Monthly Archives: September 2004

Portraits of Baltimore County

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“Let me show you sometink ah-MAY-zink!” you purr, pouncing at us from your kiosk on the lower level of White Marsh Mall. You are wielding a back massager, hand lotion, tension-reducing vibrators, soothing facial cleansers made from the milk of some long-forgotten Yugoslavian yak.

Ah, you vixen, with your Eastern European accent, your Russian fingers snaking out to feel up my husband under the guise of “something amazing.” Your Estonian good looks. That Romanian physique. Your glossy Czech Republic tresses. And who could ignore those pouty Slovakian lips?

You and your Ukrainian sisters, lined up and ready for action, a new member of your troupe every time we visit. Where do you come from? Who is bringing you here? And dear God, why White Marsh Mall?

But more importantly, what is my husband going to do with 350 back massagers and five liters of yak lotion?

Happy belated, RPM!

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MB at 14, Ry-Guy at 0So, I’m complaining selfishly about being pregnant, blah blah blah, like a regular bitch, when my eye lands on this photo. It’s me, at 14, holding my fresh-born baby brother, Ryan, a.k.a. Ry-Guy, a.k.a. Baby Bryan, a.k.a. RPM, who just turned 10 on Monday.

And I’m remembering how fun and magical it was to have a little baby around the house. And how cute and sweet-smelling babies are. And how much fun they are when they get just an eensie bit older, like Ry-Guy, old enough to stick spaghetti to their foreheads and let their sisters [or in Beaner’s case, his mama] photograph them.Baby Ry with spaghetti-face

And how, while I may never have been pregnant before, I have been responsible for the care and feeding [to an extent] of three little bebbies, those being Ry-Guy, K.T. and Kell-Bell, the last three siblings born [and my little guinea pigs for motherhood], so how retarded can I be at that?

So yeah, maybe this whole thing is finally starting to seem real and scary, but at least it’s not completely terrifiying. There is the spaghetti to look forward to.

Mommy Vice

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Oh, my God. I want a cigarette. And a beer. A nice, cold bottle of Labatt, perhaps, and maybe a Camel Wide for maximum nicotine effect. Or — lord above, a Kamel Red, not even the Red Lights but the Reds, lit slowly but surely with this old blue lighter I found in my car. I could be ashing a smoldering, smoky cigarette right now, inhaling that blue smoke, feeling the zizz of the nicotine in the back of my head, and that cold wet beer would just slip coolly down my throat, the condensation pooling on the table, that brief smell of barley and hops before you take a swallow, the label growing soft and soggy until I can peel it off with one hand, my cigarette in the other, and then I’ll stick the cigarette in the corner of my mouth as I fold the label in half and then in half again, because that’s what I always do with my Labatt labels, and then I’ll place it delicately in the ashtray, taking the cigarette out of my mouth to tap it against the side of the ashtray, maybe set it down for a moment and finish typing my sentence and then pick it back up, because it’s just too good to let go.

I could be smoking and drinking right now, listening to music at some bar somewhere, screaming conversation above the din, but instead I’m posting on my blog because I’m too uncomfortable and cranky to sleep because I’m growing a baby and not a beer belly. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem fair.

Night of the Non-living Dead

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Biology students, man. Where would we be without them?

Roundup:

I’ve been sardine-ized: So now I’m reduced to designing pages from within a storage closet at work these days. Not complaining, though, since Work is dangling the carrot of a new office for me and the Vegan, a new editorial system [including InDesign and OSX], and new computers [G5, baby]. I just have to endure dusty boxes of old newspapers in my lap for another week or so and the goodies will all be mine!

Beaner baby at 20 weeks“Just an angel straight from heaven!” Here’s the latest photo of the Critter. God, is he cute! He’s just a-kickin’ away in there these days, doing whatever it is fetuses do when they’re bored. Sometimes I talk to him, but I guess it looks odd to strangers on the street: A grown woman saying, “Come on, Beaner, Mommy needs more Cocoa Roos” to her swollen stomach as she crosses the Mars parking lot. Fuck ‘em, it’s true, and Beanster understands.

Infestation nation: So I think the previous owners planted a five-pound bag of sugar somewhere in the house, and only the ants know where it is. Though if I had to guess, judging by the droves, I’d wager it’s buried somewhere near the bathroom. Seriously, every time I go to pee I have to pause to smush an ant, maybe a couple of his cousins. I feel like a natural-born killer, especially when I’m attacking the little guys screaming “I SEE YOU, YOU DIRTY MOTHERF*CKER! GET BACK HERE!” and then squashing them mercilessly under a tiny square of toilet paper.

What to do with all these ashtrays?: I just want everyone to know that it’s been 36 days, and Iain is still a non-smoker. What can I say? He’s badass and he has a will of steel.

Ew. That burp smelled like onions.

Odoriffic: And dude, so the house, or at least the front yard, still smells like cat piss. Thing is, the previous owners didn’t have any pets. So is it from the boxwoods, as this one guy says? Or do you think it’s actually cat piss? And how do we get rid of it?

All right, that’s all I got for now. Time for more Malt-o-Meal.

This post brought to you by: These Things from the album “The Geometrid” by Looper.