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I’m kissing the baby (who is pacing and saying mmm, mmm, mmm) goodbye when I remark that he tastes like Junior Mints.

Ed’s response: “Candy is like tequila for babies. Pretty soon, he’s gonna get mean.”


I learned from you how to love someone and how to be loved. We were co-dependent and dysfunctional, but I will never forget things — like laying in your bed singing Spinal Tap songs.

The last real co-op in the cities is closing. I haven’t been there since I was in college, and it had moved since then, but no matter. I have the fondest memories of wandering among its musty aisles, marveling at the bulk foods section. During my short stint as a vegetarian (bad, bad idea for someone who loves bacon as much as I do), I shopped there a lot and was even a member for a little while. I bought countless boxes of falafel mix and took home many little bags full of granola and lentils.

From what I have been told, it’s hard to sustain a true co-op — one where volunteers actually staff the store. But the dirty hippies behind the register who had to hunt and peck for every key were part of the charm of the place. And though I am far from the days when I could actually get everything I needed from a tiny hovel of a food store, I love the idea of a co-op. And, I might as well face it, thinking of the co-op reminds me of a time when my life was simple. A box of jasmine rice, a bag full of lentils and a handful of vegetables could feed me for a week.

Now I have to fill a cart at Rainbow to make it three days.


My sister was in town, so we spent a rare Saturday night out. On the way home, the sister-in-law (who’s pregnant and got stuck driving around the obnoxious drunks — sorry) had the Footloose soundtrack in the CD player. The rest of us sang along, seat danced and reminisced about the 80’s. Somewhere along the line, the brother-in-law opened the sunroof and cranked the volume. So as we pulled in our driveway (which is inches from the ghetto neighbor’s house), we were blaring “I’m Free (Heaven Helps The Man).”

The best, best part of the whole thing was that there was a chick who peeled back the curtains and glared at us as we drove in. I’m sure she was thinking, “Jesus that’s horrible!” But I’m also sure her windows weren’t rattling like mine do when the hoopties roll up. Why? Because I swear to God there is NO BASS on the entire soundtrack.

How white can we get?

So, I pick up Simon from the Y day care after my exercise class, and they make me sign a form. The form says:

“Simon pulled Isabel’s hair so hard some of it came out.”

Great. My kid’s a hair-pulling psychopath. They’ve also complained about his hitting other kids on the head with cars and biting. Lots of biting.

And I’m running late. So I apologize (again), and grab the little hoodlum. As I’m buckling him into the car, I smell something suspicious. Great. So I throw him on the floor of the van and wipe the corn-poo off his behind, get a clean diaper on him and wrestle (that’s an understatement) him into the car seat.

As I pull into the preschool lot, I notice chatty Dawn has pulled in just before me. I was hoping that the bright side of my being late would be that I wouldn’t have to make small talk with the horse whisperer. (The woman massages horses for a living.) Alas.

In Clare’s classroom, she’s one of the last ones there, and one of the teachers is comforting her. She’s crying pretty loudly. I ask what’s wrong, and she says she doesn’t want to use the preschool potty. She has a major issue with using public restrooms, or any toilet that flushes. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to cleaning poo out of a little plastic bowl once a day for the rest of my life. But I digress.

I pick Clare up, give her a hug and try to comfort her and talk to the teacher about what’s happening and how we can solve the problem. And who should butt in (totally fucking cuts me off in the middle of my conversation with the teacher), but horse lady.

“Did you get to work out today? Because as far as I know, they turned at least four of us away,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, copping my best dismissive voice. “It was really full today.” I start whispering in Clare’s ear — something about how the potties at the preschool are really cute. And wouldn’t it be fun to sit on one?

“Last time I was there, they were out of the little weights. You know, I can’t lift much weight because I hurt my shoulder.”

(Yes, she who resembles a horse, I do know that, because you stand next to me in class and whine all about it. Did I mention I hate being talked to while I’m trying to work out? No? I didn’t? Well, I HATE IT.)

“We’ll try again tomorrow, OK, Angie? OK, Clare?” Ignoring. Crazy. Woman.

“Well, I went and worked out anyway. Did some walking on the treadmill. You know, they are going to start giving people hand stamps so that they know how many are going to class. If you don’t have a hand stamp, you can’t go.”


“Angie, did you see Clare’s mittens? I can’t find them anywhere.”

“I really hope they do that. It’s frustrating to get there and then not be able to get into class. Some of the other women were mad, too.”

“Oh, I see, they’re in her pockets. Thanks. Simon, come on, it’s time to go! Thanks Angie — we’ll keep working on the potty thing.”

And as I’m bolting for the door, she is still talking. “Hope to see you Tuesday! That is, if class isn’t too full!”

I’m going to attempt to take part in this¬†project. Basically, every day,¬†I’ll be writing 33 words (because that’s my age) about 365 people I have known or even just met. I’m not putting my name on the list, though, because I’m supposed to link to everyone who’s doing it. Let’s just say, there are A LOT, and I still plan to use this blog for other writing.

If you want to see who else is participating, click on the link above.

So, without further ado, here is #1.

Yesterday, just after I put Simon down for his afternoon snooze, I felt my windows shaking. I thought maybe there was a garbage truck going past. But after a few minutes, I got curious and looked outside to find two, count them two, cars parked next door, with tunes blaring and bass rattling. And there were about 6 tatooed adolescents standing on the lawn, smoking cigarettes, milling from one shitty car to the next.

I spent about 10 minutes debating if I should run outside and yell at them, “Can we take the ghetto party somewhere else? Because I have a baby sleeping inside!”

I decided against it, but I don’t know how much more I can take.

A pitfall of living with an archaeologist that’s currently teaching evolution:

Clare today, looking at a Curious George toy, says, “Hey, wait a minute! He doesn’t have a tail. Monkeys have tails. George isn’t a monkey. He’s a gorilla.”

A word of advice: If your wife is pregnant, do not take anything she says or does seriously. Especially if it has pissed you off.

Twice in two days, husbands I know have complained about how their gestationally-challenged wife is acting.

Thinking back on my three strolls down baby lane, I’m embarrassed by some of the things I said or did. But my husband was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and do some more laundry. And change the litter box. And do the dishes.

And I adore him for it. Remember that, boys.

While it was nice to be alone for three days, I’m ready for them all to come back.

The silence is deafening.

For the record, I shopped, cooked and cleaned while they were gone. Yeah, I know, I’m an ANIMAL.

If I can figure out how to get photos off the old camera, I will post my recipe for white chili, which while good is still a work in progress. I still had to douse it with hot sauce.