Monthly Archives: March 2014

Productivity, with pictures to prove it.

We’ve really hit our production targets here at the Fun Apartment lately. Our bosses are thrilled and we are expecting a generous year-end bonus.

For instance, the kitchen staff has really stepped up. There was this:

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Which turns into this, in just a few easy steps:

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And then there was granola, because cereal’s expensive. Even at Trader Joe’s.

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And then we had a dinner guest, so we fed him from our Russian / Irish menu:

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Adoring Husband actually is Irish (well, -ish) and yet the making of the soda bread falls to me every year.

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And then there was the knitting.

This was my birthday present for my newly-minted three-year-old, a pattern from this volume essential to any collection. The frill is slightly cock-eyed, which just makes the triceratops look very attentive and curious.

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He has a friend, too.

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What I do to justify watching TV in the evening:

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What happens if I watch too much TV:

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I just want it noted for the record: nobody’s just sitting around on their duff here at the Fun Apartment. Those dinosaurs don’t knit themselves, after all.

(Also, last week’s post seemed to fall into a strange interwebs limbo, so here it is, if you, poor thing, were desperate to read it.)

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Filed under Home Ec, I make things

Wild joy indeed

Today at Trader Joe’s, gazing blankly out the window as I was waiting in line, I eventually realized that the hazy quality of the light outdoors was not just some skyscraper shadow leaning over or an alien craft landing. Nope. It was rain. Amount of rain bucketing down from the sky: fathoms. Amount of rain gear we had with us: zero. Number of strollers I had the foresight to bring with us: you guessed it. Zero.

As I raked my eyes back toward the cart to see how much trouble I was in, I caught sight of one of the greeting cards lining the wall near the customer herding pens. It showed children dressed in bright colored clothing gambling I the grass. “Oh the wild joys of living!” It read across the top.

I doubt Robert Browning ever had to drag two overstuffed paper bags and two unhurried little boys home in the rain from Trader Joe’s. If he had had to perform such miracles, his time to write 19 stanzas of opaque poetry would have been somewhat more limited. Now that I have done it, “wild joys” is not a phrase I find particularly applicable to the task.

As we rowed home, though, I found it useful to keep muttering it to myself. As the paper bags began to disintegrate in my hands, “oh the wild $&@/&/$ing joys of living” I told myself. And again as I watched the boys soak their feet gleefully wading through filthy puddles, “oh! The wild joys of living.” Perhaps the power of words lies not in their content, but their intent.

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Pillow Talk

Night, folks.

Night, folks.

(A conversation before bedtime, in which we discuss jewelry, fear of commitment, arranged marriage, homosexuality, gender confusion, and anatomical differences between men and women. And during which I nearly choked myself trying to stifle the giggling.)

T: Mommy, why do you have to wear your wedding ring?

Me: Because it’s special to me.

T: Does Papa make you wear it?

Me: No, I like to wear it, because it’s special to me. It means I’m married.

T: I want to get married.

Me: Someday. Good night, sweetheart.

T: I don’t want to ask someone.

Me: Oh, well. Maybe someone will ask you instead.

T: I hope someone picks me.

Me: Someone will pick you. Good night, sweetheart.

T: Mommy, I hope it’s one of my friends who picks me. Not a stranger.

Me: It won’t be a stranger.

T: But what if the stranger is nice?

Me: It will probably be someone you know. Someone you love. Good night, sweetheart.

T: Will it be a girl?

Me: Umm. Probably, but maybe not.

T: Sometimes it’s a girl and sometimes people have two daddies.

Me: Yes. Sometimes they do. Good night, sweetheart.

T: I’m going to be a daddy.

Me: Yes, not anytime soon, though. Good night, sweetheart.

T: Am I a boy?

Me: Yep.

T: I might not be, you know.

Me: I’m pretty sure.

T: Sometimes girls look like boys. And sometimes boys look like girls.

Me: That’s true. But boys have penises. Good night, sweetheart.

T: Girls don’t have penises? How do they pee?

Me: They have something else. They have vaginas. Good night, sweetheart.

T: But do they pee with their baginas?

Me: Vaginas. Yes. Good night, sweetheart.

T: Do girls have bums?

Me: Yes. Everybody has a bum.

T: Everybody? Even Kitty?

Me: Yes. Everybody.

T: Good night, Mommy.

(And off he drifted to sleep, safe in the comforting thought that everybody has a bum.)

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Filed under Not cool, Mommy