Dan and I belong to the "Y" that is approximately 4 miles from our house. It is an amazing place, for many reasons. The most important reason, in my eyes, is that every time I go there, something ridiculous happens. AND I AM NOT EXAGGERATING. (OK, maybe a little, just because I was there yesterday and the only thing that was out-of-the-ordinary was that the man who rides the upstairs spin bike for an hour in a lake of his own sweat--literally, the floor is a huge puddle that you have to avoid--wasn't wearing his usual uniform of bright orange shirt paired with yellow sweatpants.)
A few days ago I was there, and causing a huge ruckus at the check-in desk because I had recently gotten my membership card replaced because I had lost it, then I had found the lost one and lost the new one, and upon checking in had unknowingly tripped the someone-is-unchristianly-cheating-the-"Y" alarm. Luckily, I know pretty much everyone who works there. (Probably because they've all been warned about that lady who turns alarmingly pink when she exercises but is NOT in fact going to have a heart-attack/stroke...you think I'm joking but during the first month of our membership I swear they assigned a trainer to check on me periodically. He would come by and make me give him a thumbs up every 20 minutes.)
Anyway, as I was waiting for the whole lost-membership-card debacle to be straightened out, I saw an adorable friend of mine leaving on her way out.
We hugged and talked for a minute before she asked about Sydney and as I was laughing through some story about her, my cute friend asks: "Oh my gosh, so does she laugh just like you?"
(Aside: for my entire life, my very loud and distinctive laugh has set me apart from everyone else because it is very high-pitched and ridiculous and contagious. Think Julia Roberts meets Alvin the Chipmunk.)
"No!" I told her. "She actually laughs kind of like an evil scientist...who is on speed."
Friend paused.
"Lauren, I hate to break this to you, but that is TOTALLY what YOU sound like!"
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Prodigy...?
Malcolm Gladwell stated in his book What the Dog Saw that many great artists can conclusively be grouped into one of two categories: they are either early or late bloomers. There is some pretty concrete evidence that great creative genius either bursts forth at a young age or is cultivated, often painstakingly, over time. Think Picasso vs. Cézanne. (If you are really interested in the piece, you can read it online here.) With this understanding, draw your own conclusions about my son's comedic prowess after reading this post.
Sooooo Jack goes to an AMAZING preschool where they teach him all sorts of things that no 5-year old really needs to know. When you pick your child up from this fantastic school, you are supposed to check a hanging folder for any permission slip/"a child in this school has recently been diagnosed with _____ disease"/artwork types of papers.
(Jack's folder is invariably crammed full of junk because I am only SUPPOSED to check this folder regularly, not REQUIRED TO BY LAW.)
My inability to remember to check this folder has, until now, only caused mild problems...like not realizing he was supposed to dress in a certain theme on a certain day, or that several kids in his class have ringworm. Pretty small on the whoopsie-scale.
(Do you feel a sense of foreboding yet? Cuz you're supposed to right here.)
So one day I grabbed a large handful of stuff from the folder (no doubt one to two weeks of accumulation) and tucked it in Jack's backpack to peruse after he went to bed...and maybe after I'd had a few cocktails. Turns out it was a good thing that I had those cocktails because you will not be able to believe/predict/comprehend what I discovered...
Note: The martini-glass magnet was added by someone else at a later date. Details to follow. (Bears like this get around.)
If at first you don't understand what you are seeing, allow me to assure you, I know how you feel. Maybe some of you have an inkling or a suspicion of what you are looking at. Perhaps some of you are sexually experimental and KNOW what you are looking at. (You know who you are...and so do I.)
This is an art project that has officially been named: Bear with Merkin.
To the uninitiated (to this blog--you probably want to run now, to merkins--congrats on your non-baldness), this is a paper bear that has a large chunk of very dense fur glued to what can only be described as his "pubic region." Now, according to the internet, there is a popular item that people purchase, called a merkin, which is, indeed...apubicwig.
(I can't really fathom why you would need a wig for this area unless you are recently received a great deal of radiation, or perhaps you are the victim/lover of someone practicing to be an esthetician and you are generous with your body, but also ashamed of the follicular impediment. I just don't know. Anyway, the reasons don't really matter. These things exist. And apparently Jack is aware of this.)
So at this point I've gotten over my shock, gotten myself another cocktail, and I am now delightedly calculating how much fun it will be to show this to Dan and watch his reaction. And perhaps video tape it.
Well, it was, and I didn't (I know, insert Snookie noise here), but we both got an enormous kick out of Bear with Merkin and tucked this priceless item away to astound future guests (and, of course, the internet).
A chance soon came when the one and only Scott B. came to visit. I patiently waited until everyone was nice and tipsy and in the middle of a game of "Loaded Questions" when I sprung it on him. (OK, I forgot about it until a game of "Loaded Questions" in which I pretty much answered every question with a phrase containing the word "merkin.") Eventually, after explaining to Scott B.'s normal, intelligent, and not-yet-perverted girlfriend what a merkin was, I realized I had an EXAMPLE. So out came Bear with Merkin. Scott B. immediately fell in love and begged us to give him Bear with Merkin. Dan and I finally acquiesed as Scott B. has put up with a LOT during the course of his mutual friendship with us. So when Scott B. and girlfriend left to return to Maryland, Bear with Merkin made the return journey with them (and was placed in a position of honor on their refrigerator...affixed firmly with martini magnet).
It was only recently that I realized how much I missed Bear with Merkin and that I had not documented his amazing existence, so I got a picture of him in situ...et voilà! Here is Bear with Merkin in all his vodka swilling glory, proud and out with his pubic wig!
Sooooo Jack goes to an AMAZING preschool where they teach him all sorts of things that no 5-year old really needs to know. When you pick your child up from this fantastic school, you are supposed to check a hanging folder for any permission slip/"a child in this school has recently been diagnosed with _____ disease"/artwork types of papers.
(Jack's folder is invariably crammed full of junk because I am only SUPPOSED to check this folder regularly, not REQUIRED TO BY LAW.)
My inability to remember to check this folder has, until now, only caused mild problems...like not realizing he was supposed to dress in a certain theme on a certain day, or that several kids in his class have ringworm. Pretty small on the whoopsie-scale.
(Do you feel a sense of foreboding yet? Cuz you're supposed to right here.)
So one day I grabbed a large handful of stuff from the folder (no doubt one to two weeks of accumulation) and tucked it in Jack's backpack to peruse after he went to bed...and maybe after I'd had a few cocktails. Turns out it was a good thing that I had those cocktails because you will not be able to believe/predict/comprehend what I discovered...
Note: The martini-glass magnet was added by someone else at a later date. Details to follow. (Bears like this get around.)
If at first you don't understand what you are seeing, allow me to assure you, I know how you feel. Maybe some of you have an inkling or a suspicion of what you are looking at. Perhaps some of you are sexually experimental and KNOW what you are looking at. (You know who you are...and so do I.)
This is an art project that has officially been named: Bear with Merkin.
To the uninitiated (to this blog--you probably want to run now, to merkins--congrats on your non-baldness), this is a paper bear that has a large chunk of very dense fur glued to what can only be described as his "pubic region." Now, according to the internet, there is a popular item that people purchase, called a merkin, which is, indeed...apubicwig.
(I can't really fathom why you would need a wig for this area unless you are recently received a great deal of radiation, or perhaps you are the victim/lover of someone practicing to be an esthetician and you are generous with your body, but also ashamed of the follicular impediment. I just don't know. Anyway, the reasons don't really matter. These things exist. And apparently Jack is aware of this.)
So at this point I've gotten over my shock, gotten myself another cocktail, and I am now delightedly calculating how much fun it will be to show this to Dan and watch his reaction. And perhaps video tape it.
Well, it was, and I didn't (I know, insert Snookie noise here), but we both got an enormous kick out of Bear with Merkin and tucked this priceless item away to astound future guests (and, of course, the internet).
A chance soon came when the one and only Scott B. came to visit. I patiently waited until everyone was nice and tipsy and in the middle of a game of "Loaded Questions" when I sprung it on him. (OK, I forgot about it until a game of "Loaded Questions" in which I pretty much answered every question with a phrase containing the word "merkin.") Eventually, after explaining to Scott B.'s normal, intelligent, and not-yet-perverted girlfriend what a merkin was, I realized I had an EXAMPLE. So out came Bear with Merkin. Scott B. immediately fell in love and begged us to give him Bear with Merkin. Dan and I finally acquiesed as Scott B. has put up with a LOT during the course of his mutual friendship with us. So when Scott B. and girlfriend left to return to Maryland, Bear with Merkin made the return journey with them (and was placed in a position of honor on their refrigerator...affixed firmly with martini magnet).
It was only recently that I realized how much I missed Bear with Merkin and that I had not documented his amazing existence, so I got a picture of him in situ...et voilà! Here is Bear with Merkin in all his vodka swilling glory, proud and out with his pubic wig!
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Dananananana...
Jack: Let's play Batman!
Pop-Pop: OK. Who should I be?
Jack: The Poker, 'cuz Sydney bees Robin.
Pop-Pop: OK. Who should I be?
Jack: The Poker, 'cuz Sydney bees Robin.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Attendance is mandatory
Lately Sydney has come to grips with the odd collection of people (or collection of odd people?) that make up her family/daily life. She is starting to see the pattern of who comes and goes regularly, and who she can't get rid of. With this newfound perception comes a lot of what Dan and I describe as "roll call." She will shout out, at any given moment, not unlike a high school gym teacher, someone's name and expect an immediate response. If you don't reply quickly enough she will start screaming at you to stop bouncing that basketball.
I picked her up from school yesterday to go to the pediatrician's office for her 18th ear infection of the year. Once we were in the car and on her way, she started in:
"MAMA!"
"Yes Sydney?"
"Maaaaaama."
"Yes?"
"JAAAAAACKY!"
"Jack is at school."
"DAAAAAADDY!"
"Daddy is at work."
...and repeat for nine miles.
Later that night, after we had finally got both kids in bed and were sitting down on the couch to enjoy the peace and quiet, we heard Sydney in her room, shouting. We looked at each other, both of our jaws beginning to dislocate.
Then we noticed that she was just barking "DINAH!" over and over again.
"Is the baby yelling for the dog?" Dan asked me.
"Um...I think that Dinah might be IN HER ROOM."
(Dinah often accompanies me into the baby's room for our nightly ritual of singing and/or screaming. I guess I had snuck out and shut the door behind me before she could herself escape.)
Dan went up and cracked the door to Sydney's bedroom. Poor Dinah came bolting out, no doubt completely demoralized by being yelled at for 20 minutes by a 21 lb. drill sergeant.
I picked her up from school yesterday to go to the pediatrician's office for her 18th ear infection of the year. Once we were in the car and on her way, she started in:
"MAMA!"
"Yes Sydney?"
"Maaaaaama."
"Yes?"
"JAAAAAACKY!"
"Jack is at school."
"DAAAAAADDY!"
"Daddy is at work."
...and repeat for nine miles.
Later that night, after we had finally got both kids in bed and were sitting down on the couch to enjoy the peace and quiet, we heard Sydney in her room, shouting. We looked at each other, both of our jaws beginning to dislocate.
Then we noticed that she was just barking "DINAH!" over and over again.
"Is the baby yelling for the dog?" Dan asked me.
"Um...I think that Dinah might be IN HER ROOM."
(Dinah often accompanies me into the baby's room for our nightly ritual of singing and/or screaming. I guess I had snuck out and shut the door behind me before she could herself escape.)
Dan went up and cracked the door to Sydney's bedroom. Poor Dinah came bolting out, no doubt completely demoralized by being yelled at for 20 minutes by a 21 lb. drill sergeant.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
I am enchanted...
- When you tell me that I am the smartest person you know because I was able to accurately guess when the last time you went to the bathroom was.
- When you humor my competitive eating/food obsession and let me text you pictures of the awesome things that I eat.
- When you call me on your way home from work to complain about people b/c I am the only person who will understand.
- When you card me at the grocery store and audibly choke when you see my age.
- When you assure me that there is no way that you will attend a happy hour if I am not also going.
- When you have a huge, fancy, expensive wedding and I can actually attend and am so super-excited about going that I bought two dresses.
- When we go out to lunch and it turns into a 5-course meal...including cocktails.
- When you reminisce about my last pregnancy and recall it so fondly...you weirdo.
- When you insist on squeezing my face even though your hands are coated in banana shmutz...and I let you because you are irresistable.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Overheard
Jack, while I help him put on underwear and pajamas: Do you know at night my penis and my butt trade places?
Me, distracted: Wait...what?
Jack, totally serious: Yeah, like the ceiling fan. They go around--my penis goes to the back, my butt goes to the front. My butt goes to the back, my penis goes to the front.
Me: Wow.
Jack, skeptically: What, you've never heard of this?
Me, distracted: Wait...what?
Jack, totally serious: Yeah, like the ceiling fan. They go around--my penis goes to the back, my butt goes to the front. My butt goes to the back, my penis goes to the front.
Me: Wow.
Jack, skeptically: What, you've never heard of this?
Yah Retahded.
So this weekend I spent a blissful (and ridiculous...hey, it's me, what do you expect?) 3 days in Boston, MA. The trip was planned originally because if I don't leave this madhouse every once and awhile and do things that are unrelated to a) work, b) kids, c) dogs, d) laundry, e) husbands, f) family, g) poop, h) dishes, well, I get a little crazy. So one of my favorite people and I booked a trip to Boston in the middle of winter. Great idea, right? Well it WAS. So suck it everyone who told me it was really dumb.
First of all, I love snow. North Carolina, while beautiful, friendly, and warm, doesn't get a lot of snow, and when it does, it's really lame snow and everyone freaks out and pretty much ruins any childish excitement I have over being snowed in. So to go to a place where they shrug off snow the way I shrug off a turd on my carpet was really refreshing, despite the phrasing of that sentence (I CLEAN UP up the turds, I just don't freak out...sheesh). Also I got to use my ski jacket that I love (both of them actually) and that made me happy. There are secret ninja pockets in that jacket that I love to fill with crap and then get flustered and alarmed when I can't find something...oh wait, there it is in that pocket! (This is especially enjoyable for the people that I'm with.)
The incredible cake of the weekend was spending so much time with awesome girls: we both met up with college girlfriends who are adorable and so, so fun. Top that with the icing of going shopping, dancing and eating almost every meal out (I think that because I love to cook so much, I truly value a meal that another person has prepared for me...and when that meal includes oysters, well I am just about in heaven). Also I am a huge fan of sharing food (in my book "sharing" includes reciprocation, which is not the standard around this house) so to eat with other adults that share this mealtime philosophy was sublime. We visited the "Oldest Restaurant in America" which was in a three story, tiny house that was clearly built when our country was still a blushing virgin. The people were awesome--everyone responded to my shit-eating grin with smart remarks and I felt very at-home. We visited Cambridge which was adorable, and ate at a gastropub there (Lord Hobo) that provided me with probably a year's worth of incredible cocktail recipes (this was all at breakfast too), including a margarita topped with pale ale.
Hold on a sec, I have to stop drooling.
The final, clutch straw of this amazing weekend was seeing one of my favorite artists perform at the House of Blues. Girl Talk is basically a guy who, while getting his Biomedical Engineering degree at Case Western, starting dj-ing at parties and performing mashups of samples of songs from his childhood along with (relatively) current rap tracks...and the result is euphoric, upbeat, dance-heaven for anyone, but especially someone with a short attention span, like yours truly. I'm posting a little teeny clip of video for you to hopefully see the awesome ambiance and atmosphere of what basically amounts to the best dance party you will ever attend.
First of all, I love snow. North Carolina, while beautiful, friendly, and warm, doesn't get a lot of snow, and when it does, it's really lame snow and everyone freaks out and pretty much ruins any childish excitement I have over being snowed in. So to go to a place where they shrug off snow the way I shrug off a turd on my carpet was really refreshing, despite the phrasing of that sentence (I CLEAN UP up the turds, I just don't freak out...sheesh). Also I got to use my ski jacket that I love (both of them actually) and that made me happy. There are secret ninja pockets in that jacket that I love to fill with crap and then get flustered and alarmed when I can't find something...oh wait, there it is in that pocket! (This is especially enjoyable for the people that I'm with.)
The incredible cake of the weekend was spending so much time with awesome girls: we both met up with college girlfriends who are adorable and so, so fun. Top that with the icing of going shopping, dancing and eating almost every meal out (I think that because I love to cook so much, I truly value a meal that another person has prepared for me...and when that meal includes oysters, well I am just about in heaven). Also I am a huge fan of sharing food (in my book "sharing" includes reciprocation, which is not the standard around this house) so to eat with other adults that share this mealtime philosophy was sublime. We visited the "Oldest Restaurant in America" which was in a three story, tiny house that was clearly built when our country was still a blushing virgin. The people were awesome--everyone responded to my shit-eating grin with smart remarks and I felt very at-home. We visited Cambridge which was adorable, and ate at a gastropub there (Lord Hobo) that provided me with probably a year's worth of incredible cocktail recipes (this was all at breakfast too), including a margarita topped with pale ale.
Hold on a sec, I have to stop drooling.
The final, clutch straw of this amazing weekend was seeing one of my favorite artists perform at the House of Blues. Girl Talk is basically a guy who, while getting his Biomedical Engineering degree at Case Western, starting dj-ing at parties and performing mashups of samples of songs from his childhood along with (relatively) current rap tracks...and the result is euphoric, upbeat, dance-heaven for anyone, but especially someone with a short attention span, like yours truly. I'm posting a little teeny clip of video for you to hopefully see the awesome ambiance and atmosphere of what basically amounts to the best dance party you will ever attend.
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