You should catch him when he stage dives, he might break a hip

I just got off the phone with my buddy Dan, who is four months older than me. We're 36.

Dan told me that last night, he went to an Incubus concert. It was great. However, at some point, he looked around, and suddenly realized he was old enough to be the father of many of the people around him.

And so, he officially became Old Guy. And through guilt of association, has dragged me with him.

We don't understand this. We were just 20 yesterday. And I realized, when you say things like "but I was just 20 yesterday...", you're done for.

But he continued to tell me that at the concert, when he mentioned to his beloved that he wanted a beer, his spouse's reply was "but it's a work night".

To which my immediate and unedited response was "EWWWWWWW!!!!", contentedly confirming my belief that my mental age rests somewhere around 12 1/2.

Which makes things seem stranger yet, when thinking about the boyfriend, who, next year, will be 40. Forty? Forty. I called Jackie.

"I can't get over the fact that I have a boyfriend who's going to be 40", I mumbled, still shell-shocked.

"And he's YOUR age", Jackie offered helpfully, with a mouth stuffed full of cheese, as usual.

Ah, shit.

Is 40 the new 20? Is black the new black? Does it matter that we work out all the time, curse more than our kids, listen to the same music they do, and his favorite thing to do is jump out of planes?

Sure, my pitching arm's still good enough that I could toss my panties up on stage at a Calle 13 show. Does it matter that they'd be gigantic leftover maternity panties?

No shit, Sherlock.

I hate these emails.

You're just adding to the problem, Mr. System Administrator.

Just adding to the problem.

Today's plan

gym
newsletter
promo training for property in Jamaica
SUBMIT EXPENSES!
follow up on contract emails
call tech team re: log-in issue
landing page content

Stay home and take care of sick monkey.

Relocating the office!

My neighbors have been fighting lately.

Knock-down, drag out fights where someone is usually outside my living room window, calling the other one an asshole.

It gets a little disconcerting, with my home office being in my living room, and most of my conference calls occurring over my fancy new speaker phone.

So this weekend, I relocated my office into my bedroom. I overestimated how much space my office was going to require, and joyfully got rid of a lot of useless crap in anticipation. My bedroom is now an open, airy, sparklingly fresh room, and I can watch my Danish DVD's on my flat screen monitor from my relocated, now feng shuically-correct bed. And I don't have to look guiltily at the dishes piling up in the kitchen sink.

And I can still hear the "ding" of incoming mail from the boss from the comfort of my pillow.

You can't beat that with a stick.

Now, if I can just get the neighbors to stop leaving love letters for each other with their fingers on the side of their own dirty car...

La la la la la la

Have you ever been so happy that even the darkest rages of PMS flitted past you like a tiny pink kite in the summer's ocean breeze? Of course, the 72lbs. of chocolate that I've consumed over the past couple of days have been of great assistance, but it just seems like everything has fallen into place.

I'm so happy I could pull on my sequined blue pantsuit and dance around.

(The Kid loves this song.) :)

My blissfully empty nest

Today, after two months of summer camp and two weeks off (aaaugggh), The Kid returned to daycare.

I had registered late, and she was put in a class with a teacher that I didn't know. I was afraid that I was being PMS'y, but after attending open house yesterday morning, and seeing that a majority of the kids in her new class were younger than her, and that the teacher seemed to pay more attention to the more mumbly boys (they understandably needed more attention, because they were less verbal), I spoke with the director and moved her to the class I originally requested. The teacher is Israeli, and very attentive. She listened to my request that the Kid's sugar intake be limited throughout the day due to my own hereditary adult issues with Insulin Resistance (last year, one of the teachers was handing out chocolate chip cookies for breakfast), and said she would do whatever she could to support me. And, better yet, her teaching assistant is the art teacher that stopped me last year to tell me the Kid was her favorite. :)

So the Kid couldn't be in a better class, and I'm deliriously happy I requested the switch.

This morning was magical. (Apart from the fact that I was carrying her backpack, her lunch bag, a banana, my purse, a pack of pull-ups, and the camera - but not the keys, and locked myself out of the house. I had to crawl back in through the living room window). It was magical because prior to this summer, I used to have to fling my kid out of the car window at 7:30, speed to work, work, and then speed back to pick her up, at which point she'd be starving, because it was 5:30pm. And all this in heels. I would glare at the other mommies standing around, sipping their lattes in their yoga pants, holding the keys to their Hummers, making plans to go get manicures after coffee.

"Am I the only one with a JOB?" I would wonder.

This morning, I rolled out of bed, pulled my hair into a ponytail, threw on my gym clothes, and took my kid to school. At 9am.

I may still very well be the only one with a job. But I am oh, so cool with that. I've realized that I have to work. I don't know what I would do with myself otherwise. While many of my girlfriends are Stay at Home Moms, and I love them and they love me, I have no idea how they do what they do. I can't imagine being at home with the Kid all day.

As Count Olaf says in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, I'm sorry, I don't speak... monkey.

My child likes to spin in circles until she falls over. She thinks snoring is fun. She eats things off the floor. She likes to tell everyone that she pooped. She dances to commercials. She does not like roasted fennel, or contemporary art, or fresh olives, or movies with subtitles. Everyone tells me that she speaks so well, and so clearly, but what they don't understand is that she has to. I'm a single mother, and I don't speak monkey. When she asks why she can't leave her toys strewn all over the grass in front of our apartment or throw garbage on the ground, I ask her if she can say "socially responsible".

"Socially asponsible" she peeps back at me.

When we're out together, I speak to her as if she was another adult. "What kind of lettuce should we get?" She points. "I don't like that one" I tell her. The red lettuce seems to spoil quickly. What about spinach?" "Yes, spinach." she says. "I like spinach". People passing by look at us strangely. She points at the other toddlers sitting in 7-foot long shopping carts shaped like small cars. "That's difficult to steer", she tells their parents. Meanwhile, their kids are muttering incoherently and trying to eat their own hands.

Don't get me wrong, I completely encourage the spinning in circles until you throw up thing, I just don't know what I would do with myself if I had to monitor that all day. I don't have the ability to be a SAHM. I used to feel bad about being a mom who enjoyed working and utilized daycare. Now I just feel like it really is the right choice for us.

Here's some photos of yesterday's walk in the park on a 1.5 mile nature loop, complete with runaway fiddler crabs and a sunning iguana:

Tor-tola, here I come...

Ya da da da da da....

Today, He Who Shall Not Be Named (no, not Voldemort. The [cough]... the [cough]... boyfriend) and I planned a little vacation.

We'll be in the (where else) Caribbean for five days - three days at my favorite hotel in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, and two days at some delicious-looking resort in Tortola.

That's right, I said Tortola.

Not tortilla.

Not Tommy Mottola.

Not Toyota Corolla.

Tor-tola.

Here's a photo:

YEAH, BABY!

RUNDETAARN! AAAHH!

I love it when my kid naps.

Mostly because I can watch old Dolph episodes on the internet.

But the beginning of this episode reminded me of Kara.

Of course, if you don't speak Danish and are mystified by the giant fascist hippo, it may not seem as funny. But he's walking through the Rundetaarn, a Round Tower in Copenhagen.

Here's my quick translation:
"Dolph is in the Rundetaarn.
Dolph never gets tired or exhausted – he never does.
Rundetaarn, you cannot be tougher than Dolph, with your many labyrinthical halls.
AAAAHHHH!
Dolph can walk many thousands of kilometers without a drop of water.
RUUUUUNDETAARN!
ARGHH!"










Kara went to the Rundetaarn.

It sounded like this:
Kara: There's an elevator, right?
Me: Sure!
Kara: Where's the elevator?
Me: Umm... I think it's right around the corner.
Kara: Come on, where's the elevator?
Me: It's right around the corner!
Kara: I'm not frikkin' kidding. Where's the elevator.
Me: I seriously think it's right around the corner. I saw it on the sign in front.
Kara: There's no elevator, is there.
Me: No.
Kara: I fucking hate you.

How much do I love Thomas?

I can't even tell you.

Today I got a large, flat package in the mail, which turned out to be a large cutout of a mole from my favorite Danish children's book "Muldvarpen, der ville vide, hvem der havde lavet lort på dens hoved", or The Mole Who Wanted to Know Who Shit on His Head".

I know I'm supposed to hang it up for the Kid in her room, but leaving it in the living room makes me giggle.











This week has been really crazy with work and finding time every day to work out. School is closed for two weeks, and my parents have been watching the Kid for 6 hours a day. Don't get me wrong, I'd be lost without them, but those 6 hours leave me five hours to work, exercise, get my own stuff done, have lunch, blah, blah, blah.

I wind up working about 3 - 3 1/2 hours during the day, and another 5 at night after she goes to bed.

I can't wait until school starts again.

It has been nice, though, to have a little extra time with her, even at the cost of my beloved sleep. We're both tan, and have been getting to the beach and swimming at the pool. We do more errands together, and she helps me clean. However, since I've been trying to get at least 45 minutes of exercise in, seven days a week, the apartment has gone to the shitter. Today will be a BIG clean up day. She likes to follow me around with her little toy vacuum, which is always fun.

We came home the other day and Betty had taken a turn on the pavement - Betty being the newest addition to her toy collection. My child, who has a WEIRD aversion to dirt (ok, it's from me) immediately ran to me with Betty, yelling "Betty's DIRTY!!" I was juggling seven grocery bags and fishing through my keys with my teeth and two fingers trying to pull out the one for the front door, and I think I mumbled something like, "Ok, baby, we'll put her in the wash..."

Hours later, I was putting the Kid to bed, and couldn't find Betty anywhere. I didn't even mention her name, lest my 2 1/2 year old fixate on finding her, and put the Kid to bed with a kiss and perfunctory pat on the head.

I went into the kitchen to wash any leftover dishes, and there was Betty, in the "wash". The sink that my child can't reach without standing on her absolute tip toes, and definately can't see over. She just knows that's where mommy goes to wash stuff. And in went Betty.

God, I love little kids.

And Thomas.

:)

When you drink as much as I do, they eventually name one after you

Today, a package arrived in the mail from Thomas.

Isn't that great???

I also received a beautiful Viking bracelet and a surprise for the Kid, which she'll open later.

He's the best gift-giver on the planet...

Thanks, TØ, wherever you are!

It's my party, and I'll tear this place apart if I want to

Yesterday, I turned 36.

Which is amazing, because it was just yesterday that I was 16. I'm confused.

I went to the gym, and tried out my new sneakers. There was a lovely dinner on the ocean. For the first time ever, there was no birthday cake, because one week ago, I thought Atkins would be a fantastic idea.

What's wrong with me?

Jackie sent a beautiful bouquet, wishing me a "Beary Happy Birthday". WHAT A GOOB!!! Isn't it pretty? Hey, Jackie, did you know there was Mountain Laurel in the bouquet??

Thomas called from a ferry between Stockholm and ... I have no idea. Estonia, I guess. He's doing a 5-week motorcycle trip through eastern Europe.

Must be nice.

Today the Kid and I floated in the ocean. She clung to me and we watched little fish with yellow fins swim around my feet. They probably thought I was their mother. Note to self - let legs see the sun.

And then I decided it was time to throw out everything in my line of vision that doesn't have an immediate purpose. I'm not messing around. I went to the store and bought the biggest box of garbage bags I could find. I even found the ex's extra cell phone and put it in a padded mailer with a remaining shirt, and will send it off tomorrow.

I'm starting this year on a cleansing note.

:)

WOOSH!

"Miss Jackson" if you're nasty

The one thing that has been bothering me a wee bit about motherhood lately is my complete and sudden loss of identity.

The Kid is currently going to summer camp at her daycare, which means a hundred new "counselors" who have enough trouble remembering their own names. They remember my kid's name, and that's a good sign.

My name, however, has been updated to "Mommy".

"Mommy, I can take that towel".

"Oh, mommy, someone dropped her hair clip!"

Today I took the Kid to My Gym for an hour of free play. During the 10-minute drive there, she dumped a bottle of water in her car seat. I was stopped on the way in.

"Mommy, her shorts are wet".

Lady, guess who I didn't give birth to. You. Don't call me Mommy if you don't want a giant kick in the ass.

It's all a gift

Flexibility is the reason I love working from home the most. I get the bulk of my work done during the day, but if I need to pick the Kid up early, or head out to a park, and then come home and work again after she goes to bed, I can.

The weekends are almost my own again. I still have to figure out the best balance between spending time with the grandparents and the Kid's dad and doing absolutely nothing at all, but we're getting there.

Last weekend, we were even able to go to Miami Museum of Art. I really wanted to see the Tamayo exhibit. The Kid did not. I bribed her with a new toy, an Uglydoll.

My mother promptly named her Betty. After Ugly Betty, she explained.

(I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my mother has a sister named Betty that she can't stand.)









I also took the Kid to a small park, so she could run around in circles for an hour or so. She complied easily.























































And then, after telling the bmmphmmph (cough) that I've really been enjoying tearing up the elliptical at the gym every day but that I hated my sneakers, a package arrived in the mail today.

Cute pink sneakers.

From the bmmphmmph.


(tee hee hee)