There's always next week

"My time is a piece of wax fallin' on a termite
That's chokin' on the splinters."

-- Loser, Beck


Tom and I went to the preseason Pens game against the Sabres on Friday, and it was pretty exciting to be up that high in the nosebleed section... with my fear of heights and all that. When I finally started paying attention to the game instead of worrying about everyone potentially tumbling out of the balcony section, I really enjoyed myself.

It was 5-5 and with 28 seconds left in the game, Buffalo scored. Tom jumped up. "Let's go."

OH NO. HE'S THAT KIND OF SPORTS FAN. I bet he doesn't watch the credits after a movie or linger at lunch because he didn't put much in the parking meter.

Trusting his instinct, and the instincts of about 25% of the people in the arena, I left with him. As we were winding our way down, wouldn't you know it... the Pens scored. I can't remember if I smacked him before or after I raced back inside.

The goal was too late, apparently right at the buzzer, and I probably saved my ticker some unnecessary pumpage via adrenaline, so I guess I should be thankful.

Then the Steelers flopped today. My picks sucked for the week too. I'm down and out.

Driving me crazy

Joe dropped off Jacob to me this evening at the day care because he took the day off. He handed me a shopping bag that had a couple of full bottles in it. As I was walking away with the bag and the baby, he told me, "I want those bottles back."

THE BOTTLES I BOUGHT??? Part of the vast collection of baby things that I and my family provided that remain in your home? The shit you wouldn't share for the benefit of your son when I left? None of which you or your family provided, unless we count that Christmas ornament your parents so generously presented to him upon his birth??

Because that's exactly what a baby needs when he's born. Something to hang on a dead tree.

Yeah, right, asshole. You'll see these bottles again when I see my green vase -- the one still sitting on your nightstand -- on my living room shelves. I'll also require my ironing board back. My Rubbermaid straws would be nice too. My Turkish spices and seedling collection can stay with you, and you can keep the brakes I put on your car and even the Best Buy gift card I bought for your brother that you refused to let me give to him because it was "too much." I will, however, require you to turn over the blanket my aunt knitted, the towels another aunt sewed, and all the other things on loan from my family that were NOT intended to benefit you. Yet you hold them hostage.

But now I have your bottles. My bottles. Jacob's bottles. Two stupid Gerber bottles worth a few bucks. One small step.

[Insert my best evil laugh here.]

NFL: Now Freedom Lives

"I got a peaceful easy feeling
and I know you won't let me down."

-- Peaceful Easy Feeling, The (Not Philadelphia) Eagles



I am not ashamed to say that I have various NFL themes in my iTunes collection. When it is, say, mid-April, I plug in the speakers after everyone is sound asleep and just blast them until I can't take it anymore.

It is like eating your favorite calorie-filled indulgence. Or watching the climax of a horror movie you've never seen before. Or sex.

It's something you can only take for so long when you think no one is looking.

But when football season finally rolls around... it's like... life is normal again. I ease into it pretending not to care about preseason, and then I oscillate the first few games about hosting parties and really watching the game... but when it gets cold, I know I'll have my Sundays booked and my NFL pages bookmarked.

Being from Pittsburgh, the Steelers are kind of a tradition. How could they not be? If you are from here, you know exactly what I mean: we dress our kids up in jerseys -- NOT knockoffs, either -- and frame our license plates in black and gold. We buy Iron City even though it tastes like shit, and we spend 15 bucks every time a new Terrible Towel is issued. We'll spend a week in an online forum debating team jerseys (and now helmets) and we'll watch the game among friends and act as though we could coach better.

What have we done with ourselves since February?? We were a patient city, kind to each other, biting our bottom lips as though we didn't have anything to talk about except for the weather and directions to PNC Park.

But now.... ahhhhhhhhhhh. All is right again. The city is awash with pride and Browns bashing and hyping Big Ben.

My big concern this week outside of planting bulbs and fertilizing my lawn is picking the Philly game. Any thoughts?

sirschy@hotmail.com

For the birds

I drive past the National Aviary every day on my way to work, and this weekend we finally got the chance to go. It was exactly what I thought it would be: Lots of birds. Lots of bird poop.


Flamingos!


This was not at all staged. OK, it was. But Jacob loved the close-up view of the birds.


Gus: A very vocal pheasant.


Some other bird.


Feeding the lorikeets.


The best boyfriend ever?

Endurance

When I was a kid, I wanted my ears pierced SO BAD. I wanted to wear makeup and heels and get my hair permed too.

My parents sent me to Catholic school until eighth grade, so the makeup and heels were not an option. But around age 12, my mom relented and let me get holes in my lobes.

It hurt. For a week. Then done.

When I hit high school, I got the perm. And I thought better of it after about three years of maintenance. Hey, it was the 80s. I had IOU sweatshirts, banana clips and a Walkman too.

When I hit college, I wanted a tattoo. I made my roommate get one instead, under the guise of photographing it for a journalism class assignment. I have no idea if she ever showed it to her mom. After all, she dropped out our third year, drank the entire semester and paraded strangers through our tiny apartment at all hours, without telling her mom about that.

But my first year of college, I was in a coed dorm, and I happened by an open dorm room on the first floor one day on the way to the elevators... there was a little screaming and a lot of laughter. I paused at the door. There was my future college boyfriend piercing the nipple of a male friend.

So.......

Not long after, I abandoned the tattoo idea and got a piercing at the top of my ear. This is not an unusual thing by any means, and in fact I interviewed a great deal of pierced people before I embarked on the $10 endeavor. Very few reported regrets.

I regretted it for the first... three years or so. The infections, getting it ripped out by unsuspecting hairdressers, having the left half of my head full of split ends after my hair repeatedly got stuck in whatever jewelry my inflamed piercing tolerated at the time.

After that, I sailed free. A little flare-up here and there, but after many years with this stupid hole in the top of my ear, I didn't let that bother me.

Around my first trimester with Jacob, all my earrings made me itch. I took them out. I hadn't put them back in. Until last night. After a year and a half with nothing weighing down my cartilage, I found that the one hole I struggled so hard with since 1992 had betrayed me.

Anyone who has ever had the ambition to do the whole potato and ice thing knows just about what I went through trying to get that hoop through again. And HOW BAD IT HURTS TODAY.

I about want to lop off the whole left half of my body. But dammit, I'm a mom now, of two, I still listen to Primus and though I wear fake Birkenstocks instead of the real thing, I am only two sizes bigger than those days, I can afford to keep Ramen noodles out of my cupboards and my journalism teachers were all wrong, wrong, wrong. I won't ever raise mice again for the fraternity snakes, nor sneak a microwave into somewhere it's forbidden. I won't ever get that sunflower tattoo, or keep earthworms in my flowerpots. Or agree to split a phone bill with anyone.

Or drink Mad Dog 20/20. The orange one, at least.

BUT WHEN I AM WRINKLED, WHEN I AM BURIED, THIS EARRING WILL STILL BE IN MY EAR.

How to make a happy Saturday

Start with some fire bricks.



Build a circle and level it off.



Some adhesive helps.



Assemble some wood and burn.



Enjoy the results.

Ay, there's the rub

I've been pretty sick for the past four days or so. Well, I've been pretty sick going on... six years now. I even have a semi-official diagnosis of what plagues me: motherhood.

This week was a little nastier than others... I was convinced I had strep throat AND laryngitis AND tonsillitis, my throat hurt that bad. My doctor also found ear and sinus infections, which I must have missed while writhing in pain every time I sneezed as air forced its way through my flaming esophagus with the force of a Concorde.

I have had sores festering on my ankles for about a week or more, and it seems Neosporin makes it WORSE, as if the infecting germs are laughing at me as they devour the medicine. There's also a one-inch gaping split on the bottom of my right foot that won't heal...

I know I'm starting to sound like an old lady – next I'll start bitching about my false teeth and arthritis medication – but the point is, I think I found the source of my ills. And here it is:



I have been wearing these jeans around for a few years now, and I never noticed the tag before. REMOVE BEFORE WASHING OR WEARING. And not only has it contaminated my body, it's contaminated my laundry.

What is IN that tag??

Part of a conversation...

...in the elevator this morning:

"I was up until 4 a.m. I need to control-alt-delete my body."

He... wah... huh?

I had an absolutely dizzying and unbelievable day of sparring with Joe. It started off bad, got worse, and ended with a bang.

I thought about posting all of the emails and text messages here, but really, you'd need a day to read through it all. We didn't stop.

First up was day care. He accused me of conspiring with the day care to pretend to charge more to get more money from him. "I don't know whether you're BS'ing just to annoy me, or whether you and the day care center are attempting to pull something. But I intend to find out." I think I then emailed him something about how hard I know it is for him to part with his money. Poor baby doesn't have money to add to his Lenox collection.

Then it was on to Jacob's doctor appointment. We sat in silence through most of it, but out in the parking lot, Joe came up behind me and started bitching that I had the wrong car seat, it's against the law. He had me pinned between cars with Jacob's car door open, and I asked him to back off. He didn't, and I went off. When he finally let me get around my car, I got in and locked the doors.

He followed me home. He must have driven like a crazy person to catch up with me, and kept texting me that I wasn't going to the pharmacy I said I was going to. I finally lost him and ended up in another pharmacy. I was shaking by that point, and as soon as I got home, I composed a letter that I sent to him and my lawyer.

Joe,

The way you accosted me in the pediatrician parking
lot today was offensive and inappropriate. You've
shared your view on the car seat situation, and you
didn't need to pin me between two cars to make the
point again. I felt threatened and unsafe.

You also didn't need to follow me to the pharmacy to
make sure his prescription was filled. I can handle
the responsibility, and I don't need your harassing
text messages to follow through with his care.

If you plan on attending any more of Jacob's doctor's
appointments or other functions for him that we will
both be present for, I would demand that you conduct
yourself in a civil manner. Jacob does not need to see
his parents behaving that way, nor should his mother
be in fear of his father.

If you have issues you would like to address, I kindly
ask that you do so through our lawyers. It would be a
blessing if your counterproductive and hateful emails
ceased as well.

Well, it didn't stop there! That wouldn't be Joe. Some of my favorite excerpts:

Keep telling yourself you're a good person. But remember, there's at least one person who knows better. I do see you for what you are, and that's all that matters to me. I will make sure Jacob turns out better.

This one REALLY hurt my feelings:

Look, I don't like you. In fact, I find you repulsive.

And oooooh, the big words:

Why would I want to share parenting responsibility with a denizen of the soft underbelly? With someone who can't even keep her kids reasonably healthy? ... This custody fight will rip our lives wide open for examination; we'll see who can stand the scrutiny, we'll see who's the liar.

And then, after I told him to lighten up:

Here are a couple of knee-slappers for you:

You have a face only Pizza Hut could love.

OK, OK, how about:

You have a face only your mother could love.

Because it looks like it's been dead and buried for 20 years.

Get it? Get it?

Hey, lighten up, you are fat.

And ugly.

And dirty.

And you smell bad.

Have a nice day.

I realized he was beyond repair, beyond reason. I just can't argue with this man. Not productively anyway.

It must have something to do with how fat and ugly I am.

I just don't get it.

Ride to the occasion

After a fun Saturday of my dad and Tom helping me rip up and sanitizing parts of my basement bathroom after a rather messy plumbing catastrophe last week, we spent today at Kennywood in mostly drizzling rain. When I reached the top of the Pitt Fall (How did they take this promo picture, which I pilfered from their web site?), I thought, "Well, I just transformed myself into the biggest lightning rod in Western Pennsylvania."


First ride: The Jackrabbit



First meal: The Stroller


I went with Tom and his kids, Aimee and her kid and boyfriend, and of course my own rugrats. And in spite of the weather, and the spats and constant bathroom breaks and snack runs and she's-breathing-on-me moments, we really did have a good time. Jacob rode his first carousel, and while at first he was concerned -- MUSIC, LIGHTS, PLASTIC HORSES, SPINNING -- his skepticism turned to glee by the time the ride was over.

It was my company picnic, and Joe made an appearance at the park around dinner time. I can think of no other reason why that man would show up at Kennywood, driving from Carnegie to West Mifflin for a park so out of his comfort zone, than to check out what new thing I have going on. I'm sure he's heard something at work about Tom, and I have to say, getting Joe out of the house to do anything but run errands that suit his needs is like trying to scrub down an elephant. It's tough.

I was telling my dad about all this tonight, and he seemed particularly interested in the Joe part, since Joe wouldn't let Jacob come to Zoe's birthday party, yet he prearranged a meeting on my weekend. AND I LET HIM. My dad was appalled. "You need to treat an ignorant bastard like an ignorant bastard."

HIGH ROAD, I told him. HIGH ROAD.

"I hope a judge can see what an asshole he is," he told me. "I knew in the first five minutes of meeting him. I can always tell in the first five minutes."

After talking about this, and the Steelers game, and how bad the Browns suck, we hung up... and I thought about our conversation and called him back moments later. "Dad, so I'm not hearing six months from now how you knew right off the bat Tom was a jerk, do you like him?"

"Ahhhhhhhhh... I can usually tell right away, but I need more time with this one."

"So you haven't found anything wrong with him?"

"Not yet."

"Or are you just surprised I picked a good one this time?"

"Oh yeah. That's totally throwing me off."

Overheard on a sidewalk in the North Side

"I'm leaving for D.C. to perform in the circus."

"You're funny!"

"No, I'm serious."

Shot in the dark

Zoe has been mumbling a song for a few days now... well, closer to a week. Or more. With the singing acumen bestowed to her by my side of the family, it seems more like an eternity.

One time when I was a kid, I tape-recorded my mom while she was in the attic sewing. She had headphones on and was probably belting out a Billy Joel tune, I don't even remember. When I played it back for her, she laughed... the tape recorder was the first big gift I remember getting from my parents. Well, that and the banana seat bike, I don't remember which came first.

Anyway, Mom laughed at the recording I made of her singing Barry Manilow or whatever it was that I caught her sewing to... and I think later that evening, I played it for my dad, or someone who was in the house. I have no recollection of who the audience was, but I remember my mom leaping across living room furniture and practically falling down, and not only did she shut off the tape recorder, but she ripped out the tape and ripped out its innards and splayed ribbons of magnetic tape in a brown shiny heap on the floor.

That's how well we sing. We're not proud.

So I finally picked up on what Zoe was trying to sing, and I can't remember what it was she was trying to say as far as the words went, but they were way off, so way off and I didn't have embarrassment to spare for her, so on the way home from work tonight, I took great pains to correct her.

"ZOE. YOU CANNOT sing it that way."

And I proceeded to tell her the lyrics:

Shot through the heart,
And you're to blame.
You give love
A bad name.

In the seven minutes it took to get home, she had it largely manageable:

Shot through the heart,
And you're too late.
You get love
A Band-Aid.

Good enough.

Nothing mini about it

I had a busy couple of days cleaning up after the party, and today Tom and I dragged the kids around, half the time appeasing them and half the time getting done what we needed to get done.

It was the first time in a while we had all four kids together, and as we were getting ready to return tables and chairs to my aunt early in the afternoon, I came down to the garage fully expecting to follow Tom in his minivan before he stopped me.

"You don't think you're going to follow me all the way over there, do you?"

From Collier to the South Hills.... well... yeah....

He had already put my car seats in his minivan, and it kind of caught me off guard. Me... minivan.... four kids... Tom... 15 miles there, 15 miles back. Are we ready for this???

"We got to do it sometime," Tom said. "Why not today?"

So we piled in the kids... me... minivan... four kids... Tom... 15 miles there, 15 miles back.

We survived, and decided to go to the driving range to celebrate the success. His son is actually damn good at driving, but us girls grew tired at our lack of coordination and insisted on a round of miniature golf.

Now I know why people drive minivans. It has a lot to do with lack of vanity, and a good deal to do with hearty off-key singing to Beastie Boys.

Tom and I agree that when all the kids have gone off to college, we're getting a Jaguar.


The brood



Scorekeepers



Florida foliage?



By the water



They're GRRRRRREAT!



Sundown



Happiness

Party on

I liked to entertain a lot when I lived in Florida, but my parties were usually small. Six, maybe 10 people. I think I squeezed in maybe 15 once, and thinking back, I remember vowing never to do that again in my tiny apartment.

It's been several years since I've really gone all out, and with a new house and Zoe's birthday, I did it!!

I can't say enough about friends, right off the bat. Aimee cooked the corn, Meredith kept tabs on the kids, Tom grilled his ass off. "We got it covered," they kept saying. "Go socialize!"

They knew it was the first time I was having my family over, and it just never occurred to me how much I would need their help. I guess it occurred to them... Zoe had a wonderful time for her birthday, and I owe a lot to those who worked behind the scenes, buying supplies, setting up, bringing last-minute details I had forgotten.

Eight kids and 20 adults later, we pulled it off!!