back then.

Matt: I don't want to look at hairy armpits.

Me: And they must just stink. I mean, they never take baths. They never brush their teeth. I bet they don't even have toothbrushes! Yuck. I bet their teeth would be all rotten and black and nasty.

Matt: It's a movie...

Me: Oh, and the sheets! Look at them rolling around in those sheets. I bet they didn't wash those either. I bet they have lice. At least bed bugs... Man, that is gross! Oh man, I bet they are just INFESTED. Bleck! It must stink in that room like a sewer. And they poop in chamber pots by the bed!

Matt: Thanks for that thought.

A little while later.

Matt: Where are you going?

Me: I'm gonna change the sheets.

My little pretty

So of course Sena is the prettiest baby in the entire world. So says Matt.

These are the things she hears on a daily basis.

"Oh, you are the prettiest baby ever. EVER!"

"Could you get any cuter? You just did!"

"How could a baby be so pretty?"

"Is there any baby cuter than you? No! It's impossible."


Now, she doesn't really know what he's saying. Yet...
And she is really cute.

But then I worry. Because that's what I do. She's not even five months old and I worry that she will develop some "cute" complex. And turn into a brat. A cute brat who knows she's cute and therefore can get away with being a brat.

Because she's so cute.

I never grew up thinking I was cute. My parents (thankfully) never commented on my looks or lack thereof. At least, not that I can remember. I didn't really think of myself at all, not until about sixth grade when I went to a new school and realized that I wasn't wearing the "right" clothes. (More on that later).

So I never had an inflated sense of self-esteem. It's kind of hard to go around thinking you're hot stuff when you have an older brother who makes witty observations like, "Is that your face or did your neck throw up?"

Thanks, Jimmy, for keeping it real.

So I told Matt that I didn't want Sena to be hearing how cute she was all the time because it might warp her baby brain.

He thinks about this as I walk back into the kitchen.

Two seconds later I hear him say, "Who has the BEST PERSONALITY in the whole world? Baby Sena does!"

Tool Time

Because we are getting our house ready to sell, (Yes, really...) we have had to finish up on a few home improvement projects.

And because for the past nine years I have been the instigator for all these projects, I decided I'm tired of it.

So I said as much.

"I think you really want to kill me."
"Huh?"
"Seriously. Just do it."
"What are you talking about."
"You want to move now?"
"I think we should."
"Why didn't we move before the baby showed up?"
"Because we didn't need to then."
"But we do now?"
"I think so."
"Jesus..."

I think about all the work that has to be done. All the boxes to be packed. How much crap we have to sift through. I feel a little sick.

"I think you want to give me a stroke."
"You're funny."

So because our house goes up for sale this week, yesterday we spent the afternoon at Home Depot picking up a few things that we needed. Actually, I let Matt figure out what kind of baseboard molding he needed to get while Sena and I hung out in the tile aisle and I showed her different samples of mosaic glass tiles I thought would look good on the backsplash.

Sena said, "Eeeeeahhhh! Blurraaaaack! Eeeeech!" Which could translate to the following:

Pretty!
Ugly!
Hi!
Feed me!
Why are you asking me, lady? I'm a baby!

That afternoon Matt impressed me by wiring a new light fixture, spackling concrete, and cutting molding with a mitre saw without cutting his fingers off.

"Who are you?" I asked him.
"I'm a man! I'm doing man things!"
"Are you going to start grunting now?"
"Get me a beer, woman!"
"How bout a Fresca?"
"Beer! Men drink beer!"
"You are so hot right now..."

Labor Day : Part 1

Today marks 1 week of my daughter's birth. She's been here a WHOLE week; it's hard to believe. It's also hard to believe how fast a day goes by when you seem to be doing nothing. Nothing other than feeding and changing diapers and saying, "Go to sleep little baby..."

Despite her having a real name I've been calling her the following:

Peanut head
Pumpkin head - and its corollary: Pumpkin doodle
Squeak monkey
Poopiebaby
Piggiepie

and Smalls

She is small. But loud. And strong. And can fill a diaper like nobody's business.

So far this past week has been busy. People visiting. Her first doctor's appointment. Going outside for a walk around the block.

I knew she was going to arrive before her due date, so last Friday I had a hunch after I visited the doctor. I cleaned out my desk. Typed the very last page of the novel, and printed it out. Then I went home and cleaned. Friday night I had mild contractions. I knew what they were; it wasn't a result of eating too much chili.

The next morning they were still there. So I spent the day doing all the laundry, vacuuming, and mopping of floors. I scrubbed the bathroom and the kitchen sink. I was rushing around like a squirrel on Meth. Faster, faster, more, more. Gotta get it done before... I was acting as if I would never again be able to clean my house or fold towels or have things put in order, ever again, which for a person like me is like telling a boozer they'll never have another taste of whiskey for the rest of their life.

That afternoon we went over to visit the nephews and have dinner. Pork chops and mashed potatoes. Pumpkin pie. Around pie time (6 pm) the contractions got stronger.
They went from being a cramp that was annoying, to a cramp that could hurt a small farm animal. Say a chicken or a duck. Bad enough to make me close my eyes and change my breathing.
I knew it was going to get worse.

Around 7:30 I told Matt I wanted to go. Go home. I didn't want to be in a situation where I would frighten my in laws with my drunk trucker swearing. I wasn't quite sure what I was capable of or how bad it was going to get.

In the car I said to Matt. "Whatever I do, ignore me. Just concentrate on what you're doing."

During the fifteen minute trip, the cramps progressed from Chicken/duck strangulation to Goat/Pig. I think I actually moaned at one point. A loud, ugly moan. A moan that would make someone think, "Someone is eviscerating a very angry donkey."

And by the time we got home and I was laying in bed, rolling around like Linda Blair, the contractions had progressed to something that would eviscerate a donkey.

I tried my breathing. It worked. Sort of. Time seemed to lose meaning. It narrowed down into segments of 9 minutes. Then 7 minutes. Then 6 minutes. The labor sheet I had received said that the contractions should be about 5 minutes apart, very uncomfortable, and last an hour.

Is donkey evisceration the same as being uncomfortable?
I'm going with yes.

I called the clinic and talked to the midwife. She said if I wanted I could go to the hospital and have them check.
At this point I was wanting to pop out of my skin. I didn't want to be at home anymore. I wanted the hospital. Where there were professionals.

Matt asked me if I wanted to wait any longer at home. I think I could only say, "I want to go. Now!"

So we went.

By now it was almost midnight.

Our neighbors were outside, sitting around the bonfire and drinking wine. I staggered to the garage and got in the car. As we drove past I knew they knew where we were going.

It was baby time.

Up next: The hospital

38 Weeks

INT Evening - Basement Family Room

Matt and Mindy are watching an old Seinfeld rerun.

Mindy: So about how much do you weigh?

Matt: Probably 175.

Mindy (aghast): What?

Matt (watching George Costanza act like a jerk): What. What.

Mindy: Are you sure? I mean, you must weigh at least 180.

Matt: No, maybe a few years ago. I'm pretty sure it's 175.

Mindy: But you don't know. I'm sure it's more.

Matt: Who cares?

Mindy: I went to the doctor last week.

Matt: Yeah?

Mindy: I weighed 174.6 lbs.

Matt (weirdly impressed): Oooh, good job, Moo-moo.

Mindy (voice rising): I CAN'T weigh more than you. I can't!

Matt: Huh?

Mindy: It's just not right. It's not right. You're six feet tall. You're taller than me.

Matt: Yeah.

Mindy: SO I CAN'T WEIGH MORE THAN YOU!!!! It's wrong.

Matt: Oh well.

Mindy: If I laid on you, would you be able to push me off?

Matt: I don't know.

Mindy (forlornly): Probably not. I would smother you. Would you still love me if I stayed humongous?

Matt (smiling): Probably not.

Mindy: You are a horrible person.

Matt: Maybe. But I'm not a chubby chaser.

Matt starts laughing as if this is the funniest thing ever said in the history of mankind.

Mindy: I still think you weigh 180.

Matt: Whatever makes you feel better.

Mindy: I said, 180!

END SCENE

Hot Fuzz and Cold Nights

"Minneapolis 911, what is your emergency?"
"Um yeah... Uh, there's some drug dealing going on. Outside my house."
"What is your address?"
"XXXX Avenue."
"What is happening?"
"Well, um, yeah, there's this guy. In a Black Chevy Blazer. And yeah, he's definitely dealing drugs. Another car pulled up, went over, did their thing, then he drove off."
"What is happening right now."
"He's just sitting in the car. The engine's running. Looks like he's waiting for more customers. I can't see the license plate."
"How many people in the car."
"I don't know. The windows are tinted dark. I can't see in."
"Where is he parked."
"Directly outside my house, on the other side of the street."
"Okay, we'll send a car."
"Okay, thank you."

Matt: It think it's a Chevy Tacoma.
Me: It looks like it says 'Blazer'.

We are both peering out of the window, but we don't want the drug dealer to see us.

"I wanna see some shit go down!"
"Yeah, I wonder what's going to happen. Should be close; cops always hang out at that coffee shop on the corner."

A few minutes later a patrol comes down the street. He passes the Black Chevy. I watch from the living room. Matt goes into the bedroom.
"Where did the cop go?" I ask.
"He's sitting at the stop sign. Idling."
"Ooooo, wonder what Mr. Druggie's thinking?"
"The cop is turning right."

The cop goes around the block and makes another pass. I don't know what they are allowed to do. I think they are trying to bait him; to see where he goes. It's like watching some game of psychological Chicken.

After the second pass and the cop car turns again, the guy opens up the car door, like he's getting out.
"Is he tossing something?"
"I don't see anything."
He gets back in and backs up down to the stop sign. At the stop sign he turns around and then takes off up the street.
A few minutes later the cop is back, but the guy is gone. I have an urge to run out the door and yell, "Hey Po-Po! They went north!"

We then get ready to leave to go to the block party down the street. We walk outside.
"Hey, should we go check and see if he threw anything in the street."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Maybe a baggie of crack!"
"Okay..."
We head down the sidewalk and see another cop car pull up. Two officers get out.
I walk over, "Hey, I think I just called you guys."
"You called about the threat?"
"Huh? NO. I called about the drug dealer."
"Oh,yeah I think I heard that on the dispatch."

Apparently, these guys are on a completely different call. Something about threats. THREATS? They knock on a neighbor's door but Matt and I decide not to stick around. We have a shrimp boil and block party to go to. We shuffle down the street; I'm carrying my orange pumpkin cookies.

"Man, our street is hoppin' tonight."
Matt nods. "It's Saturday night, baby."

Piggy Flu

By now most people have heard all about the piggy flu, or H1N1. It's not actually the swine flu, but I like to say "piggy". Since school starts next week, and the campus will be inundated with thousands and thousands and THOUSANDS of people, the university has been gearing up to prevent what they think could be a massive outbreak.

Normally I would not be concerned.

I can count on one hand the number of flu shots I have received as an adult. Two.

I have never had the flu.

I've had stomach bugs and food poisoning and colds, but never the flu. And the more I hear about what it's really like, the more convinced I am that I really don't want it.

Plus, the baby Moo is coming soon. And I have to decide what to do because little tiny babies cannot get flu shots.

Which means everyone else has to.

When I told Matt this, I might as well have told him that he had to eat a turd sandwich. "But I hate needles!"

"Me too. Too bad."

"But I never get sick." It's true, he doesn't.

"Too bad, you HAVE to get one. I think it's two shots."

"TWO SHOTS?"

"Plus another for the seasonal flu."

"Whaa-haaa-aat?"

"Three shots." I tell him this more than once, just to get him used to the idea.

I was just reading the latest recommendation this morning that pregnant women are supposed to be among the first in line for shots, which also has me concerned. What kind of reactions might these shots have? They haven't been tested and they want to give them to pregnant women. Last time I checked, pregnant women are the last group of people that should be treated like guinea pigs.

So then I wondered if I should wait until after the baby is born. Now or later? I suppose this is one of those questions that parents are always having to decide: Which is the best thing to do? You can get all the information you want, a lot of it conflicting information from different sources, but then in the end you still have to decide, see it through, and then be responsible for the outcome, whatever it is.

Good God, I think this means I'm an adult now...