You're Not Fully Clean...

Tomorrow marks the arrival of our First House Guest. Our friend Dr. Machiavelli is coming to the ATL for a wedding and he is going to stay at the new Casa de Queso. Here's the catch: Dr. Machiavelli's mother is the cleanest person that ever lived. Ever. I mean it. We went to Brooklyn over the holidays and stayed at her house and I swear to god you would have thought you had entered a parallel universe where dust doesn't exist. When we lived in Philly, she would routinely travel from Brooklyn to her son's house because she was sure he wasn't cleaning enough. Even though his house was always spotless, she always complained that it was filthy. Once when we were over I saw one of Dr. SOB's hairs on the floor and I picked it up so she wouldn't yell at him. Although Dr. Machiavelli knows his mother is a bit more fanatical about cleanliness than every other living creature on the planet, I know that he is used to a surgically clean environment. So I have been Cleaning with a capitol C. That means I am actually using cleaning products and cleaning tools. Today I have utilized the following items: glass cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, clorox tile scrubber thingie, a toilet brush, a broom, a sponge mop and paper towels. I'm actually planning to drug Sam so he'll sleep longer, giving me more time to scrub things. The only reason I'm writing this now is because I mopped myself into a corner. Novice.

Freaky

I read a book! In only 10 short days! A real book. Not 'Good Night Moon' or 'Make Way For Ducklings' but a an actual book for grown ups. And it was non-fiction! Sound the trumpets, I feel like celebrating!

I just finished reading Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner and this is what I learned: we have given our son the second most common male name in the categories of 'High-End White Boy Names' and 'White Boy Names Among High-Education Parents.'

I'm not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, yes the Dr. and I are both college educated and then some, so I guess we fit the description of 'High-Education' but are we 'High-End?' If you asked my mother, she would quickly say yes. My mother has been known to describe me as 'highfalutin' at times. But if you asked Dr. SOB's mother, she might disagree. If you asked a few of Dr.'s residency friends, they might say yes, but if you ask the girls in my Stroller Strides class, they might say no.

How does one measure whether or not she is 'High-End?' This has been something I've been thinking about quite a bit recently, considering the company I've been keeping. Are we high end because we drink wine and have a flat panel TV or two? Or does the fact that we both drive small economy cars keep us out of the upper echelon? Does Dr. SOB's status as a physician gain us access to the club, or does the fact that he's a fellow and doesn't make a lot of scratch keep us out?

Secondarily, do I want to fit the description of 'High-End?' Yes, I might buy my make-up at MAC, but I only wear it once a week if I'm lucky! I get expensive hair cuts, but I rarely do anything with my hair other than brush it. This whole discussion is giving me a headache. I just don't understand why we have to be defined by our possessions and positions instead of our person. I think that is why I'm having a hard time accepting those around me here in our neighborhood. We unintentionally surrounded ourselves with people who care more about what we have than who we are.

First thing tomorrow I'm going to start looking for a new house in Little Five Points!

Joy For All

Jazz. Every time I hear a hi-hat or an upright bass, my stomach does flip flops. Sometimes I even well up and get a little misty. For the longest time I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I had these types of visceral reactions to this music. I never listened to jazz as a kid. In fact, it wasn't until about 5 years ago that I even bought my first record by Sonny Rollins. Back in Philly, about three years ago, Dr. SOB and I were out at a little dive listening to listen to a set and he finally figured out the root of my feelings.

Charlie Brown.

More specifically, Vince Guaraldi's score to the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

In my family, the Charlie Brown Christmas special was the official beginning to the holiday season. The day it was broadcast, we would rush home from school and start putting up decorations. Then at eight o'clock, we would tune in to ABC. I would usually sit next to my dad and my little brother would sit with my mom. As soon as I would hear the first chords from 'Christmas Time Is Here' my eyes would widen and my heart would flutter. I knew the Santa was just around the corner and the next few weeks would be filled with cookies, family, and unbridled excitement.

I never knew growing up that we were at an economic disadvantage. In other words, we was poor. My father is a union steel worker, and at that time was low on the totem pole. Unfortunately, that meant that every time there were layoffs, he was one of the first ones out of work. Despite steady lapses in our steady income, my mom and dad worked tirelessly to make my brother and me blissfully unaware. This was never more true than at Christmas time. My folks would scrimp and save all year so that come Christmas, we would have oodles of presents under our tree. My mom would even go as far as to wrap things individually so that instead of one present of six pairs of socks, we had six presents of one pair of socks. We always got that one big present that we were hoping for. Drum set, bikes, cabbage patch kids, you name it. I think, though, what made it so special was watching my parents' faces and seeing how happy they were. We were little, and we still thought Santa had brought us these fabulous things. We had no idea what they sacrificed to make these things possible.

As I grew up, I started to see things a little more clearly. I realized what my parents been doing, and it only made me enjoy Christmas even more.

These days, we are separated by a great deal of geography. My brother is in Florida, I am in Atlanta and my folks are still in Pennsylvania. Usually, just after Thanksgiving, I'll get a call from one of them informing me when the Charlie Brown Christmas special is going to air. Whenever possible, my brother and I will spend that half an hour on the phone together, not speaking, just watching together, sharing.

This is what I want to share with Sam.

I wanted to do this yesterday, but the lad and I are both recovering from tiny little colds and we slept most of the day away. Thanks to the Lovely Mrs. Davis.

Divine Intervention

My parents tell me that they pray every night for Sam to poop. If you didn't think they were crazy before, now you know. My mother and father are so obsessed with regularity you would think they were seventy, despite the fact that they aren't yet in their fifties. You could set your clocks to their bowel habits. It really bothers them that Sam only empties his colon once every week or so. To them, this must be torture. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I appreciate my son's megacolon and will never question his poop frequency. Unfortunately, God must, in fact, exist, and my mom and dad must be on his good side. Sam crapped himself not once, not twice but three times today. Three fucking times! His first three diapers were filled with shit, and let me tell you, he's been eating carrots, so it was kind of orange. On the Lord's day, none the less. Amen.

Honey, Fuck You*

Last night Dr. SOB thought it wise to inform me that he was back down to his 'pre-pregnancy' weight. Then my head spontaneously lit on fire and I died. The end.

I have been trying for months to lose my baby weight, but man is it tough. Breast feeding makes me ravenous and with the moving and such we were eating out a lot. The visits with my family didn't help much, either. Every time I go to Pittsburgh I gain 5 pounds. I wonder why? I've been going to Weight Watchers and exercising with the Stroller Strides ladies (and bitches) but I can't seem to stay on top of things. So last night I proclaimed a one week banishment of ice cream and cookies from our house. Ice cream, being my most favorite thing of all times, is one of the hardest things for me to resist. I always buy light ice cream, but it really doesn't matter how light it is if you eat the whole pint for lunch. And cookies are cookies. Who doesn't love cookies? I could do some major damage on a package of Trader Joe's ginger cream Joe Joe's if I was able to get my hands on a package.

Dr. SOB is pissed because he feels that he should be rewarded for his weight loss, and his reward of choice is cookies. He doesn't understand why I hate him so much that I won't allow cookies in the house for 7 whole days. Can someone please explain it to him? I'll give you a cookie.

*That's for you, Carrie!

10th Grade Redux

I am a stay-at-home mother. I consider myself very lucky to be able to stay home with my tot. I count my blessings every day that Dr. SOB's job provides enough, financially speaking, for me to spend my time changing diapers and kissing toes instead of doing experiments on rubber stoppers and writing reports.

The one downside to this is that I have to go out of my way if I want some adult interaction. To remedy this, I joined a group where you can exercise with your babies. I was hoping to meet some other stay-at-home moms that might want to be my friend. Since I've done this before (with a huge butt-load of success) and I'd like to think that I'm not inherently repulsive, I didn't think this would be difficult. I was wrong.

I go to classes in two different locations. One is in an urban park and the other is in a suburban park. At the urban park, everything is A-OK. The girls are friendly and we chat as we exercise. However in the suburbs of ATL, what my husband does, what kind of car I drive and where I live (and do I rent or own) are questions I must answer before I can be approved for friendship. Unfortunately, since I drive a Saturn and we currently rent our condo, I don't qualify.

I go to these classes and not one person will talk with me beyond exchanging pleasantries. I've worked very hard to remember their names and their kids' names, but almost every time I'm there someone asks me if this is my first time in the class. It's really starting to piss me off. I should just focus on the exercise and not worry about these bitches, but it's awful. The only person who speaks with me is the instructor. I'm like that kid on the field trip who no one liked so they had to sit with the teacher on the bus.

I've heard stories about these so called "Buckhead Bitches" but I hate stereotypes and I'm all for giving someone a chance. Hell, I'll even give you a second chance. Maybe they should think about doing the same.

My Favorite Things...

Here are a few of my favorite photos from my visit with the family...

And finally, this picture Dr. SOB took of the moon. He was drunk. Really, really drunk.