What is the quickest way to kill a blog? Don't update it for a week. Unfortunately, due to some massive computer issues at the Baer household, it looks like this will be the case. Hopefully, we will be back up and running in a week or so...
Monday, October 19, 2009
We are experiencing technical difficulties. We will return when the problem is fixed.
What is the quickest way to kill a blog? Don't update it for a week. Unfortunately, due to some massive computer issues at the Baer household, it looks like this will be the case. Hopefully, we will be back up and running in a week or so...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Episode 23: Maybe Daddy should be a garbage man
For the past eight months or so I have been saying that the only differences between babies and cats are that cats are less maintenance and babies grow up to become self-sustaining people. Other than that, it is pretty much exactly the same.
Except, of course, for the part where cats shit in a box from birth, and babies uncontrollably shit their pants and kick it all over you and everything they own for like four years before learning how to use a toilet, but I digress.
In any event, for the most part babies and cats do little more than eat, sleep and play. It is a pretty good life, actually, devoid of any responsibility and full of rest and sustenance.
One surprising thing that the two have in common is a collective love of playing with both trash and inanimate objects. Despite hundreds of dollars spent over the years on balls and stuffed mice and cat toys, LC will spend the majority of her non-sleeping time playing with crumpled up pieces of paper or small bits of her own food which she has taken out of the bowl and batted on to the floor.
Likewise, our baby has hoards and hoards of toys. Stuffed animals, teething rings, plastic toys, plush toys and toys with moving parts, anything she wants at her disposal. Still, somehow she gets the most joy out of her day by playing with straws or pieces of napkin.
(NOTE: When I refer to an 8-month-old infant 'playing' it is really just her grabbing something, looking at it, laughing and stuffing it in her mouth, or waving it around in the air while she yells. Very primal.)
In any event, yesterday we were playing on the floor, like we often do, and I looked down to find the baby surrounded by toys. There was a teddy bear, an elephant with crinkle ears, a few teething rings and a NASCAR replica race car Pez dispenser (OK, that one is obviously mine- part of what was once the coolest Pez dispenser collection around, but she likes the car because if you pull it backwards it drives across the floor).
With all of these toys at her disposal she focused her attention on a plastic whisk, stolen from the kitchen days earlier, an empty DVD case and a pile of decorative wicker balls that are involved in our living room decor for some bizarre reason.
The worst part is that the second you take any of this crap away from her she screams and throws a fit. Yesterday was actually pretty good, considering that none of those things are actually trash. Like the cats, she usualy loves nothing more than trying to take receipts out of my hands, and today at breakfast she stole the plastic box that her apple sauce comes in and started chewing on it. She has also had a straight break down because I wouldn't let her have the empty paper towel tube.
This is not a phenomenon unique to my child, either, as the other day I sat in my window and watched all of the disgusting, idiot kids from our ghetto neighborhood picking through my neighbor's trash. They came away with boxes, bottles and dirty toys. One of them even came up to me while I was putting out the recycling and said 'Hey mister, can I have that box?'
'Yeah kid,' I said. 'Its just trash.' ( I probably didn't call him kid, and he probably didn't call me mister, but to be honest, I'd rather believe that it happened like an episode of Dennis the Menace. It makes me feel better about where I live.)
So, maybe I'll just take my career search over to Waste Management or North Side Carting and start picking trash for a living. I am already used to waking up at like 5 a.m. and my daughter will certainly still respect me.
My advice to you? If you have babies or cats, don't buy them toys. Just give them trash and kitchen utensils, you will save yourself a lot of money in the long run.
Except, of course, for the part where cats shit in a box from birth, and babies uncontrollably shit their pants and kick it all over you and everything they own for like four years before learning how to use a toilet, but I digress.
In any event, for the most part babies and cats do little more than eat, sleep and play. It is a pretty good life, actually, devoid of any responsibility and full of rest and sustenance.
One surprising thing that the two have in common is a collective love of playing with both trash and inanimate objects. Despite hundreds of dollars spent over the years on balls and stuffed mice and cat toys, LC will spend the majority of her non-sleeping time playing with crumpled up pieces of paper or small bits of her own food which she has taken out of the bowl and batted on to the floor.
Likewise, our baby has hoards and hoards of toys. Stuffed animals, teething rings, plastic toys, plush toys and toys with moving parts, anything she wants at her disposal. Still, somehow she gets the most joy out of her day by playing with straws or pieces of napkin.
(NOTE: When I refer to an 8-month-old infant 'playing' it is really just her grabbing something, looking at it, laughing and stuffing it in her mouth, or waving it around in the air while she yells. Very primal.)
In any event, yesterday we were playing on the floor, like we often do, and I looked down to find the baby surrounded by toys. There was a teddy bear, an elephant with crinkle ears, a few teething rings and a NASCAR replica race car Pez dispenser (OK, that one is obviously mine- part of what was once the coolest Pez dispenser collection around, but she likes the car because if you pull it backwards it drives across the floor).
With all of these toys at her disposal she focused her attention on a plastic whisk, stolen from the kitchen days earlier, an empty DVD case and a pile of decorative wicker balls that are involved in our living room decor for some bizarre reason.
The worst part is that the second you take any of this crap away from her she screams and throws a fit. Yesterday was actually pretty good, considering that none of those things are actually trash. Like the cats, she usualy loves nothing more than trying to take receipts out of my hands, and today at breakfast she stole the plastic box that her apple sauce comes in and started chewing on it. She has also had a straight break down because I wouldn't let her have the empty paper towel tube.
This is not a phenomenon unique to my child, either, as the other day I sat in my window and watched all of the disgusting, idiot kids from our ghetto neighborhood picking through my neighbor's trash. They came away with boxes, bottles and dirty toys. One of them even came up to me while I was putting out the recycling and said 'Hey mister, can I have that box?'
'Yeah kid,' I said. 'Its just trash.' ( I probably didn't call him kid, and he probably didn't call me mister, but to be honest, I'd rather believe that it happened like an episode of Dennis the Menace. It makes me feel better about where I live.)
So, maybe I'll just take my career search over to Waste Management or North Side Carting and start picking trash for a living. I am already used to waking up at like 5 a.m. and my daughter will certainly still respect me.
My advice to you? If you have babies or cats, don't buy them toys. Just give them trash and kitchen utensils, you will save yourself a lot of money in the long run.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Episode 22: Virtually unemployed, I still hate work
Despite the almost daily 'what am I doing with my life' anxiety attack, life after the Item has turned out to be just as glorious as I had imagined. Even though I get up a good 2-3 hours earlier than I did when I worked there, it is still fantastic to open my eyes in the morning and know that I don't have to get up and go to work.
Being tired on your own couch is a hell of a lot better than being tired behind your desk.
In the last six months or so at the Item, in fact, morale was so low and my mindset was so twisted that I would do literally everything I could int he morning to avoid human contact and interaction with my coworkers. This included sitting in my car until the ladies smoking cigarettes at the back door went inside, even if it meant being late for work and pretending to check my voice mail if someone walked by my desk, just so they would leave me alone.
Thinking back, the most absurd thing that I did was take ridiculous, round-about routes to my desk just to avoid having to walk past people. Our office was situated like a horse shoe with a wall in the middle, and all of my department's desks were in a long row on one side of that wall. So, when I came in the back door I would be forced to make the walk of shame past 8 different people, all of whom I was trying not to acknowledge. (It is important to note that the majority of these people were perfectly pleasant to speak to, I was just miserable and had no desire to give anyone the time of day).
To avoid these interactions I took to entering the other side of the building, near the graphics department, where all I had to do was smile, say hello and hope I didn't encounter anyone at the vending machine.This made for some awkward entrances, and probably a lot of curiosity about what the hell I was doing in the other half of the office.
As you can probably ascertain from the above examples, being home has really brightened me up. Knowing I never have to go in to that building, and never have to make that walk again is great, but the honeymoon period at my other job is fading fast, too.
Last weekend, we as a nation celebrated Christopher Columbus' discovery of the new world. We took three days to reflect on his brave journey, and remember how he helped the Native Americans improve their lives by prov- wait. That's not how it goes. Whatever. Small Pocks or no Small Pocks, Americans had a three day weekend and that gave plenty of curious tourists from all over the world an opportunity to descend on Salem, Mass.
Average in every way other than being internationally known as 'that place where they hung witches,' the city of Salem has created an absurdly lucrative tourist industry based entirely on lies and deception. There is nothing haunted in Salem. In fact, many of the events outlined in 'The Crucible' happened in an area that isn't even part of Salem anymore. Nonetheless, the city continues to lie to people and attract them down town for some $4 fried dough, 'mystery ghost tours' and a whole hell of a lot of gift shops and psychics.
For me, your humble neighborhood beertender/ waiter, this means that our normally bustling restaurant was filled to capacity with idiots from all over, irritated that they have dropped so much money on skeleton sweat shirts and tickets to the wax museum, and suffering from low blood sugar that can only make telling them there is an hour wait that much more enjoyable.
When I quit the paper I was excited about picking up more hours at the restaurant. After five days straight of hanging out with a baby, it is nice to go to work and have some 'adult time.' Unlike an office job, I can have fun at this job. I work much of the time with people I am friends with. I can do things I don't get to do when I am home, like smoke cigarettes and get drunk after my shift.
It is still pretty awful dealing with the general public on a daily basis- especially when you are dealing with their food and alcohol, and are as awkward in social settings as I am- but it is a thousand times better than going to HR meetings, putting things together with paper clips and fighting with a copy machine on a daily basis. I have even managed to avoid being awkward with customers, because I realized I can lie to most of them, and pretty much pretend to be someone I am not. That is nice, optimistic, friendly and courteous, and to a few tables on Sunday morning, my name was Patrick.
Yes, things are pretty good as a part-time waiter, I even get $51 health insurance, but all of that changes when it is tourist season.
Tourists are potentially the worst people on the planet. They just invade the city as if people don't live here 12- months a year, taking pictures of the front of your house, ignoring traffic and parking laws, and taking up all of the stools at your favorite corner bar.
For three days I ran around that restaurant. Answering the dumbest of questions like, 'Does the small cheese pizza contain pork?' and explaining (inexplicably) to people the reason for me needing to see their ID's before serving them beer. I even had the pleasure of explaining to one Canadian man that it was still illegal for me to give his 16-year-old son a glass of wine, even though he said it was OK.
Sure, the money was great, and somehow the pain of sore legs and feet and the smell of spilled beer and condiments that covered me gave me a feeling of accomplishment, like I had actually done some hard work for the first time in years. But it also reminded me that no matter what the job is, I am always going to hate work. Always. This brings me back to my idea to use taxpayer money to fund stay at home dads like me. I'm not giving up on this campaign. It is the only thing that will keep me out of the insane asylum... and a classroom at Everest, or ITT Tech.
Baer for president in 2012. I'll lead the world in to the apocalypse, and we'll all have a blast before we die.
Being tired on your own couch is a hell of a lot better than being tired behind your desk.
In the last six months or so at the Item, in fact, morale was so low and my mindset was so twisted that I would do literally everything I could int he morning to avoid human contact and interaction with my coworkers. This included sitting in my car until the ladies smoking cigarettes at the back door went inside, even if it meant being late for work and pretending to check my voice mail if someone walked by my desk, just so they would leave me alone.
Thinking back, the most absurd thing that I did was take ridiculous, round-about routes to my desk just to avoid having to walk past people. Our office was situated like a horse shoe with a wall in the middle, and all of my department's desks were in a long row on one side of that wall. So, when I came in the back door I would be forced to make the walk of shame past 8 different people, all of whom I was trying not to acknowledge. (It is important to note that the majority of these people were perfectly pleasant to speak to, I was just miserable and had no desire to give anyone the time of day).
To avoid these interactions I took to entering the other side of the building, near the graphics department, where all I had to do was smile, say hello and hope I didn't encounter anyone at the vending machine.This made for some awkward entrances, and probably a lot of curiosity about what the hell I was doing in the other half of the office.
As you can probably ascertain from the above examples, being home has really brightened me up. Knowing I never have to go in to that building, and never have to make that walk again is great, but the honeymoon period at my other job is fading fast, too.
Last weekend, we as a nation celebrated Christopher Columbus' discovery of the new world. We took three days to reflect on his brave journey, and remember how he helped the Native Americans improve their lives by prov- wait. That's not how it goes. Whatever. Small Pocks or no Small Pocks, Americans had a three day weekend and that gave plenty of curious tourists from all over the world an opportunity to descend on Salem, Mass.
Average in every way other than being internationally known as 'that place where they hung witches,' the city of Salem has created an absurdly lucrative tourist industry based entirely on lies and deception. There is nothing haunted in Salem. In fact, many of the events outlined in 'The Crucible' happened in an area that isn't even part of Salem anymore. Nonetheless, the city continues to lie to people and attract them down town for some $4 fried dough, 'mystery ghost tours' and a whole hell of a lot of gift shops and psychics.
For me, your humble neighborhood beertender/ waiter, this means that our normally bustling restaurant was filled to capacity with idiots from all over, irritated that they have dropped so much money on skeleton sweat shirts and tickets to the wax museum, and suffering from low blood sugar that can only make telling them there is an hour wait that much more enjoyable.
When I quit the paper I was excited about picking up more hours at the restaurant. After five days straight of hanging out with a baby, it is nice to go to work and have some 'adult time.' Unlike an office job, I can have fun at this job. I work much of the time with people I am friends with. I can do things I don't get to do when I am home, like smoke cigarettes and get drunk after my shift.
It is still pretty awful dealing with the general public on a daily basis- especially when you are dealing with their food and alcohol, and are as awkward in social settings as I am- but it is a thousand times better than going to HR meetings, putting things together with paper clips and fighting with a copy machine on a daily basis. I have even managed to avoid being awkward with customers, because I realized I can lie to most of them, and pretty much pretend to be someone I am not. That is nice, optimistic, friendly and courteous, and to a few tables on Sunday morning, my name was Patrick.
Yes, things are pretty good as a part-time waiter, I even get $51 health insurance, but all of that changes when it is tourist season.
Tourists are potentially the worst people on the planet. They just invade the city as if people don't live here 12- months a year, taking pictures of the front of your house, ignoring traffic and parking laws, and taking up all of the stools at your favorite corner bar.
For three days I ran around that restaurant. Answering the dumbest of questions like, 'Does the small cheese pizza contain pork?' and explaining (inexplicably) to people the reason for me needing to see their ID's before serving them beer. I even had the pleasure of explaining to one Canadian man that it was still illegal for me to give his 16-year-old son a glass of wine, even though he said it was OK.
Sure, the money was great, and somehow the pain of sore legs and feet and the smell of spilled beer and condiments that covered me gave me a feeling of accomplishment, like I had actually done some hard work for the first time in years. But it also reminded me that no matter what the job is, I am always going to hate work. Always. This brings me back to my idea to use taxpayer money to fund stay at home dads like me. I'm not giving up on this campaign. It is the only thing that will keep me out of the insane asylum... and a classroom at Everest, or ITT Tech.
Baer for president in 2012. I'll lead the world in to the apocalypse, and we'll all have a blast before we die.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Episode 21: The time we almost went for a walk during an apocalyptic storm
It is amazing how narrowly I avoid disaster sometimes.
For the past two days Av has not been feeling well. Nothing serious, just a seasonal head cold. It has been frustrating for a few reasons. First, she is very, very whiny. She wants to play and have fun, but will often spontaneously break out in tears. Think of how miserable you are when you have a head cold. Stuffy nose, headache, tired all of the time. Now picture being 8-months-old and not really understanding what is going on. It is tough.
It is also frustrating because I can't do anything to help her, and I can't seem to make her happy. She won't let me put her down most of the time, which makes for a long, long day.
In any event today after trying, with no luck, to entertain her in the house, I decided to explore the reality of taking a little walk, maybe to the park if she felt up to it. I wasn't sure if going outside was a great idea, but I figured the fresh air would help.
Before we left I took her outside on the porch to see what the weather was like. It had rained all night, so I was concerned that it might be a little too cold for her. To my surprise, it was pretty warm and the sun had come out through the clouds, very pleasant.
I told Av we were going to the park and started to bundle her up. At that time she started to fuss and throw a fit, so I made her up a little snack before we left. As she has done most of the last two days, she rejected the real food in favor of a bottle. Delaying our trip to the park about ten minutes, and making me admittedly irritated, as I was at the end of my rope with the crying and fussing and whining.
After we finished the bottle I bundled her up and was looking for a hat to put on her when I heard the longest, loudest roll of thunder I had heard all summer. In fact, when I first heard it I thought it was the commuter rail train derailing and immediately imagined a horrific, fiery disaster at the end of our street.
I waited for the sirens to follow, but heard nothing but wind, and looked out the window to find an apocalyptic scene unfolding. Daylight had all but vanished and the wind was blowing leaves, flags, trash cans and everything else that was powerless to its advances down the street.
Moments later, the sideways rain started. Pelting the house with drops the size of hail, loud and fast. You could hardly see through it.
I looked at the baby, shocked that she wasn't crying after the thunder, and she gave me this look like 'we're not still going for that walk, right?'
The rain continued for about 15 minutes, ending after a second, louder clap of thunder. So loud, in fact, the cats collided in a dual attempt to hide under the couch.
Again, Av didn't cry, she just looked around, probably happy that she wasn't outside.
I am sure there is a lesson to be learned here, I am not sure what it is. I am not a particularly religious man, but perhaps it was God telling me to be more patient with her crying because she is sick. Or maybe we just got lucky and missed the storm.
For the past two days Av has not been feeling well. Nothing serious, just a seasonal head cold. It has been frustrating for a few reasons. First, she is very, very whiny. She wants to play and have fun, but will often spontaneously break out in tears. Think of how miserable you are when you have a head cold. Stuffy nose, headache, tired all of the time. Now picture being 8-months-old and not really understanding what is going on. It is tough.
It is also frustrating because I can't do anything to help her, and I can't seem to make her happy. She won't let me put her down most of the time, which makes for a long, long day.
In any event today after trying, with no luck, to entertain her in the house, I decided to explore the reality of taking a little walk, maybe to the park if she felt up to it. I wasn't sure if going outside was a great idea, but I figured the fresh air would help.
Before we left I took her outside on the porch to see what the weather was like. It had rained all night, so I was concerned that it might be a little too cold for her. To my surprise, it was pretty warm and the sun had come out through the clouds, very pleasant.
I told Av we were going to the park and started to bundle her up. At that time she started to fuss and throw a fit, so I made her up a little snack before we left. As she has done most of the last two days, she rejected the real food in favor of a bottle. Delaying our trip to the park about ten minutes, and making me admittedly irritated, as I was at the end of my rope with the crying and fussing and whining.
After we finished the bottle I bundled her up and was looking for a hat to put on her when I heard the longest, loudest roll of thunder I had heard all summer. In fact, when I first heard it I thought it was the commuter rail train derailing and immediately imagined a horrific, fiery disaster at the end of our street.
I waited for the sirens to follow, but heard nothing but wind, and looked out the window to find an apocalyptic scene unfolding. Daylight had all but vanished and the wind was blowing leaves, flags, trash cans and everything else that was powerless to its advances down the street.
Moments later, the sideways rain started. Pelting the house with drops the size of hail, loud and fast. You could hardly see through it.
I looked at the baby, shocked that she wasn't crying after the thunder, and she gave me this look like 'we're not still going for that walk, right?'
The rain continued for about 15 minutes, ending after a second, louder clap of thunder. So loud, in fact, the cats collided in a dual attempt to hide under the couch.
Again, Av didn't cry, she just looked around, probably happy that she wasn't outside.
I am sure there is a lesson to be learned here, I am not sure what it is. I am not a particularly religious man, but perhaps it was God telling me to be more patient with her crying because she is sick. Or maybe we just got lucky and missed the storm.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Episode 20: At least I haven't started day-drinking... yet
Before I started staying home with the baby all day I always wondered how people could be so lazy. How people could spend their entire day not showering, wearing sweat pants, watching ridiculous soap operas and never doing anything productive. I wondered what sort of mindset a person would have to be in to not leave the house all day and read gossip websites.
I look at the woman who lives downstairs. She has two kids, 10 and 8 (and still thinks she is 25). She takes them to school in the morning, comes home and I rarely see her for the rest of the day. She never leaves. Ever. She must just be sleeping, watching TV, probably getting stoned and listening to music. Easy life. Sometimes her adult-skateboarding boyfriend is home, too. He leaves to walk the dog, but not much else.
Now that I am over a month in to this experiment, I am afraid to confirm that I am becoming one of those people. I have already started to lose my mind, and now I fear that I am growing accustomed to these walls. It is a slippery slope. This is how people become hermits.
It is not that I am lazy, I don't think that I am, it is just the hours crawl by so slowly, and I wake up so early, I have really lost touch with the outside world. The baby is easily entertained and, most of the time, doesn't want me to play with her as much as she wants me to just give her what she wants and leave her alone.
When I first started staying home all day I would try and keep myself busy with chores, or try to plan a lot of activities to keep us occupied during the day. Now there are times where I look at a sink full of dishes and say 'nah, not today.' I can't even get myself motivated to write this blog half of the time.
Instead of walking to the park, now I'd rather drive. Instead of showering while she takes a nap, I would rather watch ESPN or the SPEED Channel. Some times it is the Game Show Network, the History Channel, or A&E. It doesn't matter. As long as I don't have to think.
My internal clock is so messed up that sometimes I eat chips and queso dip for breakfast. It isn't that I think it is a good idea, it is just that I don't have any concept of time or space anymore. I am officially a figment of my own imagination.
Some days I am still in my slippers in the afternoon. Yesterday, I intended to do laundry when she took a nap, but just ended up laying on the couch and watching reruns of Scrubs. Because apparently I can never get too much cute, well-intentioned comedy, even though I have seen every episode six times.
I will say that watching so much daytime TV has definitely made me a little bit dumber. I lose a brain cell every time I see a commercial for denture paste, and can't wait for the day that I need a Hover Round. At least old people have an excuse to do nothing. I don't.
"With help from Medicare and my insurance, I didn't pay a dime for my diabetes testing supplies!"
When I am not watching TV, I find that I spend a lot of my time during the day, especially when she is asleep, talking to myself, questioning my purpose in life, lamenting about my laziness, lack of motivation and out-of shape figure, but never doing anything about it. It is tough to explain. I spend my day climbing the walls, fighting anxiety attacks because I don't know what the hell I want to do with my life, and I feel like I am an unproductive, useless part of society. Yet- I can't bring myself to actually do anything about it.
I even got depressed the other day when I saw a commercial for Kaplan Career Institute. ' Man, maybe I should go back to school,' I said to myself. 'If this girl with a GED can do it, so can I. It only takes like three days to get a degree in the growing medical field.'
I then proceeded to list off all of the excuses actually given in the commercial for why people don't go back to school. 'I can't afford it.' 'I don't have time.' 'I haven't been in a classroom in years.' I am actually becoming the demographic that daytime advertisements appeal to.
This baby is the only thing keeping me from being one of those daytime drunks that stumbles around collecting cans that he can redeem at Steve's Quality Market to put toward a 40 OZ of Old English or a cheap bottle of scotch.
I guess I knew going in to this that there was a good chance I would lose my mind, and it appears to be happening. What I didn't expect was one of the side effects being that I have turned in to a welfare mom. Minus the cigarettes and the mental and verbal abuse toward my child, of course. But, insanity is the fuel for good writing, right? Right? God I hope so.
Speaking of verbal abuse, the obese sweat pants family across the street has made a few lifestyle changes over the past few days. Originally, I had thought they moved out, but it appears they are simply doing some house cleaning. Yesterday they finally towed the 1988 Ford Bronco that had been sitting, not working, in their driveway since we have moved in. Filled with trash, it was loaded on the back of a flatbed tow truck yesterday (right after I put the baby down for a nap, of course) and taken away.
The father then pulled his new/used Dodge Caravan in to the same spot, opened up the back hatch and sat down to take a rest before going in to the house, On speakerphone he then called just about everyone he knew to tell them that 'its gone.'
From what I could hear through our open windows he planned on selling the truck for scrap metal because 'there is enough metal in one door of that thing to make 10 cars nowadays.' A clearly exaggerated statement that I somehow think he actually believed.
In appeared as though the vehicle is some sort of family treasure, as when the man was speaking to his mother he said on multiple occasions that both his wife and two daughters would be 'crushed' when they saw that it was gone. He was thinking of lying to his wife and telling her he traded it in for the Caravan so she would be less mad, but was talked out of it by his mother.
I did not get to hear him break the news to his family that the Trash Truck was gone, but I did see them come home in the Caravan, riding just inches off the ground, presumably due to the massive amount of weight he carries. It even seems like obese sweat pants man has a job, though, and he probably watches a lot fewer denture commercials than I do. I guess spying on your neighbors is one way to pass the time. Hopefully today I can finally make the long 2-mile trek to Marshall's to get that generic hooded sweatshirt I have had in my head. It will really compliment the pajama pants.
I look at the woman who lives downstairs. She has two kids, 10 and 8 (and still thinks she is 25). She takes them to school in the morning, comes home and I rarely see her for the rest of the day. She never leaves. Ever. She must just be sleeping, watching TV, probably getting stoned and listening to music. Easy life. Sometimes her adult-skateboarding boyfriend is home, too. He leaves to walk the dog, but not much else.
Now that I am over a month in to this experiment, I am afraid to confirm that I am becoming one of those people. I have already started to lose my mind, and now I fear that I am growing accustomed to these walls. It is a slippery slope. This is how people become hermits.
It is not that I am lazy, I don't think that I am, it is just the hours crawl by so slowly, and I wake up so early, I have really lost touch with the outside world. The baby is easily entertained and, most of the time, doesn't want me to play with her as much as she wants me to just give her what she wants and leave her alone.
When I first started staying home all day I would try and keep myself busy with chores, or try to plan a lot of activities to keep us occupied during the day. Now there are times where I look at a sink full of dishes and say 'nah, not today.' I can't even get myself motivated to write this blog half of the time.
Instead of walking to the park, now I'd rather drive. Instead of showering while she takes a nap, I would rather watch ESPN or the SPEED Channel. Some times it is the Game Show Network, the History Channel, or A&E. It doesn't matter. As long as I don't have to think.
My internal clock is so messed up that sometimes I eat chips and queso dip for breakfast. It isn't that I think it is a good idea, it is just that I don't have any concept of time or space anymore. I am officially a figment of my own imagination.
Some days I am still in my slippers in the afternoon. Yesterday, I intended to do laundry when she took a nap, but just ended up laying on the couch and watching reruns of Scrubs. Because apparently I can never get too much cute, well-intentioned comedy, even though I have seen every episode six times.
I will say that watching so much daytime TV has definitely made me a little bit dumber. I lose a brain cell every time I see a commercial for denture paste, and can't wait for the day that I need a Hover Round. At least old people have an excuse to do nothing. I don't.
"With help from Medicare and my insurance, I didn't pay a dime for my diabetes testing supplies!"
When I am not watching TV, I find that I spend a lot of my time during the day, especially when she is asleep, talking to myself, questioning my purpose in life, lamenting about my laziness, lack of motivation and out-of shape figure, but never doing anything about it. It is tough to explain. I spend my day climbing the walls, fighting anxiety attacks because I don't know what the hell I want to do with my life, and I feel like I am an unproductive, useless part of society. Yet- I can't bring myself to actually do anything about it.
I even got depressed the other day when I saw a commercial for Kaplan Career Institute. ' Man, maybe I should go back to school,' I said to myself. 'If this girl with a GED can do it, so can I. It only takes like three days to get a degree in the growing medical field.'
I then proceeded to list off all of the excuses actually given in the commercial for why people don't go back to school. 'I can't afford it.' 'I don't have time.' 'I haven't been in a classroom in years.' I am actually becoming the demographic that daytime advertisements appeal to.
This baby is the only thing keeping me from being one of those daytime drunks that stumbles around collecting cans that he can redeem at Steve's Quality Market to put toward a 40 OZ of Old English or a cheap bottle of scotch.
I guess I knew going in to this that there was a good chance I would lose my mind, and it appears to be happening. What I didn't expect was one of the side effects being that I have turned in to a welfare mom. Minus the cigarettes and the mental and verbal abuse toward my child, of course. But, insanity is the fuel for good writing, right? Right? God I hope so.
Speaking of verbal abuse, the obese sweat pants family across the street has made a few lifestyle changes over the past few days. Originally, I had thought they moved out, but it appears they are simply doing some house cleaning. Yesterday they finally towed the 1988 Ford Bronco that had been sitting, not working, in their driveway since we have moved in. Filled with trash, it was loaded on the back of a flatbed tow truck yesterday (right after I put the baby down for a nap, of course) and taken away.
The father then pulled his new/used Dodge Caravan in to the same spot, opened up the back hatch and sat down to take a rest before going in to the house, On speakerphone he then called just about everyone he knew to tell them that 'its gone.'
From what I could hear through our open windows he planned on selling the truck for scrap metal because 'there is enough metal in one door of that thing to make 10 cars nowadays.' A clearly exaggerated statement that I somehow think he actually believed.
In appeared as though the vehicle is some sort of family treasure, as when the man was speaking to his mother he said on multiple occasions that both his wife and two daughters would be 'crushed' when they saw that it was gone. He was thinking of lying to his wife and telling her he traded it in for the Caravan so she would be less mad, but was talked out of it by his mother.
I did not get to hear him break the news to his family that the Trash Truck was gone, but I did see them come home in the Caravan, riding just inches off the ground, presumably due to the massive amount of weight he carries. It even seems like obese sweat pants man has a job, though, and he probably watches a lot fewer denture commercials than I do. I guess spying on your neighbors is one way to pass the time. Hopefully today I can finally make the long 2-mile trek to Marshall's to get that generic hooded sweatshirt I have had in my head. It will really compliment the pajama pants.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Episode 19: Today is not my day
Thursdays are beginning to be tough days for me, as I have been closing the bar on Wednesday nights, making for some early morning bed times, followed by early morning wake-ups.
Last night wasn't too bad, I was home by 1:15, but unfortunately, the sandwich I had before bed did not settle well, and I ended up waking up around 2:30 to, um, get rid of it. (Side note: For years I have been hearing the tired old argument for shopping at Market Basket. People say it is cheaper, it is the same as Stop and Shop, etc... but I have always avoided it because I think the store is disgusting and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Mommy was convinced by some well-meaning co-workers to go there this week and she tried it out. The quality of food from Market Basket is deplorable. The deli-sliced cheese tasted like a generic brand of Kraft singles and the turkey tasted processed and old.)
In any event, my 6:30 a.m. wake up call was a bit harsh this morning. It is amazing how a late night at work and a bad sandwich can create the same effects as a hangover when you wake up before the sun.
Av is pretty easy when she first gets up. Change her, give her breakfast and toss on a video. This is usually the time when I do my chores. The unfortunate events began around 7:00 when one of our cats, Little Cat, (who's real name is Rocky, but will be referred to as LC from here on out- more on the cats coming in a future post) decided that she was going to jump on to the drain board filled with clean dishes, knocking a rather sizable pan in to the sink filled with water.
The pan splashed in to the sink, shooting dirty water all over my shirt and shorts, forcing me to change my clothes for the first time 10 minutes after I woke up.
After that fiasco I was attempting to re-fill the cat food container when LC decided she was going to come sniff around again. You know, because the food in her bowl is not as good as the food I am putting in the container. She jumps on the counter, which is wet because of her last trick, gets startled because of it, freaks out and knocks her food all over the wet counter and on to the floor.
Often times, the baby will wake up much earlier than we actually think that she does. She spends a lot of time in her crib playing quietly, and usually melts down when she gets hungry and demands that I come get her. This means that, although I am in there around 6:30-7, she really has been up since around 5:30. Because of this, today she threw the "I'm tired" fit around 7:45, even though she just got out of bed. In an attempt to calm her down I made her a warm bottle, wrapped her in a blanket and sat on the couch. She had just started to chill out and fall asleep when unfortunate event number three took place.
For some reason that I will never understand, she began to crazily flail her arms, causing the bottle nipple to slip out of her mouth and in to the path of her hand, which deflected the nipple directly in to her open eye. So much for that calming bottle. She, of course, started screaming, probably half out of pain and half out of panic, getting so worked up that she threw up all over my neck and chest. Change of clothes number two.
Usually when she cries I can distract her by singing loudly. It makes her feel better and it makes her laugh. I don't sing 'Old McDonald' or any other baby songs. I usually just sing the first song that comes to mind. Sometimes it is someone like Seal, other times it is Van Halen. Doesn't matter, as long as it is singing. Today the first song that came to mind was 'East Bound and Down,' the theme to Smokey and the Bandit.
I'm not sure how this song popped in to my head, as I have not heard it in a long time, but I could only remember the first two lines: 'East bound and down, loaded up and truckin' We're gonna do what they say can't be done.'
The rest is just a blur of twang, Burt Reynolds and a Pontiac Firebird. I'm not sure if it was because I didn't know the rest of the song, or if she was really just pissed, but it didn't work and she kept screaming.
It became apparent that we needed to take a drive so she would nap and that went well for a short period of time, until I decided that it would be a good time to run errands. She woke up from the nap a little happier, and also a little more constipated. Maybe she was sneaking some of the Market Basket turkey, I am not sure, but her second dump of the day was a doozie, and as a bonus, happened to take place inside Eastern Bank where I was waiting in line to deposit a rent check in my California slumlord's bank account.
The smell was ok, but it had to have been uncomfortable because she started to fuss. I didn't care, as a longstanding hatred I have for Eastern Bank gave me enough confidence to stand in line with my smelly, crying baby to pay my rent, rather than come back later.
We rushed home and by the time we had returned, Av had fallen asleep again, meaning I had the unpleasant task of waking her up to change her diaper. Needless to say, she was unhappy and began to kick and flail her legs. The subsequent fit resulted in poop being spread from the ass/ thigh area all the way down her legs, on her arms, on my arms, on her socks and on my shirt. This would be change of clothes number three today.
The Poopstock '09 riot resulted in a bath for the baby and later a shower for Daddy that was interrupted with blood-curdling screams because I left the room. (She was supposed to be distracted by her video.) Av usually loves the bath tub, but the trauma of the waking up to a poop diaper change had her a bit riled up, so as soon as I put her in the tub (contained in the kitchen sink) she started kicking and flailing again, splashing the majority of the water in the tub on the counter, floor and my fourth shirt of the day. That is my fourth shirt before noon.
Frustrated, but still somehow hanging on to my patience with the thinnest of threads, I handed her the rubber octopus bath toy and started whistling (another crowd-pleaser), and she finally calmed down and started having some fun.
I managed to get her in and out with little incident, but getting her clothes on was another story. She started flailing and yelling again, so much so that she hit her head on the side of the changing table. More screaming.
Things finally settled down around noon, when a late-morning snack and a trip around the kitchen in her car walker seemed to brighten her up. As for me, I am on my fifth shirt, I am showered and I am playing the odds that things can only look up from here.
Last night wasn't too bad, I was home by 1:15, but unfortunately, the sandwich I had before bed did not settle well, and I ended up waking up around 2:30 to, um, get rid of it. (Side note: For years I have been hearing the tired old argument for shopping at Market Basket. People say it is cheaper, it is the same as Stop and Shop, etc... but I have always avoided it because I think the store is disgusting and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Mommy was convinced by some well-meaning co-workers to go there this week and she tried it out. The quality of food from Market Basket is deplorable. The deli-sliced cheese tasted like a generic brand of Kraft singles and the turkey tasted processed and old.)
In any event, my 6:30 a.m. wake up call was a bit harsh this morning. It is amazing how a late night at work and a bad sandwich can create the same effects as a hangover when you wake up before the sun.
Av is pretty easy when she first gets up. Change her, give her breakfast and toss on a video. This is usually the time when I do my chores. The unfortunate events began around 7:00 when one of our cats, Little Cat, (who's real name is Rocky, but will be referred to as LC from here on out- more on the cats coming in a future post) decided that she was going to jump on to the drain board filled with clean dishes, knocking a rather sizable pan in to the sink filled with water.
The pan splashed in to the sink, shooting dirty water all over my shirt and shorts, forcing me to change my clothes for the first time 10 minutes after I woke up.
After that fiasco I was attempting to re-fill the cat food container when LC decided she was going to come sniff around again. You know, because the food in her bowl is not as good as the food I am putting in the container. She jumps on the counter, which is wet because of her last trick, gets startled because of it, freaks out and knocks her food all over the wet counter and on to the floor.
Often times, the baby will wake up much earlier than we actually think that she does. She spends a lot of time in her crib playing quietly, and usually melts down when she gets hungry and demands that I come get her. This means that, although I am in there around 6:30-7, she really has been up since around 5:30. Because of this, today she threw the "I'm tired" fit around 7:45, even though she just got out of bed. In an attempt to calm her down I made her a warm bottle, wrapped her in a blanket and sat on the couch. She had just started to chill out and fall asleep when unfortunate event number three took place.
For some reason that I will never understand, she began to crazily flail her arms, causing the bottle nipple to slip out of her mouth and in to the path of her hand, which deflected the nipple directly in to her open eye. So much for that calming bottle. She, of course, started screaming, probably half out of pain and half out of panic, getting so worked up that she threw up all over my neck and chest. Change of clothes number two.
Usually when she cries I can distract her by singing loudly. It makes her feel better and it makes her laugh. I don't sing 'Old McDonald' or any other baby songs. I usually just sing the first song that comes to mind. Sometimes it is someone like Seal, other times it is Van Halen. Doesn't matter, as long as it is singing. Today the first song that came to mind was 'East Bound and Down,' the theme to Smokey and the Bandit.
I'm not sure how this song popped in to my head, as I have not heard it in a long time, but I could only remember the first two lines: 'East bound and down, loaded up and truckin' We're gonna do what they say can't be done.'
The rest is just a blur of twang, Burt Reynolds and a Pontiac Firebird. I'm not sure if it was because I didn't know the rest of the song, or if she was really just pissed, but it didn't work and she kept screaming.
It became apparent that we needed to take a drive so she would nap and that went well for a short period of time, until I decided that it would be a good time to run errands. She woke up from the nap a little happier, and also a little more constipated. Maybe she was sneaking some of the Market Basket turkey, I am not sure, but her second dump of the day was a doozie, and as a bonus, happened to take place inside Eastern Bank where I was waiting in line to deposit a rent check in my California slumlord's bank account.
The smell was ok, but it had to have been uncomfortable because she started to fuss. I didn't care, as a longstanding hatred I have for Eastern Bank gave me enough confidence to stand in line with my smelly, crying baby to pay my rent, rather than come back later.
We rushed home and by the time we had returned, Av had fallen asleep again, meaning I had the unpleasant task of waking her up to change her diaper. Needless to say, she was unhappy and began to kick and flail her legs. The subsequent fit resulted in poop being spread from the ass/ thigh area all the way down her legs, on her arms, on my arms, on her socks and on my shirt. This would be change of clothes number three today.
The Poopstock '09 riot resulted in a bath for the baby and later a shower for Daddy that was interrupted with blood-curdling screams because I left the room. (She was supposed to be distracted by her video.) Av usually loves the bath tub, but the trauma of the waking up to a poop diaper change had her a bit riled up, so as soon as I put her in the tub (contained in the kitchen sink) she started kicking and flailing again, splashing the majority of the water in the tub on the counter, floor and my fourth shirt of the day. That is my fourth shirt before noon.
Frustrated, but still somehow hanging on to my patience with the thinnest of threads, I handed her the rubber octopus bath toy and started whistling (another crowd-pleaser), and she finally calmed down and started having some fun.
I managed to get her in and out with little incident, but getting her clothes on was another story. She started flailing and yelling again, so much so that she hit her head on the side of the changing table. More screaming.
Things finally settled down around noon, when a late-morning snack and a trip around the kitchen in her car walker seemed to brighten her up. As for me, I am on my fifth shirt, I am showered and I am playing the odds that things can only look up from here.
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