Monthly Archives: June 2013

Mane-tenance

It’s haircut week here at the Fun Apartment, so that means that the house stylist has been chasing us all around with scissors.
The man of my dreams has always been more patient with finicky tasks than I, and he has always cut his own hair, so he was given the scepter and orb long ago, and told to go to town, when it comes to those beautiful honey blond heads.

And go to town he has. He has cut the boys hair while they were eating dinner, bathing, watching Dinosaur Train, and sleeping. (Little woke up from his nap today, announcing “Mommy! There’s hair in my cwib!”)

Since he is well known for paying attention to details, you can all probably guess that these haircuts are almost strand -by-strand jobs, meticulously executed.

And it’s not just little boy hair. He has even cut my hair from time to time. And last night was one of those times. Little was playing around in his crib for HOURS, and since we have to maintain blackout conditions in most of the Fun Apartment, we decamped to the one place we can turn on the lights and pretend to be regular people: the bathroom.

Because I was feeling “precooperative” about cleaning said bathroom, I asked for a haircut. A long discussion about whether my hair parts on the left or right followed. (He had two major misconceptions on this point: a) that I somehow make a choice about this and enforce it on my hair and b) that I know my right from my left. Stripped of these erroneous notions, he pushed my hair to one side and got to work.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Next time, I want a self-cleaning bathroom.

Next time, I want a self-cleaning bathroom.

Forty five minutes later, I had a new haircut, and had had forty five minutes of conversation with my husband! When I have professionals cut my hair, I always squirm under the burden of strained conversations studded with half truths (“erm. . . Looks great.”) and bald-faced lies (“of course I own a blow dryer!”) Instead, trapped in our bathroom, we were able to talk about three different things! That is, for those keeping track, three more than usual!

And I have a haircut! A shorter haircut (the longer kind being somewhat harder to achieve in forty five minutes)! Look!

Arrr. . .  Where's me eyepatch?

Arrr. . . Where’s me eyepatch?

I don’t even care that my hair doesn’t seem to agree with the side part and is attempting to creep around my face. The handsome gentleman jumping out at me with scissors does take some getting used to, though.

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Filed under Home Ec, Living Small

A nice relaxing bath.

The Fun Apartment, before its present incarnation, once had four rooms, in which some courageous woman raised four New York city police officers (there but for the grace. . . . ) It also used to contain the ultimate stereotype of ridiculous New York apartment living: a bathtub in the kitchen.

This was a longstanding joke, a shorthand way for people who lived in other places (with larger spaces) to say “Gasp! What savages! Aren’t we lucky not to live there? Who would want a bathtub in their kitchen?”

Who? Me!

The bathtub has not actually moved location since its days of bathing NY’s finest. It’s just been walled in. So it’s right off the kitchen. And that means that an hour before dinner every night, I can plunk two naked little boys who love the water in there while I cook dinner!

Isn’t it dangerous to leave them in the bath alone, you ask? Well, no one is ever alone at the Fun Apartment. Standing in the kitchen, I am about 6 feet away from the bathtub. So, no, it’s not terribly dangerous.

Once I discovered that I could have bathtime before dinner, and that bathtime could last 45 minutes or an hour, our dinner menu improved dramatically. I can prepare an entire dinner, involving sharp things and hot things, with no one underfoot. Granted, I am usually conversing with them, at least part of the time and they are in the water, so I don’t completely check out or wander around the rest of the apartment. But the freedom to chop onions without an accident and drain pasta without recreating the pouring of boiling oil on castle-invading-barbarian hordes is really to be recommended.

Maybe you all should consider moving your bathtubs to the kitchen. Look what you could see from your counter:

Good clean fun.

Good clean fun.

And you could see this at the same time:

Pizza night.

Pizza night.

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Filed under Home Ec

Smart people post pictures of their homes after they clean them.

One feature of living in a small apartment is that the minute you take something out, the place is a mess. Oddly, this is never mentioned in any of those articles about microapartments. Apparently, the trendy people that live in those spaces clean their homes and then sit quietly, basking in their minimalism.

Well, no worries. That sort of thing doesn’t happen here at the Fun Apartment. Kids play with toys, at least, my kids do. They play with them right in the middle of our apartment in the living room/hallway/bedroom. And it gets messy.

How messy?

This messy:

With boy, for scale.

With boy, for scale.

And this messy:

Motorcycle accident.

Motorcycle accident.

After dinner, it’s all hands on deck for clean up. It used to be a time of tears, anger, frustration, and haranguing, at least that’s what it was for me. But after a little attitude / expectation adjustment on my part, it’s improved . . . somewhat. So the Fun Apartment is (mostly) straightened and neat for our dimly-lit, post-bedtime hours, and goes to sleep unfettered by legos. And then in the morning, guess what:

Train wreck
Train wreck.

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Filed under Living Small, Not cool, Mommy