Monday, March 26, 2012

The kind of for example that can make a husband twitchy

So this morning I had this sudden sharp little pain and it caused me to suck in my breath and kind of clutch at the counter with one hand and my abdomen-ish region with the other.

Which is a total exercise in futility because where I need to make it stop is so very far from accessible.

It wasn't subtle, and Nick was immediately worried. "Are you OK?"

It was the same kind of stabby little poke me in the somewhere terrible pain I've been getting intermittently and complaining about regularly. It happens and it's awful and it passes.

So I said, "It's fine. It just feels like she's stabbing my vagina from the inside."

"Are you sure it's a stabbing pain? Because maybe it's a contraction?"

Instead of being all, dude, I know a motherfucking stabbing pain from a contraction pain I thought, why not bring the illustration home?

"Nick. A contraction feels like squeezing. Stabbing feels like stabbing. If someone were stabbing your penis with a sharp little pin, would you be able to distinguish it from someone squeezing your penis, even if they were squeezing it hard?"

"Fine, Lisa, fine. I understand. You've got a stabbing pain."

So there.

Friday, March 23, 2012

35 weeks and the sad realization that I am definitely Capital rather than District

First things first: Yes, I wish I were going to Hunger Games this afternoon, and yes, I'm waiting for my HG necklace to arrive. And yes, I just had a conversation about how, although I like to think of myself as tough, I would probably be Capital rather than even a townie from one of the districts.

I would never make it in the Seam in District 12, for example. And Nick is the only one with any chance of surviving the arena.

Also, I'm not actually this gleeful about the tremendosity of the baby house I'm carrying around. I'm tired and whiny and complainy and bitter and disgruntled. I've begun commuting with a full backpack for a couple reasons: one, it's easier than carrying my bag across my body, and two, it kind of balances me out.

But Nick and I were going to take a picture this morning, and then our delightful progeny, light of our lives, was, quite frankly, such a tremendous asshole that it made the entire morning extremely chaotic.

And so I asked my friend Michele if she would take it in her office. I closed her door, peered out the window to see if anyone would see me partly nakey against the door (no), and bared my belly. She burst out laughing, and I did, too.

I'm sure it falls under Not Appropriate Office Behavior. Much like furtively changing in your cube while your Quad-mates keep a lookout.

Good times.

Anyway, the pregnant.

This past week the girl started stabbing me somewhere very terrible. It's like she took one of her wee fingers (with fingernails!) and poked it repeatedly into my, I don't know, bladder? cervix? Somewhere internal and ooh! ooh! ooh! tender.

It's mostly been intermittent, but she kept it up for a good hour the other day.

If that won't make a person bitter, I don't know what will. It's very hard to walk to work or carry on a conversation with little sharpy pokes in tender places.

This past week Jordan also suddenly took notice of my belly. No matter that I've been putting his hand on it, talking about the baby sister, asking if he can feel her move, for weeks now. Now it is big enough that it inconveniences him.

He was sitting on the edge of what is left of my lap (thankfully we visited the hot eye doctor while I still had more of one), and suddenly put his hand on my prodigious belly and said, "WHAT IS THIS?"

So we talked about the Baby Sister! And how much she's going to love him! And how she is going to be here soon! And bring presents!

And he asked, "Who is her mama and daddy?"

"I'm her mama and Daddy is her daddy."


All I can say is, the de-throning is going to be very good for him. And all of us.

May the odds be ever in your favor, my little friend. Except when you're throwing a huge tantrum on the floor. Then I'd like them to be in mine.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Stripes I understand and stripes I don't

The tip of the stripeberg:"You see, Mama, I do like brown sugar on my oatmeal."

So, I should make it clear up front that I would never consider myself fashion-forward.

For example, I don't understand much of Prada, lovely as it may be. I can't pull off clothes from Anthropologie, even though (or maybe because?) they're cool.

I have a tendency to wear clothes that make me smile or amuse me in some way. I wore my screaming pink winter coat with orange and purple and whatever else I felt like, until it fell apart. Truly.

And when I'm commuting, particularly in cold weather, all thought of appearance goes out the window. Today I walked to work in a grey dress, white cardigan, purple comfy sneakers, and red socks.

Most of my socks are striped or brightly colored. Which turn out to be a little surprising with my purple sneakers, now that dress weather has arrived.

What I'm probably saying is, I could never be a judge on Project Runway. I'm likely to wind up a Fashion Don't in a magazine.


So in the Stripes I Understand category, I present my son. Here's his outfit for the day. These are one of his two pairs of beloved Cold Pants.I quite enjoy the slightly dizzying array of stripaliciousness.

These shorts, on the other hand, I place under also dizzying, but Stripes I Don't Understand. Not because I think they're ugly; I don't. I just feel like I don't understand zig-zagged pants, much less ones that point directly at your crotchal area.

Because, why?

Also, here's the description of them in Self magazine (which is where I got the photo) "Short enough to flaunt athletic legs, long enough for meetings. $275."I have athletic legs, and I'm fine with them in shortish shorts, but there's no chance these would flatter me. Who outside the toothpick model community could pull them off? Also, even though I do not, in fact, have industrial-strength labia, I would be very self-conscious about the "look up at my hoo-ha! and now look down at my thighs!" direction of the stripes.

I'm assuming that the rear view is similar. "Here's my butt hole! Look! I'm pointing right at it! With very bright colors!"

But I suppose my main question, even beyond the $275 for these?? is: Where do you work that this pair of shorts would ever be appropriate for meetings?

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Five things I've learned recently

1. Headphones are heartier than they seem.

To my delight, I turns out that you actually can machine wash your iPhone headphones - with a double rinse, no less - and they will still work.

Also, having nothing to do with headphones, I've been considering making my own laundry soap. I know I don't have lots of time, but it looks pretty easy. Is this ridiculous?

2. Butter is delicious.

You know how you remember that things tasted better in childhood? It's because they did. I cook Jordan's eggs in butter. I slather butter on his toast. Until recently he was drinking whole milk. Put on weight! Grow, grow!

And then you get older and more moderate/insanely restrictive about your fat intake. All that fat just tastes good.

3. Nick will never, ever relent on the office koi pond.

Which is too bad, because it's ever more inviting. It's not even the heat of summer. It just looks so smooth and cool and delightful.

4. Jordan's favorite color is pink. Really.

I got to his daycare yesterday and they were all running around with sheer scarves, waving them to "Let's Go Fly a Kite." Jordan didn't know I was there, and so I watched silently. He had a green scarf, and he said to the teacher, "I need yours. It's my favorite color."

"What's your favorite color?"


I relayed this to Nick, who got a look on his face and asked, "What color was the scarf?"

"Pink." I was all ready to accuse him of being sexist...when he said, "Oh, good. I was worried it was blue and he didn't know the difference."

5. Any smidgen of ability I ever had to maintain a poker face has gone out the window.

Apparently it's abundantly clear to everyone that I have no tolerance for much of anything anymore.


Monday, March 19, 2012

I'll cut you. I will.

I seriously feel like my belly doubled in size over the weekend.

This girl is all up in my business. She's squooshing my lungs, she's poking my bladder with little sharpy stabs. There's almost no room below for my pants to stay up. And those belly bands are bugging. (How's that for alliteration?)

And CLOTHING! Don't get me started. I'm all, "I HATE YOU! STOP TOUCHING ME!"

My out-in-public-all-nakey-nakey days are long gone, but boy, would it feel good. When I'm home, I pull up my shirt and just sit around bare-bellied. One, it's comfortable, and two, it's fascinating watching her move under the surface of my skin.

I admit, it's kind of like Alien, but I'm riveted.

Yesterday, as we were hanging out having sweet schmoopy cuddle time, Nick was clearly amused by my attempt to roll from one side to the other. Because now I am not unlike one of those potato bugs when I get stuck on my back.

I haven't needed the Amish man with the forklift yet, but I'm sure that's coming.

He giggled, but not at all unkindly. I'm sure I do present a funny image, all the arm flailing to get over to the other side.

But you want to make a pregnant woman hostile? Laugh at anything physical she's doing.

Everything is now so hard. I huff and puff going down the block. And up the stairs. And down the hall. I don't have enough room inside my body. I never know what will be too tight tomorrow. Putting on my shoes is hard. MY CLOTHES ARE CRUNCHY!

In other words, I was all poke him in the gut, "Oh, yeah? You think rolling side to side is easy because your big old stomach just sloshes when you roll over. You try having a big, solid, 10-lb ball strapped to your front."

I'll cut you. Don't think I won't.

Friday, March 16, 2012

March(ing) madness, or walking my invisible dog again

It's started out in the street again.

I don't know if it's because I've hit that bigbig point in my pregnancy, or because it's been warm this week and I've been commuting in dresses or shirts and pants, not all bundled up, but the comments have begun.

On Wednesday, Nick and I were walking to work together, and a man called out, "Twins?"

Nick replied, "Nope! Just a big one!"

And the guy beamed at Nick and said, "Congratulations, man! Good luck!"

I got to my building and a man in the elevator on the way up to my floor said, "You look like you're soon to be two people! You look great!"

Later that afternoon, a woman in the gym in my building smiled at me as I was huffing and puffing along, and asked when I was due. I told her, and she said, "Just one?"

"Just one."

Now, on the street, I've started getting the "Hey, Mama!" and "Congratulations!" Also, "It's a boy!"

Everyone (by everyone I mean every stranger who has speculated so far) guesses boy.

And there's the totally random: The other night, as Jordan and I were walking home, a (probably crazy but kindly-intentioned) man leapt up from his chair at Starbucks, ran over and greeted Jordan and then leaned over and blessed my stomach.

Nobody I don't already know has suggested I name her after them, but I fully expect that one of these days.

Like I said, it's started.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Comfort has its place, but it seems rude to visit another country dressed as if you've come to mow its lawns.

The shorts battle continues.

Jordan is a pretty flexible kid, but he is stubborn, and when he takes a stand, he can be intractable. (I'm certain he gets this from his father. Don't you think?)

There are some pieces of apparel to which he is adamantly opposed.

There's a pair of blue pants I got him that he calls the "crunchy pants" and he refuses to wear. He loves the "cold pants" - which are nylon track pants with stripes down the side. I can't figure out why he dislikes the jeans, although on the really cold days we forced the fleece-lined ones, and after initial resistance, he was fine.

Generally, the softer and more pliable the material, the more he likes it. Pockets help. Immensely. The better to spirit home these weird pieces of plastic fruit with velcro on them from daycare.

No clue what's so compelling about the plastic fruit.

So this morning I was downstairs making tea when I heard the shrieks and wails through the monitor. "THESE PANTS ARE LITTLE! I DON'T WANT THE LITTLE PANTS!"

I went rushing up with a pair of lightweight pants that had been sitting on the dryer. (I'm good at the clothes washing and drying. I suck, however, at the folding. I hate the folding.)

Nick stopped me cold. "It's going to be in the 80s. He needs to learn how to wear shorts." He was angry, he was on a mission, and he was all kinds of bound and determined to send Jordan off to daycare in shorts.

I wanted to point out that in hot countries all over the world there are plenty of people who NEVEREVER wear shorts, and in fact criticize American adults for the shorts-wearing. One of my favorite David Sedaris lines is about an American couple on the metro in Paris: "Comfort has its place, but it seems rude to visit another country dressed as if you've come to mow its lawns."

But I have learned that engaging in battle is not helpful when one parent is mad and determined and the kid is screaming his head off. I know, because I've been the mad and determined parent faced with a logical argument. It just makes you want to stab the other parent and then everything goes all to hell.

So I went back to my tea, and they soon descended, Jordan in shorts and sobbing hysterically. Very upset about the little pants. Beside himself upset.

Jordan was so angry he shoved his milk off the table, which then put him into a time out. And then, when Nick was out of the room Jordan took of the shorts ("I DON'T WANT TO WEAR LITTLE PANTS!") and begged for good pants.

I found him some good pants.

He used to like shorts. He's fine with his swimsuit. I feel confident that as it gets hotter, he'll wear shorts. And if he doesn't, we'll put him in light cotton pants. NON-CRUNCHY light cotton pants.

Just because Nick was forced into humiliating British shorts outfits, no matter the weather, doesn't mean our son needs to be. I'm OK with the no shorts until he's ready.

And you know, looking back at the look on Nick's face in that shorts photo, he was none too delighted about his get-up.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Half an alphabet and broken pants

Currently the only functional tub in our house is up on the fourth floor.

Our eventual master bathroom has never worked, and Jordan's bathroom, which he and I share, is under construction. Betty has a great shower, but our son hates showers. Haaaates the water on his head.

So he and I trek up to the fourth floor to Nick's bathroom. Jordan finds it extremely exciting. "We're going to have a bath in Daddy's bathtub! Let's play with his toys!"

I took a cute video of Jordan bobbing around in the bath. He thought I was taking his picture, so he kept grinning for the camera saying, "Cheese!" over and over.

And then he sang the alphabet, ending with, "Cheese!"

A friend asked me if I was going to post it on my blog, and I said I wanted to, but then realized that his little butt was in the frame. "I am worried," I said, "about having it up on the internet for icky pedophiles."

"Are there any other kind of pedophiles?"

Uh. Good point.

So I give you approximately half an alphabet, sung by the flying nun.


When I get Jordan out of the bath, I wrap him all up in a towel and cuddle him all swaddled and rock him and say, "Who's my baby?"

I didn't realize I always did this. But I do. Because now, when Nick is the one picking him up all snuggled in the towel, Jordan looks up at his dad and says, "Who's my baby?"


Nick and I were talking about how much fun the bath can be, and he said how sad he's going to be when Jordan gets too old to be bathed.

Then I was all, "You're probably going to be bigger than him for a long time. You might be able to force him to let you give him baths through at least junior high school."

Because that wouldn't damage someone for life.


It's been a mild winter, but I realized this morning that the span of a winter is still a long time in kid years. In the interim, our kid forgot about shorts entirely.

So when Nick tried to put a pair on him this morning, he was incensed.

"NO! Take them OFF! These pants are BROKEN! I want good pants!"

Monday, March 12, 2012

And I always believed April was the cruelest

It's pretty much been a horrible hell of a month.

Like, the kind of time period that feels like a giant boot with gravel stuck in the treads stepping on you and squnching you down and then walking with you stuck to the bottom. Both suffocating and sharpy hurty.

One of those yellowy Timberland boots, probably. But giant-sized. The Timberland boot of wrath. Not quite as poetic as Greek god justice, what with the boulders or the pomegranate seeds or what-have-you.

But I digress.

Last week, as you know, I had the stomach virus from hell, and then I got a doozy of a cold from Jordan. I'm almost over it, I think. Betty now has it.

Nick and Jordan got a milder version of the noro- or whatever-virus, meaning they just had the diarrhea. I'm loathe to say I had diarrhea envy, but it's true.

Mainly because I would rather, as a good friend of mine put it, chew my own arm off than throw up.

I suppose I'd rather chew my own arm off than someone else's as well, but that's along the lines of whose poo would you rather dump out of your Shop-Vac, isn't it?

Anyway. Back to the important.

What I'm leading to is that Betty has had a very rough month. First she got a cold. She then had two weeks of intermittent puking and nausea, and then another cold.

She's basically been in bed for going on four weeks, getting up to take care of Jordan two days a week (except when she was puking sick), go to the doctor, or when we begged or harassed her out of bed.

She's dropped almost 20 pounds. And when you don't start at 120 soaking wet, you don't have that much to lose.

Last week I said, "We have to do something about this. This is exactly how it was with Dad."

And it was. He had one illness after another. He had no energy to do anything, and when you tried to get him to, he said he didn't feel well. He just stayed in bed and watched TV or sat on the internet. Week after week.

He didn't get up, didn't get up, didn't get up.

And then he ultimately mustered the energy to get up, sneak out the door with a length of rope and a vial of pills, and that was that.

In my pregnancy timeline, that was just over a month ago. I've got these inadvertent and mostly stressful markers in this pregnancy - mostly in the 20-something weeks - my dad's suicide attempt, my trip to Amsterdam, my dad's suicide, buying the house...

I think I was right about this pregnant when we moved into our oldold new house, and just when I thought nothing could get harder, it did.

Splinters and shards? I've got them aplenty.

I'm not saying Betty is suicidal - she's not like my dad in that regard. I'm certain she's not.

My big fear is one of two things: that it's something much larger and scarier than one isolated illness after another. Or, two, that if we can't get things turned around, she'll just stay in bed and waste away.

At 33+ weeks pregnant, I barely have the energy to deal with myself and corral my big, strong-willed boy. I can't sleep. I'm constantly exhausted. My back hurts. My girl pokes me in painy places and sticks her feet into my lungs.

Worrying about Betty is sending me over the top.

At my request, I'm meeting her at a doctor's appointment this afternoon.

In the great news category: Maude's mom has invited her up to Vermont for as long as she'd like to stay, and Betty is excited about the idea.

So now I'm working on lining up two days a week of fill-in childcare, and fingers crossed, it looks like it might work out. I'm ready to put her on a train as soon as she's ready.

Days and days with dear friends, fresh air, wholesome food - all of these things would be really good for her. We need things to turn around.

Thursday, March 08, 2012

Lighting, IKEA vs. family heirlooms, and odds are good that I’m your husband. Or a Chihuahua.

Do you ever find yourself in the position where you both feel like you're right but also suspect you might be being ridiculous?

I am probably like one of those tiny little dogs with sharpy-sharp teeth who is all, “Stay the fuck off my lawn. I might have to jump to reach your kneecap, but don’t think I won’t bite the crap out of your ankle.”

I realize it's not a flattering comparison, but it's the best I can come up with.


Nick and I have what I consider the most critical things in common, such as a deep love for each other and our family, very closely aligned life priorities, and similar approaches to spending money.

We also have, as I have documented many a time, extremely different styles in clothing and decor. With few exceptions, he’s let me pick all the colors in the house. Because he loves me and is indulgent. Also, he’s color blind, which works in my favor.

Now, Nick would never, ever choose all the Hindu gods and goddesses, the Buddhas, the Mahavir, or the plethora of Indian wall hangings and such that decorate our home. But he agrees they look nice in the house.

And I would never choose his heavy leather men’s wood paneled library furniture or ginormous bookcases or giant wardrobe or cumbersome sleigh bed frame which prevents me from being able to make my own bed. But I agree that they are beautiful, high quality pieces. They suit our Victorian-era house.

And all but the fucking sofa with the asshole stealth leg of toe-break death are very comfortable and/or useful.

Which brings me to IKEA.

Nick hates everything IKEA stands for with a passion. He saves his money, and he buys nice things. All of his furniture is either inherited (his lot inherits it; my lot buys it) or purchased from this amazing consignment store in New Jersey. He’s refinished a lot of his wood pieces himself. He can rewire lamps and do minor plumbing when need be.

In my ad one of my hopes was a man who could use power tools, and let me say, he does not disappoint. In other words, in many ways, I think he is magic.

But sometimes he pisses me the fuck off.

We have this very expensive antique ceiling lamp that I hate. Well, I hated it in our dining room. It looks quite nice in Betty’s room. But I call it the Bully Light. Because Nick bullied me into it.

You see, he is one of these efficient people who wants things DONE. And COMPLETE. And it bothered him no end that we had this gross, cheap light fixture in the dining room when the rest of the room had been redone.

And here’s where I am probably like your husband, or at any rate, like a lot of my friends’ husbands. Things like this don’t bother me. I can step over piles of dirty clothes or books on the floor, walk around piles of clean laundry on the table. I’m not avoiding it; I just don’t see it. I wasn’t dwelling on our hideous cheap lighting because as long as the bulbs went on, I wasn’t looking at them.


These things, however, set Nick’s teeth on edge. And so he bullied me into agreeing to this light fixture, because although I knew he didn’t love it, it was the one he liked best at the antique lighting store and he just wanted it UP and DONE. And sometimes, sometimes it’s easier to agree than fight.

And sometimes it’s also easier to go ahead and admit how much you fucking hate a light fixture than pretend that you think your husband is right, no matter how many times he tries to talk you into thinking so.

Which brings us back to IKEA.

For the first year or so that we lived in our charming, closetless Victorian house, I, a woman with a love of clothing and shoes and perhaps too many items of both, did not have a closet. I was asked to hold out until we had enough money (and had finished having our babies) so that we can turn the adjoining room into a spectacular wall of closets.

I had to beg – I tell ye verily, beg – for an IKEA closet NOW NOW NOW. Because I could not wait 3-5 years for an amazing wall of closets. It was the topic of many a fight.

And then he very kindly helped me order one and put it together for me, and while he was annoyed that it is basically made of cardboard (true) he agreed that it is nicely designed and suits my purposes perfectly.

Thus emboldened, I bought some ceiling lamps. Plastic, modern, cheap. So what? I like how they look. They're not the most amazing things ever. I don't love them with a passion. I just like them.Nick hates them. He put one up in Jordan’s room, and was infuriated by the quality. “It won’t last!”

“It doesn’t have to last 20 fucking years.”

“It’s probably going to burn the house down.”

“Right. Because you hear all these instances of IKEA lamps burning houses down. But somehow they’re still allowed to sell them.”

(I told you. I will shred your pants leg as high as I can reach and not let go.)

So this morning Nick texted me on my way to work to ask if I would call Australian Builder to tell him that we don’t have a ceiling light for the girl’s room (which is essentially done!) So I replied, “I just told Miguel that we do in fact have an IKEA light that I like but you won’t let me use it and so they’re going to have to wait. Do you still want me to call?”

And instead of engaging, the smart man replied, “Yes, please.”

I called AB and said, “Nick wanted me to call and tell you that we don’t have a ceiling light for the girl’s room.”

“Oh, I thought you did.”

“Well, technically we DO, because we have one that I like that I bought at IKEA so we COULD have it done today. But since everything with Nick has to be a fucking family heirloom, we won’t have one until Saturday.”

AB, who tends to see eye to eye with Nick but is also married and rather astute said very soothingly, “It’s OK, Lis. It’s no problem. We’ll get the rest of it done and get the light up later. It’ll just take a second. The room will be fine.”

And really, how can you continue to stomp your feet and act like an enraged bitch with that?

Tuesday, March 06, 2012

Completely freaking out

Update: 3 pm.

The midwife said, in a nutshell: The baby is FINE, totally fine. It's a virus (which you guys said). There are lots going around. Eat what you can, sleep, and stay home tomorrow if you can - one, to rest, and two, not to spread it around.

Also: Leave Google the hell alone.

In further good news, the kid's heart sounds great, and she is now head down!!! I felt her squirming a lot last night - partly because I couldn't sleep and partly because I kept obsessively checking to make sure she wasn't dead.

My personal theory is that all the organ upheaval from the vomiting flipped her right over.

You all are the BEST. So sweet and kind and supportive. Huuuuge hugs to you.


Let me start by saying that I have a scheduled midwife appointment at 1 pm, and I am so very grateful. Hopefully she'll be on time, and so I only have 90 more minutes of absolute hysteria.

Because I am freaking the fuck out.

I spent last night vomiting violently. I assumed I had the same stomach virus thing as Betty, but hers lasted a couple days. Me, I'm exhausted, but haven't thrown up in hours.

So Nick called and suggested food poisoning. What did I eat yesterday?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How am I so stupid? Tuna salad from sandwiches that were brought into our office for a meeting.

A perfect way to get listeriosis, which can kill your baby. Or just cause birth defects, premature labor, and what have you. Seriously, if you are pregnant and would like to make yourself clawing-the-walls-insane, go ahead and google food poisoning and pregnancy.

Not only am I exhausted and feel like hell, but I'm also convinced that I'm singlehandedly responsible for having done irreparable damage to our kid.


Monday, March 05, 2012

Apartment Therapy: a last minute favor to ask

Towards the end of last week I realized I was getting some traffic from Apartment Therapy (!!!), which, if you don't know it, is such a cool design site.

Being of a curious nature, I looked - and someone had nominated me for Best Family Blog! Super flattering, no?

(And to whoever nominated me - if you're reading this: THANK YOU!)

There are a number of blogs with a ton of votes, and my wee little blog is quite far down the list...but if you have a minute, would you please vote for me and help me move it up the list?

Voting ends tonight, so it's a last minute favor. And I hate to ask this kind of thing, but a friend of mine was like, don't be an idiot. Just ask.

So there you have it - asking.

Also, the girl's room is now Weeping Wisteria. The hallway is Twinkle. Yes, these are dumb names. And I'll have pics very soon. And will be soliciting more opinions.

Happy Monday! And Thank you!

Friday, March 02, 2012

If there was a problem yo, I'll solve it. Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it.

If you've ever seen a picture of me, you know that I'm kind of WASPy looking.

I'm one of the palest people around. I've got blue eyes, and used to be a natural blonde, and I freckle more than tan. I guess I actually am a little bit with the Irish, although the Viking ancestry dominates.


So last year I read about Girl Talk in the New Yorker, and downloaded one of his free mashup albums and it was so fun to work out to. So I emailed a friend who likes this sort of thing. He basically responded I'll see your Girl talk and raise you a Bootie.

I now love Bootie. Love love love.

Because how can you not love someone who mashes the theme of the Andy Griffith Show and Beyonce together? Or Lady Gaga and Bob Marley? LL Cool J and Dexy's Midnight Runners?

Anyway. I've stuck Girl Talk and a bunch of Bootie albums in a playlist, and that's what I listen to when I work out. And I was at the gym in our building recently, and plugged my phone into the speakers. A friend of mine, who is Columbian, likes working out to the same kind of music.

So this one song came on that particularly caught his attention. It's called Big Booty Bitches in Miama - Bombs Away, LMFAO, Busta Rhymes, and Sir Mix-A-Lot.

Sir Mix-A-Lot was the only one I knew out of the mix.

My friend, his English is good, but he's not a native speaker. So he was all, "Lisa, what are they saying?"

I listened a bit...then looked around the room to make sure that nobody else was in earshot.

Because, please picture me, in my no-rhythm pale glory, reciting the following: "I like big butts and I cannot lie...Little bitches get out. We don't want no skinny bitches."

Yes. There you have it. I am not proud.

Happy weekend, all!

Thursday, March 01, 2012

He's a cold hearted snake; look into his eyes...

Now, I recognize that there are few times, if ever, in your life that you might be in the market for a fake snake.

However. If you are, you might like to know that a website called Fake Rubber Snakes exists. Yes. And these are the category of snake from which you can choose: Giant Fake Snakes; Straight Fake Snakes; Coiled Fake Snakes; Small Fake Snakes; Guttzie Buddy Snakes. So ya know.

Because, you see, we have this ancient row house that we've spent the last three years pouring our time, money, energy, caulk (oh, the caulk!), etc into.

And Nick has worked incredibly hard in his scant free time, and he is very house proud. (And what's that expression about pride before a fall while backing up to admire one's handiwork?)

But, now we have this galling bird problem.

They like to sit in the sun outside my mom's front window. And drop feathers and kick dirt off the sill and poop on the stoop. Last weekend Nick cleaned out the remnants of two old nests.

You know how sometimes one little thing is a final straw? No pun, but with those nests, Nick reached his patience limits with the birds. He decided that what we really need are fake snakes.

Fake snakes! Fake snakes would fix this!

First he called around to places like Lowes and Cold Home Hippo and Target and our local hardware store.

Ever tried calling somewhere out of the blue and asking for a fake snake? Once you make it clear that you're serious, and then you explain - bird problem, want to scare them away, fake snake...then people on the other end are all, "Hey, that's a good idea! No, we don't have those. We have owls."

Apparently everyone has owls. Nick wanted snakes, because they're subtler. He didn't want a big old fake owl on his house.

Which is how Nick discovered - for all your fake snake needs. Ultimately, however, he ordered from Amazon because of the Prime two-day shipping. He needed those birds gone yesterday.

I suggested he get a copperhead, mainly because it's the only snake from this area that I know. But he did a little research - not quite as extensive as the Top Ten Deadliest Animals in Africa - and chose a rattlesnake and a coral snake, which we don't have in DC but apparently looks just like some other snake we do have. Of which the birds should be petrified.

Also - coral snakes? Very deadly poisonous. If you see one, run!

The birds? Not only not scared, but seemingly completely unimpressed. They were up there this morning, chit-chatting in the sun, with the scary rattlesnake (with a head that actually rattles!) peering down behind them.

Winged bastards.

Next, we get an owl.