Clearly, I need a hobby.

Yes, I realize it's Monday. No, I'm not confused (about the day.) I've decided to go forth and blog TWICE A WEEK.

AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK!

We'll see if I can go, say, for two weeks. I dream big.

It turns out, I have waaay more questions than can be asked in a once-weekly posting. Such as:

Why, oh why is the most common email or chat smiley the wink? Why do we do this? WHEN was the last time you actually WINKED at someone? Think about it.

I'll wait.

You haven't. Do you know why? It's because the wink is slightly smarmy and more than a little creepy. Think I'm wrong? The next time you say something slightly jokey or sarcastic to a friend...wink at them.

"Hey Peej- you like that pb&j I made you for lunch?"
"Yeah, it was a good sandwich, thanks."
"Glad you liked it- you're eating it all week!!" *WINK*
"You okay, Keely?"
"Sure am! Nothing a little pb&j couldn't fix!!" *WINK*

Totally weird.

Also- and this is NOT an inflammatory 'how could you ask that about vegans' comment, I truly do not know: Do vegans breastfeed?

I'll let you think about that one for a sec, too.

I am not ashamed to admit that I do not know the answer to this one. I have an entered a No Embarrassment phase of my life (see: Michael Bolton post). Can you help me out? Are vegans anti ANY sort of mammal product or byproduct? I mean, I can't imagine they're against animals out in nature feeding their young. That would be ridiculous. And nearly impossible to enforce!

Thirdly, why do pre-teen girls (yeah, that's what it was called when I was 12- we didn't have this tween nonsense) waste all this time and energy on beauty rituals they will have no time when they actually need it? When I was in middle school, my friends and I spent DAYS putting mayo in our hair (excellent conditioner), putting masks and scrubs on nearly baby-smooth skin and indulging in twice-weekly pedicures. It was good practice, we told ourselves. We were going to be gorgeous WOMEN someday!

I should have spent that time learning Chinese or trying to pass pre-Algebra (for the third time). When's the last time you gave yourself any sort of at-home treatment that took more than five minutes? I currently possess chipped nails, sad-looking skin and split ends you could weave a basket with. Every now and then I rub the excess apricot oil from Nora's bath on my arms (sometimes with the baby as an applicator- hey, waste not, want not) and occasionally enjoy a facial steam as a serendipitous result of Nora's late night sickness-fighting shower steaming. But that is it.

I blame YM magazine for telling me that I needed all this. I blame YM for many things, actually. My mother eventually took away my subscription, which I DO NOT BLAME HER FOR AT ALL, once we realized it was a little racy for a twelve-year old; especially a twelve-year old who played with porcelain dolls for WAY longer than was age appropriate. What business did I have learning how to drive 'him' wild? (I still don't know how to drive anyone 'wild'. But, as a married gal with a mortgage and a newborn, perhaps that ship has sailed?)

And final question: who the heck ARE all you people? According to Blogger, you hail from Canada, India, Spain, Italy, New Zealand, Australia, Belgium and locales I am afraid I'll typo and thusly embarrass myself. I can guess at some of the cities: I went to college with half of Los Angeles and NYC, apparently (is it cool to say I'm "big" in L.A. and NYC? Yes? I will anyway) and am related to and/or spent my childhood with the majority of the Boston and Berkshire County following. But who do I know in Waterloo?! (Hi!)

Or maybe you're one of the folks who found me by Google-searching about the kid who played Duck Lips on Full House? (That was YEARS ago, people, I posted about that on a DIFFERENT BLOG!) But it'll probably pop back up on here now. Also, to those of you who found me by searching various disgusting "medical" techniques- have I helped?

I think you should let me know how you got here. It's important for me to understand my demographic. That way I can keep the stories of diaper fails, Michael Bolton and improperly-placed furniture at a minimum. Or at a maximum! If that's what you dig! So, uh, keep in touch.

Except for the guy who got here by researching "roadkill" and "puppets."

I think we should just agree to disagree.

Thanks for nothing, Evanescence.

As I was driving to work the other morning, iPod Touch hooked up to the cassette deck and wee baby asleep in the back, I found myself enjoying a nice mix of light tunes with which to lull Nora and keep her soundly sleeping. Suddenly, a track by Evanescence blared on (no, it does NOT matter which one, they are all loud)at about 800 decibels higher than the previous songs. What's with your modulation, Amy Lee?

Yes, this IS a sign that I'm getting old: ire towards goth-lite bands.

And then it hit me, I was more concerned about the volume of an embarrassing song than the actual playing of an embarrassing song. Maybe being dangerously close to the end of my late twenties (ahem- four more months) is freeing me up to admit that I love bad songs!

Don't get me wrong, I have a great, obsessive love for many exceptional artists and bands (Etta James, Lyle Lovett, B.B. King, et. al): I collect them on vinyl, see them in overpriced arenas and dissect their lyrics with reverence. But for every James Taylor there is a Kip Winger. For every "She's no lady/ she's my wife" there's a "(Baby)/ Don't forget my number."

And I love them all. All of them.

I will now come out of the soundproof closet and admit that I love Michael Bolton. Love might be too flimsy a term for the feelings I have whenever Michael Bolton hits a key change. His song Said I Loved You (But I lied)- amazing. ('Cause this is more than love I feel inside.) I KNOW!

I've spent too many years turning the volume down in paper-thin studio apartments every time Savage Garden or Rob Zombie pops up on iTunes. No longer! Is it MY fault that bad music (read- terminally unhip) is clearly the most singalongable? Okay, maybe not so much Rob Zombie, but he IS fun to clean to.

And to clarify- by "bad" music, I mean music that was once hugely popular by a demographic with which you yourself would never in a million years identify. And that was a million years ago. Rendering it...prehistorically "bad."

But if it's so "bad," why does Warrant still make me cry? Why does Def Leppard's "Gods Of War" make me wanna wave a flag? And why won't P.J. sing either part of the Aaron Neville/Linda Ronstandt duets with me? (Okay, that last one doesn't really help my case, but still. Why?)

It's not such a stance to play the newest Lady Gaga track at full blast. But it does take a certain type of person to proclaim your preference for Van Hagar over Van Halen. Or, in the case of the Guthries, Arlo over Woody.

Yes, I said it. I prefer Arlo Guthrie.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel no shame.

(Well, maybe a little. But it gets easier, I promise you.)

Thursday is the new Saturday. No, really, it is.

A brand-new graffitiesque mural has gone up in my neighborhood; it's on the side of a building near the intersection of Kedzie and Montrose, to be exact. It is great. The word "diversity" is written (scrawled?) in about ten different languages. You know, the languages that represent Albany Park. A multitude of beautiful, happy, diverse faces are looking in different directions, quite artful, and are layered willy-nilly to show the many different colors and ethnicities of our lovely 'hood. Fabulous. One problem.

I AM NOT INCLUDED.

No one even remotely white-ish is featured. Sure, sure, I hear you telling me about centuries of oppression and the White Man and underrepresented cultures. Fine. However. I'm Irish and Armenian and a smidge of Italian and have oppressed NO ONE so perhaps you could STICK ME DOWN IN THE CORNER SOMEWHERE. I do not take up much room. (Unless I bring my shoes and hoodies.)

I may have to resort to graffiti on graffiti. Extremely post-modern. Are you listening, Hampshire College? (Yeah, I took film. And strangely, pre-law. And one bizarre semester about our FEELINGS regarding science.)

Other media that concerns me:

Have you seen the new commercial for Hi-Def Vision Ultra sunglasses? Take a minute to really chew on that one. These sunglasses. Make. Things. Hi Definition. They're practically making objects 3-D. Almost like real life! Actual quote: "Other sunglasses just make things darker." (Darn sunglasses!) And now, according to a special offer, you can get TWO for TEN DOLLARS (if you call now.) So basically, I'll get a five dollar pair of sunglasses that make objects look like real life? Where do I sign?!

Also.

The new ad for Aciphex: a pill for acid reflux that takes care of 'burning, bad taste & belching.' And please say the name aloud. Everything about this commercial is gross. An entire ad featuring closeups of people's mouths while they writhe in pain, dislike the taste of their own tongues and attempt to cover up burps. Poorly. "...So nasty!" And all from a product whose first syllable is 'ass.'

And finally: those Cash 4 Gold people are starting to make me really suspicious. Why do they want my gold so badly? *I* want my gold! Why doesn't it matter what condition my gold is in? Do they know something I don't? Does my gold have new healing powers? Is all the gold disappearing? They're sending me a BOX in which to ship all my gold? Why not a company car? I think I'll hang on to my gold until I get some more answers.

***

Confidential to PJS: Thank you for not letting that scenario with the middle-of-the-night-car-honker-layin'-on-the-horn-for-what-seemed-like-hours go all 'Gran Turino.' As we both know, I've never seen 'Gran Turino,' but I'm fairly certain from the previews that it involves an angry Clint Eastwood and a wielded shotgun and the phrase "Get the hell off my property" or somesuch. I know how you get during these moments. Kinda like The Hulk, if The Hulk had an infant daughter sleeping in a room facing the street.

So, thanks.

Housewivery, unfortunate pants & inconsequential rage.

Things that bother me this week (settle in, we could be here a spell):

Pants.

I tried to buy my first post-preggo pants this past weekend. It was an epic fail on all fronts, mostly the posterior. Silly me, I'd thought it was high time to ditch the elastic-waisted maternity jeans. It is clearly not time. It may never BE time. (Sure, some of you keep telling me that it'll HAPPEN, you just HAD the baby! This is false. She is two and a half months old. Do not give me these kind of excuses- it just paves the way for stretchy pants and oversized 'Hang in there, Kitten!' sweatshirts until she's of school age.)

Anyway. I tried on seven pairs of jeans. Two were the next size up from what I usually wear, two were the size up from that, and two were even the size up from that. One was this shapeless pair of what I derisively labeled 'Mom jeans.'

The first two came up to my knees (PLEASE tell me that the width of my knees has changed- that would be perfection) the next two fit over my hips but wouldn't button (I wanted to take the extra material from the wide legs and add it to the laughably tiny waistband), the two after that buttoned just fine but left a cavernous amount of room in the behind and were somehow too short. Even the 'Mom jeans' left me cold. (Not from lack of fabric, mind you. There was plenty of that.) Apparently, to wear 'Mom jeans' one must be shaped roughly like an onion. Bulbous, pointy, sassy writing on the butt. You know, an onion.

I ended up buying two pairs of yoga pants from Old Navy- because nothing says 'my body is not yet a real size' like stretchy pants. (Hang in there!)

And, ok, I am angered at Tupperware.

WHY does Tupperware never dry? It never does. You can leave it in the dishrack or the washer for days and STILL there will be a few stubborn droplets firmly attached to the lip or ridge or whatever the heck that place is called that makes the lid go sqoosh. You can't even reach it by dishtowel- oh no- I think the only thing that could reach it would be a Q-tip, and I AM NOT ABOUT TO Q-TIP MY TUPPERWARE, thankyouverymuch. I barely manage to clean the dryer's lint trap (do NOT get me started on the lint trap.) But why does it retain water so well? (Or, rather, so badly?) Is Tupperware actually part water? Does it biodegrade? I'm a terrible housewife- I do not have these answers.

P.J. would tell me that this is because I am NOT a housewife, despite my best efforts to not work outside of the home. Do you know how many salami sandwiches I make for him each week? Regardless of whether or not he even LIKES salami? Or how many socks I match up in evenly folded pairs? (No balling-up of socks here, lady!) I do not vacuum- but I DO start the Roomba with my foot. I rearrange furniture under the pretense of Feng Shui- (I'm Irish, what do I know from Asian arts?) and light appropriately scented candles to mask that...whatever it is...that wafts from the downstairs bathroom's pipes. I watch copious amounts of 'The Ghost Whisperer' which, admittedly, has little to do with housewivery but is something I'd commit even further to, were I allowed to remain in the actual house. AND, most importantly, I rear his child (which makes it sound like I lead her backwards throughout our home. I do not. That is how I sprained my ankle in eighth grade. Solo. Not with Nora.)

And peeing. Why must I use the bathroom throughout the day, especially during working hours?

It's made especially tough when trying to use the facilities if a newborn baby, say, is slung across your chest, fast asleep. Put her down, you say? Certainly! The two options available on Wednesdays and Fridays are a) on the floor of the pocket bathroom or b) in the living room with the two year old who deals with any sound Nora makes by trying to shove a rattle directly up her nostril. ("She LIKES this, Kiki!!")

Thusly, sling-peeing. It should be an Olympic event. The precision, the tension, the crowd-pleasing humor. (The back story, the interview, the killer soundtrack- I love the Olympics.) One false move and it's all over. The Russian judge scores harshly. (I could make a European In the Bathroom joke here, but I won't.)

Another reason to leave the baby strapped against me today? The two-year old gal chose to test the deepness of Nora's sleep (result- not very) by screaming "Are you sleeping, Baby Nora?!) into an electronic voice-changing bullhorn. Set to Darth Vader. Inches from Nora's head. After being informed that little-littles need quiet tones AND that yelling near the baby earns a time-out, I was told that Nora LIKES voices. (I fear that before long the babe will be hearing voices.)

Mom. Of. The. Year.

To cement my Mom-ness? (Momity? Mom-ocity? Momitude? Ok, momitude.) I actually just uttered the phrase, "We don't lick napkins." ("Why, Kiki?") I actually don't know. It just sounded like the thing to say. So go ahead, everyone. Have a happy Thursday.

Lick the napkin.