So, I found out why the sugar free ice cream gave me so much gas (TMI, maybe. But, of course, we’re all friends here). It’s because sometimes sugar free sweets have sugar free alcohols! And these alcohols can wreak havoc in certain individuals! Fascinating, right? I still haven’t solved any form of world conflict, or figured out a way to decrease the deficit, or welcome as many Haitian orphans as possible into my 800 square foot apartment. But, I can control my digestion. I guess that’s the first step in making friends, at least.

I texted The Husband, to let him know. Because, it’s kind of important (duh). He was all like “you have the weirdest information. But ok.” Seems he has other things to think about during the day. I’m not judging. He will thank me later. Promises, hugs, and kisses.

Anyway. This is just another seemingly useless nugget garnered from the black hole that is “Today”.

You may be wondering, “Sarah, when the freak did you start getting all your worldly information from The Today Show?” Well, really. There are two semi-certainties here:  a) it coincided, more or less, with the birth of Peanut, and b) Matt Lauer is truly the golden oracle (a better looking human version, at least).

Honestly. I feel like NBC tortures me (most inhumanely) by offering up four hours (four hours?!?) of fluffy news on a silver platter. A silver platter lined with chocolate covered strawberries, dancing cats, and flattering jeans. Then, in a radical twist, fate keeps plunking me in social situations where I am compelled to make non-baby conversation (ok. To be real, this doesn’t happen often. But when it does, I am forced to dig through my shoddy repertoire. Which is almost entirely…you guessed it…“Today” based).

I used to detest Kathie Lee and Hoda. Now I crave their presence. Did I mention I fanned them on Facebook? I guess that was the “bottom”. For me.

And you know what? I love it here. At the bottom. In fact, I have unequivocally decided to just keep feeding. Ahem, watching.

How’s that for a (not so) guilty pleasure?

I’ll begin this post by talking about what my marriage (and probably yours – if you’re being honest, at least) isn’t. It isn’t idyllic magic unicorn land. Champagne and roses. A place where yin and yang balance (perfectly of course). And the two of us live behind a white picket fence, with Peanut times 2.5. Forever and ever. Amen and the end.

Disclaimer: I love the man. He’s a good guy. A great guy. An amazing support. And we definitely have some form of yin and yang happening. It’s just that the “yin” and “yang” sometimes, um, clash. Maybe that counteracts the whole concept of yin and yang? *Sigh*. Let’s just not worry about that. Right now (at least).

For example. Take our garbage/recycling/disposal habits. The Husband: he’s a saver. Borderline hoarder, actually (I’m anticipating the mini-temper tantrum that will result from this designation). I’m all like, “let’s throw everything out!” If we haven’t used it, we don’t need it, right? Memories don’t exist in a five year old movie ticket. They’re part of your GD brain. And computer (we’re all 21st Century around here).

The refrigerator is dangerous territory. I like doing a major food cleanse at least once a week. A ruthless food cleanse. If it’s past it’s date, it’s done. Right in the trash. The Husband, on the other hand, loves old food. The older the better. Waste not, want not, a ridiculous man once said. He always finds a way to use every last morsel of meat, vegetable, carb, etc., etc. Usually it’s in the form of a casserole, or something equally disturbing.

Last night, I tossed a bowl of pistachios. They had been sitting in our cupboard for three freaking months (I know nuts don’t go bad. I was stuck in a moment of temporary insanity, feverishly trying to make space in our miniature kitchen). He heard them hit the bin.
The Husband: Did you just throw out those nuts?
Me: No. I didn’t throw anything out. Promise.
The Husband: You totally did. You threw out those nuts

And then. He stomped right over to the trash. Stuck in his hand. And grabbed a fistful of pistachio. No, he did not eat them (for the love of God, thank you). It was for effect.

He was pissed. The Superbowl was on television. He wanted snacks.

What’s a girl to do? Besides plan next week’s cleanse around The Husband’s absence, I guess. There’s marriage for you. In a nutshell.

On another note, I won’t be visiting any blogs tonight. I have a whole bunch of “things” to do…and, of course…never enough time.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

xoxo

I really, really, wanted to write an interesting blog post. In the last ten minutes (about), I’ve realized 1. the couch is a black hole, 2. my cat has a better shot of getting to thirteen pounds than anything intellectual/entertaining/compelling happening here. What has kitty taught me? Be happy with yourself. Trader Joe’s tuna and lethargy makes you large. Doesn’t matter. Your family will still love you.

Anyhoo. Most recent writing impediments:

1. Exhausting drive from New York to Boston complete with requisite $213 dollar speeding ticket (71 mph on the highway. Not that fast). Luckily, The Husband was driving. Giving me 213 pieces of bitching ammunition and the go ahead to purchase any piece of clothing/accessory/Sephora product costing 213 dollars and/or under. Because he spent the money, I should be permitted to, as well. Fair is fair.

2. A return to the gym after week long hiatus. The gym is a place I go to be alone. Instead, I found myself not at all semi engaged in the following conversation with “man on neighboring elliptical machine”:
Man: What do you think of that guy in front of us (gesturing to the next row). Do you think he’s too thin?
Me: Umm…not really.
Man: You know, sometimes I want to be that thin. I work really hard. Do you like guys who are that thin?
Me: Umm
Enough torture. And the “conversation” went on. For a good ten minutes. Notice I said very little. You get the idea.

3. A tooth. Not mine. Fortunately, I have parts of all original teeth. (Parts. I am currently missing half a molar. It was temporarily repaired during my pregnancy. I was supposed to get a crown last April. Oops? Was that a year ago? Almost, you say? Well. It doesn’t really matter whether I can chew or not. I’m referring to Peanut. Enough said.)

4. The need to cyber stalk Rob Pattinson and Taylor Lautner. Since I am (clearly) many years behind the coolness and just saw Twilight. (Currently obsessed.)

In the end? I’m freaking tired. My brain has deteriorated to a state of inertia. There you have it. The girl is far from clever.

Here’s hoping you all enjoy a wonderful, restful, weekend.

xoxo

Today we walked this (the actual, not the tatt)…

 

 

Then we did this…

And this…

Short and sweet. And lovely.

I’ve been falling behind on my commenting/visiting/loving this week. You see, I have been in transit. Boston —–> Connecticut (last night). Connecticut —-> Brooklyn (today).  This evening, I am (finally) relaxing on my sister’s couch. We’ve managed to watch a few hours of somewhat enjoyable television. I wouldn’t call it “ridiculously” enjoyable, because J doesn’t have DVR. This, obviously, makes it impossible to re-view any of the lunacy that is American Idol.  Anyway. I’ve got nothing for you (besides this pathetic faker post). Tonight, my mundane life seems particularly uneventful. And J keeps trying to talk to me (damn her. Not even a joke. It’s just true).

On a side note, my beautiful sister informed me that she was asked on a date by a man who has the brooklyn bridge tattooed across his chest. He is, apparently, very proud of this accessory. I wonder a) what methods he uses to keep the area hair-free, because I would certainly be interested, and b) how he manages to attract someone who isn’t a personality on MTV’s “Jersey Shore” (given his “pick up” line. Hint: it involves a bridge). (**Upon reviewing this post, I thought I should clarify. So, in addendum. The problem was not the tattoo, but the fact that all he talked about was the tattoo. I appreciate tattoos. As does J. Really. We think they can be beautiful and meaningful. Just not so sure about a bridge. And a fixation on said bridge. Seems curious**).

J decided to gracefully decline. She is a lady, after all. Although she, too, loves Brooklyn. Only enough to get a fake one, though (tattoo).

Anyway. I’m going to try for a vlog tomorrow. If not, I will almost certainly be back (writing and commenting) on Thursday.

xoxo

The gym babysitter. She’s a sweet woman. Caring, considerate. Bless her heart. She sometimes has up to six kids, of varying ages, in that playroom. She does an amazing job of things. And I appreciate each and every one of her efforts. Because, really, she gives me an hour of temporary respite during the day. Some Peanut free time. The opportunity to do something for myself. 

That being said, she’s a teensy bit of a featherbrain. And I’m using this term with much, much affection. Truly. Did I mention she’s changed my life? She ranks right up there behind Peanut, The Husband, and GPS. She’s the fourth best thing to have ever happened to me.

So…the whole absentminded thing? It’s ok. She takes care of small people. Who often make a great deal of noise. Basically, she works in a state of chaos that is anything but organized. And manages to hold it together. That’s more than I can say for myself, any day most days. Like I mentioned. Bless her heart.

Anyhoo. Yesterday I was picking Miss Peanut up, after my workout. “What’s Peanut’s name short for?” she asked. “Is her full name Peanut-a-mima?” Now, Miss Peanut’s actual name is something I do not believe, could ever be elongated. If it were, it would sound totally ridiculous. Akin to “Peanut-a-mima” or “Peanut-ine”, or something of the like. “No,” I responded. “Her name is just Peanut”.

She probably wasn’t thinking (I rarely do. Especially now that I only talk to adults sometimes). There were five, ahem, energetic children in the room (I’m not going to call someone else’s kid a lunatic. Only my own. Use your imagination). And, it’s not like the question bothered me.

But it did get me thinking about names. The Husband and I picked Peanut’s name the day after my 18 week appointment. We knew her sex. We didn’t fixate on our decision. It just felt right. (Suffice to say, writing this post will likely send me into state of compulsive obsession that will make picking #2’s name anything but easy. Because that’s the way my brain operates. Yeah.)

Really, though, as parents, we face a whole host of pressures in picking out a name. It’s difficult enough to name a freaking cat (I speak from experience), much less a human being. You have to consider everything. What will the name be (purposely or inadvertently) shortened to? Does it “go” with the surname? Will it grow with the child? (Princess may sound cute in high school, but not so much when you are 30 and trying to get a job. Yes, this is a real example. For the record, she was a sweet, sweet girl.) Pity those of you who have more than one (child, that is. Or cat). It certainly doubles the risk of failure.

So…I’m not totally sure how to end this post. I guess, eventually, you just have to make a decision and be semi-confident about your choice (isn’t that the general message in parenting? Try your best, to the best of your knowledge?).

Because, when all is said and done, you can only stave off the hospital’s birth certificate lady for so long. Really. The one I dealt with was a veritable psycho. And that’s given the fact that Peanut did have a name. A first name, at least.

It was cold today. C.O.L.D. As in, “thank you for warning me Dylan Dryer, but there was absolutely no preparation for this.” The words “bitter”, and “frigid” don’t really begin to describe things when it’s freaking 100 degrees below zero.

In a fit of insanity, I walked to the gym. With Miss Peanut. I thought I had prepared her well enough. Apparently not. My snowsuit-clad baby warranted the hairy eyeball from a passing mummy – her infant was not only bundled but also protected with a weather shield. Clearly, I am the world’s worst mother.

In the end, we made it home. Chilly, but unscathed.

Moving on.

What else was there to do on such a day but indulge in my guilty pleasure; shopping. At one of my absolute favorite stores. Of all time. Target. I have always loved any sort of pharmacy/multi-purpose/big box store. And Target is, certainly, the perfect alloy of all three. Like a shining beacon of light. A place where I can browse, select and purchase everything from peanuts to butt cream. Cute work out clothes, makeup, and cat accessories.

A place where I can (definitely perhaps too) easily spend large quantities of money.

I will henceforth refer to Target as “the hundred dollar store” (take note for reference in future blog postings). Why? Because that’s what it is. Is it possible to spend less at “the hundred dollar store”? Not sure. I have yet to accomplish such a feat. If you are one of those people who manages to do so, please email me personally (thestrollerballet@gmail.com). I need some serious intervention/counseling. My circle is completely useless in this respect. In fact, I have one friend who managed to drop nearly $250 – with items that barely filled a basket!

And with that, I have enough diapers/wipes/toilet paper to last at least two days. Three depending on how effective those prunes are.

xoxo

Happy weekend.

Vlogging day.

FYI. I may look bald in this video. There are two reasons for that.

1. I am almost bald. Well, in a dire state of thinning.
2. I am wearing a headband (because I am about to go to the gym).

Anyway. Just thought I’d clear things up. Since I’m putting my face right out there for all sorts of ridicule and such.

xox

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FrJhHjWGOQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Spoiler alert. This post is a tale of trauma and toilets (let’s be honest, there’s nothing more appropriate than potty drama when you’re a parent. I’m using the word “drama” purposely. Because the following is far from humorous).

So. A few weeks back I blogged about my many difficulties in getting clean, given that Miss Peanut rarely sleeps (during the day. At night she’s a log). Thank you all, for your kind and thoughtful suggestions. Recently, I’ve been confining her to the bathroom (with a few toys) while I take a (quick) shower.

Anyway. Friday, I went about my routine. She did the usual. A quick tour of the bathroom. A full inspection of the cabinet doors,  A pull-up attempt . Attempt being the operative word. Because it was an “attempt”. Not a  success. An “attempt”. An “attempt” gone awry. Traumatic, even. Complete with a slip and requisite face plant.

Have you ever (sort of) ignored your child, after a fall, because you think it’s “nothing”? Because you don’t want to incite some sort of complete hysteria? If so, please raise your hand and make me feel like less of an a-hole. Yes, that’s exactly what I did. For a few minutes, at least. I was in the freaking shower, after all. Of all things sacred and personal, I simply needed to rinse off. When her shrieks failed to subside (even slightly, even after me “talking her through it”), I decided to get out and survey the situation.

That’s when I saw the blood, trickling down her chin, from her mouth. And panicked. Beyond panicked, actually. I called the doctor (I absolutely NEVER call the pediatrician. I mean, I usually, really, really, try to work things out on my own).

Unfortunately I couldn’t even explain where Miss Peanut hit (the toilet? the tub?). I was, er, behind a shower curtain.

*Clears throat.*

Luckily, most Peanut problems are solved with a kiss and cuddle. Given the fact that no stitches were needed (thank you God), and all teeth were intact (double thank you God),  this was no exception.

If things could only stay so simple forever.

Looking back on Friday’s post, I feel a wee bit witchy. Obviously, my underwear were in a bind (for the record, I find the word “panties” creepy on a number of different levels. So, I refuse to use it in that expression. Ever). Still, I’m generally a pretty nice girl. I’m only TRULY bitchy when things such as children, animals, and my need to urinate are compromised. Slightly bitchy in (some) other situations.

Moving on.

Saturday morning, an incident at the gym softened my heart. So much so, I was (almost) able to forget the bladder blocker.

I dropped Miss Peanut at the club’s day care, and assumed my position on the elliptical machine (by the way. Whoever invented cardio television is an absolute genius. I am numbed by a complete dependence on technology and have zero tolerance for working out when there isn’t something glowing in front of my face. The thought that I used to exercise with a “walk man” is beyond horrifying).

Anyhow. My downtown gym is frequented by all sorts of good looking types. You know the drill. Well put together. THIN. Athletic. Generally coordinated.

Then I saw it. The guy on the treadmill in front of me….tripped…and…almost fell. He did a good job of covering things up (looked down at his shoelace, pretended to fix it, and then, got off the machine). Frankly, I was probably the only one who saw (I have nothing better to do during MTV commercials but watch and analyze every other gym character…obsessively).

I felt for him. I’ve tripped down stairs, up stairs (with a plate of food, no less), and have fallen off various pieces of workout equipment over the years (does anyone remember the NordicTrack? I do…not fondly). In a word? I have totally been there (yes, that’s more than one word. Whatever.)

So, given my, er, skills, it may be shocking to hear that I actually thought I could dance in college. So much that I participated in classes, and ultimately (gulp) a recital.

A video does exist. The husband hasn’t even seen it.

It’s on VHS.