Oh Hon, it’s a Bawlmer Flickr Show
So some people from the Baltimore flickr group are putting on a Flickr-based photography show at Holy Frijoles, Hampden, in early December [more FAQ]. I’m technically an exhibitor, though I haven’t picked anything to display nor have I made it to a meeting yet.
I’ve never been an exhibited artist [though I’ve had a lifelong obsession with art], so there’s a part of me that’s way psyched about this.
Will you help me decide what photos to enter?
And the drool continues.
Don’t adjust your monitor; this post really is incoherent
The amount of dirt Owen’s terrycloth sleeper picks up as he crawls is embarrassing, so I figure I should skip the middleman and fasten some swiffer sheets to his belly. Two birds! One stone! I’m a genius.
So my brother called last night to wish me a happy birthday. He’s at OSU, doing like stem cell research and curing cancer and shit. Makes my days look pretty damn boring. We talked for a while, and then he got off the phone to do some studying before going to my sister’s house down the street. She was having some people over for drinks and to watch “Lost.” It’s funny, because I, many hundreds of miles away, was having some people over for drinks and to watch “Lost,” too. We’re like those twins separated at birth who grow up to have the exact same combover and argyle vest and interest in numismatics.
Unfortunately, my Lost posse got ill or had to take care of folk who were ill, so there was no one around to explain to me why Kate was so annoying, how come Jack’s socks were so white after 44 days on an island, and how there was electricity in that underground hut thing. Guess I’ll have to go catch up.
Today I was going to go shoe shopping but decided to watch The Office special features and play with Owen. I just cannot decide what shoes to get. Black heels to go with my wool skirts? Track-type shoes, because all I ever wear is jeans? Bitty ballet flats which will probably look stupid in 10 months? Who knows.
So I’m putting that off, but I’m still really excited about my birthday money. I can’t decide if I should spend it all on one really nice thing I would never buy myself, or spend it on like ten little things I would never buy myself. Just can’t decide.
And it’s Almost October, which means I want to get a real start on Christmas presents. Last year I was pregnant and quite nesty, so I went all Martha. This year I have a baby, so I know it’s going to take me three months to get it all done.
Hmm. And, I have like fifty hundred craft projects I want to do, including but not limited to the quilt, the knitting, and presents of a thank-you variety.
And this whole week I only got about five hours of sleep a night. If you knew me in college you would know that that is about six hours too few. I need to sleep quite a bit before I’m any use at all.
Speaking of college, Jeffro called yesterday. It appears that he’s in BG, serving the j-school as some kind of contracted genius in newspaper design. And then this weekend is BGSU’s Homecoming, which I kind of wanted to go to. I’d be all, Look, I’m successful. Here’s my handsome husband and my KICKASS baby and I have a decent haircut. I am no longer dressed in thrift-store castoffs and that awful, awful nose ring disappeared. You must be envious.
But then I realized it would be more like, Hey, guys, remember me? I used to be kind of cool? and I had that really butch haircut, and I was never afraid to tell you to fuck off to your face because you were just part of the fascist patriarchal PROBLEM, man? And I drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney on fire and picked fights with particularly misogynistic-looking frat boys? Yeah. That was me. Um, so then, well, I got married had a kid and moved to the suburbs. Oh, and gained ten pounds and started wearing flats. And you?
Plus, gas is like fifteen hundred dollars a gallon and it’s a nine hour drive for one day of football and small talk and we really couldn’t afford all that just so I could chat with fellow newspaper alumni who may or may not even show up, because chances are pretty strong that, although they still live in Ohio [suckas!] they actually have like, real lives, and are way too busy to go to stupid Homecoming to see the quiet girl they didn’t really talk to anyway.
So. We’re staying home. There’s a big crab feast on Friday, and a party on Sunday, and we’re going clothes shopping for Owen on Saturday. Turns out that amid the bucketloads of clothes we have for him we don’t really have any long pants or shirts in size 9-12 months, so unless I dress him in several plaid seersucker rompers at a time, he’s a-gonna get chilly.
So. That’s it. I have to go smoke now. Something to do with the caffeine intake.
The birthday, part two
So yesterday I got my birthday present. I had to traverse the house and do post-graduate-level thinking [10th digit of pi? And who’s Mr. Brown?], unraveling clues with minimal hintage until I found, in the washer machine, a copy of the first season of The Office. Score!
“The moon is high, the sea is deep”
Iain really topped himself this year, as far as birthday presents go. He didn’t get me one.
Kidding! So kidding. I mean, no, I don’t have a present from him, unless you count a kiss as my present, but I did get a really nice card …
Oh, man, this is coming out all wrong. He did get me a present, only the U.S.P.S didn’t oblige and so it didn’t show up today, even though he had the rest of the elaborate birthday happy-making plan in place. Dozens of notes! Intricate clues! Inside jokes! But, to his utter chagrin, no treasure at the end of the hunt.
Imagine, if you will, the birthday girl laughing, tears streaming down her face, as her husband and life partner shakes his fist at the sky, swear words coming a mile a minute. And I’M THE ONE WHO DIDN’T GET A PRESENT.
Wait, that came out wrong. Imagine, if you will, a guy who has gone to the ends of the earth to come up with something so clever, so carefully prepared, so intricate, so done-weeks-in-advance, just to make his wife feel loved and appreciated on her birthday.
So no, I didn’t get a present, as such … but I got a fucking awesome husband, who continues to surprise me year after year. And I got a baby who only sounds like an anguished pterodactyl SOME of the time. So really, that’s present enough for me.
[Until tomorrow, when the postal carrier comes again]
Dear Skooch, thanks for turning a shitty Monday into a day of easy goofy laughter. I love you, even though I am twenty-six.
Fucking Weezer stuck in my head
Weekend: Tolerable. In-laws came in, dog in tow. I was too lazy to bake the cake. Lou fixed our leaky faucet and busted gutter. I took Sheila to the book thing. Came down with a cold or allergies or some shit. Missed Rock’n’Romp. Missed a couple phone calls. Spent today cleaning up plaster dust and being a football widow while the Steelers were on.
Attempted to buy a new carseat. Target was filled to the brim with annoyingly tarted-up young women. Aimed Owen in their direction, thinking with force, “Yeah, yuk it up now, bitch. Someday you’ll get stretch marks, too.”
Have been unable to adequately answer e-mail or phone messages. Apologies if you’ve been waiting; it’s not you, it’s me.
Too much laundry on my plate and not enough chocolate. Beverly Hills, indeed.
I feel so dirty.
I just spent four hours cleaning the house. FOUR HOURS in a blur of domestic hysteria, the likes of which have not been seen here since I was eight months pregnant and nesting like hell.
I’m sweaty and covered in a fine film of dust, but the house looks acceptable for the first time since Owen was born [nearly nine filthy months ago]. Bring on the in-laws. Maybe I’ll even bake a cake.
Rock’n’Romp in the news
This week it’s a story by Sam Sessa in the Baltimore Sun. Last week it was a blurb in Urbanite’s Corkboard feature. Good to see it getting on the radar.
The next show is this Saturday, 3 p.m., Sweetney’s house. Don’t miss it. Seriously.
I get mail, part 2
Snail mail, that is.
Firstly:
Secondly:
I can see that I need to take a weekend and make a big ol’ smackeroo pile of “Christ, you fucking kick ASS” presents. Thank you, Interweb ladies. Muchas smooches.
I feel God in this Chili’s tonight
OK, so I totally couldn’t stay away.
I love this blog so much. I think … I think I want to have its little blog babies. Its blabies, if you will.
So. Related note. Red wine, khaki pants, any suggestions?
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