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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62392264534305040072016-06-22T22:01:41.481-05:00blah blah blah-lerChristahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-72618798823601938612016-06-22T22:01:00.001-05:002016-06-22T22:01:41.503-05:00Vacation Day 4: Air Intake, Spirit Animals and Ominous Doorbells ... On the fourth day of vacation, I replaced a busted left front blinker on my 2012 Nissan Rogue with just a flathead screwdriver and YouTube because I'm Jo Freaking Polniaczek. My neighbor had recently had his replaced by a professional blinker repairer and spent $45 on it.

"I'm going to figure out how to fix mine, then I'll do your other one for $40," I told him, barely kidding.

First I watched a very informative vid.
Then I bought a two-pack of bulbs for $5 from a kid at Napa.
Then I popped the lid and went inside the house to scare up some tools.
I showed Chuck a portion of the vid and he handed me a screwdriver.
I tried to remove the air intake, then watched the vid again, then removed the air intake.
I unscrewed the old bulb, unpacked the new bulb and swapped 'em out.
I tested my work by starting the car and triggering the blinker.
I am told I whooped.
It worked.
I replaced the air intake and slammed the hood.

By then Chuck and Chach came out to see My Greatest Victory.
"I did it!" I yelled, a little too loudly or maybe not loudly enough.
I showed them how, when I pushed the blinker down it made the left front blinker blink.
"ASK ME HOW TO REMOVE AN AIR INTAKE VALVE!" I hooted.
(It wasn't a valve.)
"I'M GOING TO BUILD A CAR!!" I freaked.

Also on Vacation Day 4: I watched "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" on a treadmill at the YMCA. It feels a pretty tacky to gawk at Taylor Armstrong's domestic crisis knowing that her husband is T-minus how many episodes from hanging himself in the garage. But, honestly, Lisa Vanderpump is my spirit animal. She's part Charlie's Angel-Part Queen of England wrapped in a florescent pink bra. Also, any wheels that were on in Season 1 are suddenly off and who are these people.

We had a picnic on a rock.

We finally turned Chach's bed from a crib into a toddler bed, a much-delayed project that didn't seem to matter because she didn't seem to care that she was still sleeping in a crib. Bedtime kind of went like this:

ESCAPE 1
She went into the bathroom, went, grunted her pajamas back into place and walked into the hallway.
"I went potty," she said.
"You didn't wash your hands," I said.
"Aw!" she yelped.

ESCAPE 2
Five minutes later, she came out again.
"What are you doing now?" I asked.
"I'm going potty," she said.
"You don't go potty every 10 minutes," I said.
"Oh," she said, and went back to bed.

Anyway, this went on and on and on.
She didn't fall out of bed, but I did come in to find her on her stomach, legs on the floor and body in bed.

Later I would have an epic nightmare involving a very tall and silent man wearing a brown robe, gunfire in the distance, hungry journalists, ominous door bells and trying to keep a child safe. It. Was. Terrible.Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-41067063296628892232016-06-21T21:03:00.002-05:002016-06-21T21:03:53.895-05:00Vacation Day 3: Kick Moves, Pool Potty and Hot Dogs Sliced the Long Way ... On the third day of vacation, I decided to get back on the ol' treadie. I've got my sights on a 5-miler that's a month away and I'm not going to get any faster by sitting around reading mass market true crime about handsome serial killers.

I planted Chach at Kid's Club, where there was just one other boy, approximately 8 years old, plowing through foam mats. As I was walking away, he said to her "Let me teach you some fighting moves." The staff quickly interceded and pointed out their age differences and blah blah blah. In the time it took me to leave the room and walk around a corner to a window, Chach was at his elbow seemingly tuned in to a lesson that involved kicking a mat.

I hopped on the treadmill and right before I cranked it up, I wondered if this was a good idea. I feel about 90 percent normal, but I'd imagine there are hidden dangers with immediately launching into another workout schedule three days after a half-marathon. So I Googled and, sure enough, Hal Higdon calls it Week Zero. You do, literally, nothing. So I queued up "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and walked for 30 minutes.

Sure enough: "Want to see my kick move?" Chach asked when I picked her up.

We went to swimming lessons, which is 30 minutes of me pretending that every kid in that pool isn't constantly unleashing a flood of urine. This week we really nailed the Jump From the Ledge of the Pool and Into My Arms, but failed in the Scoop Your Arms and Blow Bubbles at the Same Time. We did not suffer any of the anguish over the swim suit dryer that we encountered last week, when I stood watching a red-faced toddler and wondered if this particular health club employs anyone with the ability to perform an exorcism. I'll call it a victory. I treated her (I mean me) to a grilled cheese sandwich from Toasty's (mine: Ariba Ariba; Her's: Hot dog, sliced the long way, and cheddar) where everyone needs to go eat right now because it's awesome and I try to get there once a week because I don't want it to ever leave. Try the burgers.

Also on Vacation Day 3:
We had a play date with a girl from Chach's class at ECFE. Her toys are far superior to Chach's, so we won. Chach and her friend have a ton in common, disposition-wise, including that they both need to be carried everywhere. We called them The Ladies of Leisure. They dabbled in hugs and hand-holding and it was adorbs.

I set aside Ted Bundy and got out of bed when I remembered that the moon was doing cool things.

Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-25516303264510157662016-06-20T23:51:00.000-05:002016-06-20T23:51:17.737-05:00Vacation Day 2: 4-Way Stops, Criminal Minds, Baby Joan ...

The second day of vacation was Father's Day, so we presented Chuck with the only gift that could possibly convey our gratitude for another 366 days of kick-ass daddery: A Timex Indiglo. The vintage watch, best remembered for the way its digital screen was visible in the darkest of movie theaters, is exactly like the one he already has, save for the band. We upgraded him from black plastic to silver, which you might recall, can be spun around one's fingers in a way that mimics the movements of a tank's tires. Ah, the 1980s. So rich!

Then, because the weather was being very show-offy, we went to one of the great patios of Duluth. A place with a bacon, lettuce, tomato and egg sandwich that is simply not too shabby. I imagine there must be tastier items on the menu -- Chuck's Korean Beef Taco's were Zow! -- but I keep ordering this sandwich like I'm the character in a sci-fi movie who must always, always order the same thing, even if she's curious about the avocado tacos. It's gotta be the runny egg. I'm pretty obsessed with eggs right now, which always changes as soon as I encounter a bloody yolk. Until then, I'll press on.

Anyway, this place will henceforth be referred to as Our Favorite Norm Core Restaurant.

We hit a 4-way stop on the way home, landing at approximately the same time as the car directly across from us. I went to make a left turn at the same time as the car across from me came charging out of the gate. The driver gestured like a fevered conductor and I rolled down my window so that as we passed I could say, "Oh, geez, calm down lady." She spat some harsh words about using one's blinker and I remembered that, oh yeah, that guy was on the fritz a few weeks ago. Guess it didn't magically heal itself.

(I still think she needs to calm down, though.)

For this vacation, I have an ever-increasing to-do list that ranges from cleaning out entire cupboards to checking out the Ali Wong comedy special on Netflix to painting Chach's nails so they look like ladybugs to returning a dress to Target.

Still a little pained by Vacation Day 1, I hit the to-do list with some mega-cleaning. The Girl helped a bit, enthusiastically at first, less so later. Then it was Toddler Roulette: Will she throw away this dried up ball of Pla-Doh from behind the couch or will she sing NOT YET in her sing-songiest of sing song voices?

I asked her to put away her socks and this is was her artistic interpretation:

THINGS THAT HAPPENED DURING THE MEGA-CLEAN
1. I found a bunch of Thank You notes that I never sent to people who gave us gifts when Chach was born ... almost 3 years ago.

I guess this is probably the decider.
Q: Is she ill-bred?
A: Affirmative.

2. I found this drawing of the cast of "Criminal Minds" circa 2010 that I never showed anyone. Priceless.

I watched "Ali Wong: Baby Cobra," an hour of standup comedy delivered by a preggo at about what-say seven months. I totally dug it. Very funny, very out there, very real. She twerks. Watch it at an adult slumber party.

In all his excitement over the Timex Indiglo Watch, Chuck forgot to take his wallet to work. This had me clock-watching as it crept toward 11 p.m. and he was still at work.

"HOW ARE YOU GOING TO COME HOME, GET YOUR WALLET AND GET TO SUPERIOR WISCONSIN IN TIME TO GET WHISKY BEFORE THE LIQUOR STORE CLOSES?" I wondered in all caps.

Turns out he wasn't going to go to Superior, Wisconsin for last-call whisky, I was. As soon as he walked in the door, I slipped into my running shoes and made a break for it.

Reader(s), have you ever been to a liquor store in Superior, Wisconsin at 11:55 p.m. on a Sunday night? About 900 pickup trucks zig-zagging through the parking lot, coming to a dramatic stop and then truly hardcore liquor enthusiasts dang-near sprinting toward the store. Meanwhile, there was either a parking lot fight, or else a bunch of loud-talkers had simply gathered to dish insults. Either way.

By the way: Chacha has named one of her dolls Baby Joan, which is simultaneously hilarious and super-flipping weird. This is just more evidence that she was sent here from the 1950s to do ... something yet to be determined. Also, somehow she knows my mom's maiden name and she keeps talking about Bloody Marys.Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-41819788285104462542016-06-19T22:02:00.001-05:002016-06-19T22:02:18.498-05:00Vacation, Day 1: Arm Pits, Omelets and The Biggest Sleep

On the first day of vacation, I ran a half-marathon. I did it the exact opposite of the way I've done it in the past. Reader(s), I trained. Take everything you know about me, about gravity, about the world, and wad it up in a McDonald's wrapper and chuck it from the window of your 1989 Ford sedan. The brown one with three hubcaps. While going 53 MPH on a two-lane highway. Just git the heck rid of it.

Actually, it started last year when I just didn't stop running (or, more often, ellipticalling) after the half-marathon. I decided I liked how running put the kabosh on all the queasiness and nervous brain-chatter that comes with being an adult person. And other reasons, including, mostly, I JUST LIKE RUNNING, OKAY? WHY DOES IT FEEL SO WEIRD TO JUST OWN THAT.

So long story short, I followed a training guide, mostly, with small instances of swapping this for that. On the day I did my 9 miler, it was sunny and, like, 90 degrees in a city that likes to max out in the low 70s. My breathing felt weird and echo-y, and I started to believe that the urban legend Runner Poops Her Pants was about to gain a "It Happened To Me: Munger Trail Edition." I decided to squash the long runs for the next month and focus on speed.

Then, the next weekend it was 53 and misting and all was right with the world so I shelved my ban and went for a 10 miler that was, literally, the best run of my life. The kind where every mile is a little faster and I raise my hands in victory and perform a karate chop at a fictional finish line. The kind where I do that thing I haven't done in eons: spend an entire drive home interviewing myself about my heroic return to running at, gasp, age 40.

Two days before the first day of vacation I woke up super fluttery and nervous. Turns out training for something is investing in it and if you fail, that 12 weeks of fartleks, all the cheese you didn't eat is, like, a total wash. As a person whose preferred state is "half-assin' it," I'd not recently encountered this sort of feeling. Also: I've been reading Ann Rule's book about Ted Bundy. The death count is high and the killer's techniques are quick, brutal and unfortunately clever. So maybe this anxiousness had nothing to do with running at all.

For the first time ever I didn't almost oversleep. For the first time ever I had time for a shot of coffee, a shower and a peanut butter and banana sandwich all at a leisurely morning pace. For the first time ever I barged in front of a bunch of well-behaved people standing in line at the DECC and just boarded the damn bus.

I spent the first three miles mad: At the Porta Potties, at the starting line, at the congestion of runners. I spent a lot of time jut-jogging this way and that. At four miles a gust of hot-hot armpit-like heat blasted me in the face. After that I got into a groove. There was a breeze. Much Beyonce. It's literally the only album on my iPhone. I didn't devil-talk to myself until about Mile 8. A demonic, "Why are you doing this? You can be a person who just runs like 5 miles, you know" echoed in my noggin. Around this time I started Math-ing and realized that, barring face plant, I was going to hit my goal. My knees hurt and so did my hips. I'd moved into "Lemonade: The Movie," which meant poetry and long pauses. But still.

So I finished in 1:59.20, a mere 40 seconds ahead of schedule and about 25 minutes faster than I've ever, ever run a half-marathon ever. I got very fizzy-nosed about it at the Finish.

"Would you have been happy if you'd finished in 2:05?" Pa Pista asked.
Yeah. It would have been close enough. It still would have been faster than ever.
Around mid-day I got all wide-eyed and started wondering if maybe I could run even faster ...

"Careful," a running fiend had said to me at the Y last week, after reminding me 90 times to relax on game-day. He had seen me doing a long run on a treadmill and I can only imagine that my shoulders were stuffed up close to my ears. "You might catch The Bug and want to be good," he said.

Maybe so. That would probably mean lifting weights, stretching, more quinoa, sleep. It might mean admitting that I give a rip.

On the first day of vacation, I also:
Ate an omelet with corned-beef hash and half of Chach's Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake for breakfast;
Drove to Great Lakes! Candy Kitchen in Knife River and found my new happy place (Knife River and Great Lakes! Candy Kitchen);
Wore a romper in public (and was totally cool with it and then later Googled more rompers and better rompers);
Ate Polenta and Pork Shoulder and a cheese plate and drank a glass of wine with Chuck at Northern Waters
Drank a glass of wine at Zeitgeist;
Went to "The Lobster," but couldn't get comfortable or keep my eyes fully open;
Slept the sort of sleep that sleepers dream of sleeping.

Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-91187773248530445282016-05-25T23:33:00.000-05:002016-05-25T23:33:54.410-05:00Not about lawn jarts ... I won a sizable gift card to a chain sporting goods store, which resulted in me in a mess of neon trying to decide between statement spandex pieces. I tucked a pair of purple tiger-striped Nike pants and its tank top counterpart under my arm, Chach's hand into my hand, and then reconsidered.

What about a Camelback, one of those backpacks that carry water and have little mini hose spouts. Perfect for my dream life as a trailrunner. An employee pointed me to the display on the back wall of the store.

I tugged at tags and squinted at prices, wondered if a Camelback was the sort of thing that would end in our
Shrine for Forgotten Hobbies beneath the basement steps. And then, quietly, Chach said to me:
"Mama, what's this?"

I looked down to see her holding a broken red condom, innocently testing its elasticity.
"DROP THAT," I said with my calmest version of an authoritative roar.

Reader(s), I lost my ever-loving mind. I went Mom-Mad.

Mom-Mad, which does not require that one be a mother I don't imagine, is that special kind of rage directed toward a world where someone would carry a condom in a pocket so shallow that it might fall out on the floor of a sporting goods store and attract the attention of a 2 1/2 year old who loves to find things she's never found before. Especially in the color red. Mom-Mad. It could lift a bus, crush a watermelon with its bare hands, start a fire with its white-hot intensity. I recommend giving its powers a whirl.

Anyway, we quit the Camelbacks and scared up Chuck, who had wandered over to the canoe-kayak zone. I needed a second opinion on whether it really was a condom, or if it was some weird piece that shook loose from a set of lawn jarts. He, too, identified it as a prophylactic.

That's all the prompting I needed to march-stomped, dragging Chach like a Raggedy Ann doll behind me, toward a 20-ish employee who gave me a friendly "how-can-I-help-you" smile.

"Could you come over here and tell me what my 2 year old daughter just picked up off the floor of your store?" I asked him.

I led him 12 feet and then pointed, my finger a laser.
His face dropped and then he responded in all-business robotics:
"I'm going to go get a rubber glove and pick that up right now," he said.
"How about instead you tell me where the bathroom is so I can wash her hands," I suggested, still using the most adult version of my voice I've ever heard echo in my own head. (What a waste, I see now, to use this voice here, rather than in a major television studio's pitch room.)

He took us on an awkward 45-second maze through fishing equipment, knives, shoes and boating accessories. I double-lathered Chach's hands then double-lathered them again.

We met Chuck outside of the bathroom and I ditched my Nike tiger-wear on a random shelf on our way to the exit. Oh yeah, dirtbags? I said in my head. Re-shelve this!

I couldn't stop another thought, the one that always occurs when something terrible happens in a retail space: "Is this one of those 'Get something free' circumstances?" I wondered. It probably was not, though I'd like corporate to at least keep an open mind on it in case it ever happens again. Still, is that tacky, to put a price on gross? "If my kid is going to touch a condom that was on the floor of your store, I'm going to need to be compensated with a tackle box, three oars and a macadamia nut Clif Bar. Throw in a Wild jersey and I won't even hint about it on my blog."

Listen. I get that in all likelihood, this thing came off a customer's shoe or fell out of someone's pocket. I am not Mom-Mad enough to believe that the store's employees are having a contest to see who could plant the grossest thing on the floor by the Camelbacks. But I am also hugely in favor of stores being Open Condom Free Zones, even if it means adding an employee or two.

I spent a lot of time kicking around whether to post this story and ultimately, I just couldn't not. I'm a writer, see, and there ain't no writer in the world who can sit on a story about the time they encountered a condom on the floor at Dick's Sporting Goods. It's almost too easy. If it had been REI, we wouldn't even be having this conversation.

Post-script: Chach loves to play doctor. In addition to looking in ears and listening to heartbeats, she likes to do the paperwork part.
What's your name?
How old are you?
Where do you live?
All while pretending to log the responses on a computer.

A few days after this happened she said to me, the patient:
"And what's your daughter's name?"
"Chacha," I responded.
"And did she touch something gross on the floor at the mall?" she asked.

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-56088107336758014622016-05-10T10:34:00.000-05:002016-05-10T10:34:36.653-05:00Dilated ...

A few minutes after my whacky eye doctor did a PSA for reading glasses, he tilted my head back and dripped Day Ruiner straight into my shiny eyeballs. I had a schedule, man. A Monday free from a Daily Commitment. I'd gotten my hair cut and colored and there were still muddy streaks along my bangline. I popped in for a spontaneous eye exam at 1:58 p.m. and they told me they could get me in at 2 p.m. What luck, I thought. Appointment, sha-pointment.

The rest of my agenda was like:
1. Use gift card on new running pants from Dick's;
2. Use other gift card on summer shoes from DSW;
3. Get pedicure so I don't have to cut my own toenails;
4. Run 8 miles to make up for running 0 miles while I had a 10-day plague that fell, inconveniently, in the middle of half-marathon training.
5. Set alarm so I remember to pick up cheeky tot from Norwegian Wonder.

But then, suddenly, my pupils were dilated.

I squinted my way out of the doctor's office and stopped into Eddie Bauer. I was drawn to a table of colorful spandex, but no matter how much I squinted and swore, I couldn't read the price tags. I searched the blurred faces around me and wondered if any of them were guide dogs.

I also couldn't:
1. Read text messages
2. Send text messages in English
3. Google "how long will my pupils stay dilated."

The last one got ugly. I pulled up into a corner and said into my phone, "Siri? How long will my pupils stay dilated?"
"I think I've found something on the web about how long pupils stay dilated," Siri responded.
"Siri, read it to me," I asked.
"Hmm ... there's nothing to read," Siri said.

I wandered through DSW and Old Maybe. I wondered how in the heck I was going to get home and who what constitutes a foot talon. Finally I realized I could see things in the distance and I remembered that most of driving doesn't involve miniscule fonts. So I broke for the parking lot, cursing like a vampire as my enlarged pupils ate every single stray ray of sun. So, whatever, I got home. But nothing great really happened after that, so I was wrong about the luck. Further proof: I dropped the grocery bag that contained the eggs.
Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-65636894190171794432016-04-19T22:30:00.001-05:002016-04-19T22:30:24.528-05:00Pebbles ...

Every day I think "I'm going to start paying attention to things so that I have something to write about on my long-neglected weblog." Back when I wrote on said site with any regularity, fodder was everywhere, though mostly in the science of my body changing from a burrito warehouse to a temporary baby yurt.

I guess if I had to notice something today, it would be this story that starts out strong and then noticeably fizzles. I know it lacks punch because I interrupted the workflow of my cube-mates to share it and then felt, immediately, that I'd really wasted their time.

Anyway, I've started eating lunch at the same place every day, as has been my style since I started embracing my Inner Creature of Habit. Incidentally, this place is next door to the place where I *used* to always eat, which means I sometimes make awkward eye contact with people who knew intimately of my zest for two thin strips of Mystery Sriracha Sauce running down the center of my Turkey with Cheddar on Italian Herb and Cheese. It also means that when the wind blows a certain way, I get a stale whiff of puffy loaf that almost makes me buckle with nausea.

Woman was not meant to eat the same sandwich for upward of 600 days in a row.

The spot next door was shrinking into oblivion until, one day, it randomly opened a salad bar over the lunch hour. Now it thrives. It thrives! It is arguably the best salad bar I can reach quickly powered by my own two feet. Now, every day for lunch, I load an Earth-irresponsible container with the following:

Three tongs worth of Romaine
Two tongs of Spinach
A scoop of peas
Hardboiled eggs
Red onions
Black Olives
Green Olives
Pepperoncinis
Green peppers
Sunflower Seeds

And I fill a corner of it with strawberries for dessert.

This haul costs $5.99 per pound, with the Game Show-style novelty of getting the salad for half-price if it weighs exactly 1 pound. I'm always super close, tenths off, and a lot of the time the cashier will let me have it for the Victory Price.

I feel a little bad about this. I like to win things, but I like to win them for real. I don't like to be "close enough." I'd never kick a golf ball into the hole or use a dictionary while playing Scrabble. I want to see the scale say 1.00 and not a fraction more or less. I also like eating approximately a pound of salad for half-price, so.

Today the cashier added a pebble to the scale to give me the edge. I felt the guy behind me in line glaring holes into the styrofoam. Luckily, I was wearing headphones, which always makes me feel a little invisible, so I was able to ignore it mostly. I paid my $3-whatever and walked away and heard the sound of the stone being dropped to the counter.

It sounded like the end of a cheap salad.

***

The other thing I would like to say is that I set a personal record running my first 5K of the season and it wasn't necessarily so-super-duper fast, but it was:

1. Almost 10 minutes faster than I ran in 2014, which is crazy because it's only 3.1 miles, which doesn't seem long enough to get 10 minutes faster;
2. About three minutes faster than in 2015, which still seems mathematically impossible;
3. A few seconds faster than my last 5K of the season last fall.
4. It was also close to a time that I saw a runner friend had run last year and went "HOW CAN SOMEONE RUN THAT FAST."

In the aftermath of setting a personal record in the 5K, I realized there is no outlet for this kind of information. I mean, who cares? I got a nice kudos from the aforementioned friend, who finished about the same time. My family thought it was cool, though Chach assumed I'd be the one to break the Finish Line tape so it must have been, secretly, a big bummer for her. I told my parents, but it was buried between funny Chacha stories. I didn't want to post it on Facebook, because it's not like I broke the sound barrier, I just ran faster than I usually do.

These things are anticlimactic at Age 40, I guess. I've always been such a "GUESS WHAT I DID?!" person. Must. Find. Inner. Back. Patter.

Also: I made a pizza with cauliflower crust and it was awesome.

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-19898117204159923602016-03-21T22:19:00.003-05:002016-03-21T22:31:30.506-05:00How to put a 2-year-old to bed: a memoir ...

Before you even start to think about putting your 2-year-old to bed, you must warn your 2-year-old that you might start to think about putting her to bed.

Then, when the jingle alarm goes off on your iPhone, you assume an identity of her choosing, likely:

1. You might have to be a doctor, who will guide his (you're a "he," okay) young patient to the bathroom so that you can help brush said patient's dirty teeth.
2. You might have to be a mama (here you're a "she") whose tiny baby doesn't even have teeth, but will stand for getting her gums brushed.

If you've incorporated any kind of Big Girl Potty negotiations, this is the point at which you will strip your 2-year-old down and plop her, naked, on the pot. She'll clutch your arms and grin maniacally. She'll ask if you see any potty coming out. This has yielded liquid gold just once, but you are an optimist. (An optimist who must have her child potty trained so she can go to preschool in September, so maybe "heavy wisher" is a better word than optimist.)

Once she's wiped the nothing, wasted a flush's worth of water, and washed her hands, you will dress her in footie pajamas, guide her to the Reward Sticker Drawer where she almost always picks a smiley face, bring her back up the steps -- you're still the doctor, or you become the doctor, at this point -- and plop her on a footstool in front of the sink.

While you load up a toothbrush with pink gel, she will turn her head to her right shoulder and assume a pinched lip position that allows you no access to her teeth. If you are cursed with a Cheerful Resting Face, you have to try really hard to make sure your features say: "This is not a funny inconvenience, like the time you yelled 'MEOW' into my ear for seven minutes straight while your grandma tried to tell me a story. It's an annoying inconvenience."

Kid time measures differently than adult time which, in this case, works to the latter's advantage. After she has done this clenched teeth standoff for what certainly must feel like 4 years (about a minute and a half in your world, phew) she will let YOU wield the brush. DO NOT let this child hold her own toothbrush, as she will pitch it across the room where it will always, always land brush-side-down in the grossest part of the grossest corner of your most high-traffic bathroom. No. Steel yourself: You will just brush her teeth until she is old enough that you can threaten her with taking away her driver's license if she tosses her toothbrush ever again.

Teeth clean. Jammers on. Toilet treated like a decorative ornament. Now you have to get her into her bedroom.

She will say: "Does the doctor want me to go in my bedroom?"
Nod. Nod like you are a novelty bobblehead dog in the back window of your trashiest friend's car.

You probably used to read her books and there are probably a whole bunch of them piled around the pink recliner in her bedroom. "Green Eggs and Ham," "Jamberry," "The Pout Pout Fish," and, oddly, "Little Matchstick Girl." These days, your 2-year-old prefers to sit in the dark and watch "Wid-e-views."

This means "videos," but you prefer her interpretation of the word. You don't blame her. It's fun to say.

You tell her: "Okay. You can watch two wideviews tonight."

She will always pick "Old MacDonald." She's a connoisseur of all the variations on the song that exist on YouTube. In the beginning she would watch any of them. Now trending: one starring grown people dressed as farm animals. You have developed theories about the Pig and the Chicken. They stand just a little too close; Stare just a little too hard. You and your 2-year-old both agree that the cow is the family favorite and, luckily, she makes cameos in other vids, er wids, by the troupe.

After that she might want to see the wideview for:
1. "Mr. Roboto," though she's come to prefer a version that appeared on "Glee," which is a remix that morphs into the song "Counting Stars."
2. This creepy-ass "Twinkle, Twinkle" starring a character who looks like Elsa, but is very obviously a simulacrum.
3. Sia's "Chandelier," "It's a Heartache" (Bonnie's version) and a take on the alphabet song that was clearly created for children learning English as a second language. The giveaway: the letter zed.

If you don't turn off the phone immediately following the second wid, she will grab the phone and try to fire up a third wid-e-view, hack into a high-ranking government official's email or order a jet ski from Amazon.

If you manage to sneak your phone to a safe place beneath your thigh, it just signals to her that you've moved on to the next part of the ritual: The finger biting. For the next three minutes, you have to let her pretend to eat each of your fingers and then yell "HEY, I NEEDED THAT!" after each one is fake eaten.

Then your 2-year-old will move to a new part of the ritual: Climbing into the bed from the pink chair. This requires a level of bravery and dexterity with climbing over a railing that is all new-new-new, so you encourage it and give her a little boost, like you're both 13 and you're helping her into a second floor window of the old school so she can change her math grade in Mrs. Whatever's red grade book where, luckily, she records all grades in pencil.

Once in the bed, your 2-year-old will realize she's been duped.
OUT. She'll howl.
OUT. OUT. OUT. She'll bay.
I understand, you tell her. I hate going to bed, too.
OUT. She whimpers.
"But it hurts so good," you tell her. "You love sleeping. I sneak in and watch you do it. You're always smiling."

Eventually she lets you cover her and her 14 favorite stuffed things beneath six heavy blankets. It helps if you call her a Burrito. You sit next to her bed in the dark. You rub her back. You sneak in some games on your phone while she sings to herself in Norwegian.

She will eventually flip over and say: "When I grow up will you teach me to play Dice with Buddies?"
You should just sigh.

Before you can leave you must:
Kiss her like she's corn on the cob.
Kiss her like she's a lemon.
Kiss her like she's a raspberry.
Kiss her like she's a frozen pea.
Kiss her like she's your beautiful baby girl.

Then you leave and shut the door barely. Open it a little, no close it more. Open it wide. No, less. No, more. Just close it tight.

Elapsed time: 48 minutes, if you're lucky. And, mostly, you are.Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-64724342822893516122016-02-18T00:47:00.001-06:002016-02-18T00:47:10.806-06:00Super into this week: Mostly just Vanderpump ... A few things that have happened since I was last Super Into This Week:

Chach got skis for Christmas.

1. I've traded in Old Fashioneds for Martinis with three olives stuffed with jalapenos and cheese.
2. I got my child to sit on a toilet seat without pants and emit a single dribble into it. Once. Weeks ago.
3. We started a Tub of Hummus a Night habit.

READING
"Fates and Furies" by Lauren Groff
Funny story: Somewhere in mid-December I published a list of the Top 5 books I'd read in the past year, which felt like a lie because I was up to my neck in Groff's "Fates and Furies" and I knew-knew-knew it should be on my list, but I wasn't going to be done with it before my deadline and I'm rules-y (with some things).
So I fudged a bit. (But, turns out, I shouldn't have worried about it.)
Here's my review.

Chach's preferred outfit.

WATCHING
"Vanderpump Rules": I am obsessed, just obsessed, with this Bravo show about sexy 20-somethings (well, some are in their 30s, not that they'd admit it) who all work at a West Hollywood restaurant-lounge known for crunchy chicken, goat cheese balls and braless servers. They all run in the same circle and date the same people and do terrible things to each other and it's hugely entertaining. It all starts with Stassi and Jax, a sort of Barbie and Ken, whose relationship crumbles within the first few minutes of the camera focusing in their direction. This is bad for business, since Stassi's squad is dating Jax's bros. But, never fear, everyone's sleeping with various bottle service girls in Vegas, so. Anyway, now I'm almost done with Season 3 so I'm going to have to BUY the current season because we don't have cable but I don't even care because It's So Freaking Good.

(Does anyone want to talk about "Vanderpump Rules"? I kind of want to start a secret Facebook group that will deconstruct it like it's the finest of literature.)

Also: I've completely stopped watching "The Good Wife" because of this show and;
Also Also: Don't listen to Stassi's podcast. Yowsa. Zzzz. And I'm a great Stassi apologist.

Chach and one of her best friends.

READING
"The Blunderer" by Patricia Highsmith
Patricia Highsmith's old-school suspense novel opens with the perfect crime. This book has a very distinct 1950s crime novel smell, but I guess I turned the pages quickly.
Review is here.

WRITING ELSEWHERE
Here's my column about how I have no time for anything but "Vanderpump Rules."

MOVIE
"Everest": Okay, this movie about that oft-talked about Everest expedition where a ton of bad things happened is good, fine, whatever. But have you ever noticed that all men with beards and North Face look exactly alike? It's tough viewing, friends. Also: I was ruined by one of the deaths for days, DAYS, after seeing this movie even though I read Krakauer's book and knew everything (that I hadn't forgotten) already.

READING
Meghan Daum on "Making a Murderer": I know we're all done talking about the Netflix Original Series, but I never got a chance to double back and retract all my "whoas" and then insert some "uhohs" instead. Regardless, Meghan Daum, my favorite writer, did it for me.

MOVIE
"Straight Outta Compton" made me wonder what in the heck I was doing in the mid-1980s. I liked rap, why wasn't I listening to NWA?

Note: One thing though, and this is for all moviemakers, STOP MAKING MOVIES SO LONG.

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-59037079959631979802016-01-17T23:16:00.000-06:002016-01-18T01:25:32.968-06:00Revisiting Vacation Day 7: A dumb way to spend $50 ...The first sign that this was a bad idea: As soon as I said the name of the restaurant, I sort of unintentionally recoiled. The last time I was there, I'd eaten a chimichanga that seemed a close relative to a boiled tube sock filled with chicken parts. The sauce was tomato-textured water.

That was years ago, though.

I just really wanted nachos. And I really wanted to leave the house. I'd been cooped in this coop for too many days in a row. First, Chach's ears were infected, then as the temperatures dropped, she stopped responding to winterwear. ("Which hat do you want to wear?" Flings both options across the room.) She was content to roam the same 40 square feet day after day after day after day. I've seen variations on the story of The Grinch 30 times in 10 days, and while I don't mind Boris Karloff or Jim Carrey's version, it's still The Grinch and it's still 30 times in 10 days.

Nachos. In public.

The other nacho purveyors in town were dismissed for various reasons ranging from location to location, and after further scanning Chicken Sock's menu it was decided we would just go there. No frills, no fireworks. We didn't need a dining experience that would inspire Instagram footage and a Facebook check-in. Just a nacho appetizer followed by something bean-filled, cheese covered, with a spicy kick for an entree.

Listen. This is a big deal. I'm pretty plant-based and mostly dairy and gluten free. I've been meat-light for as long as I've been making my own meals. But once a week I lay aside my super obnoxious list of things I will and will not eat and replace it with complete lawlessness. I've learned that cheese tastes otherworldly when you don't eat it by the 4-inch slab every night before bed, as was my old way of confronting a block of cheddar and a fresh sleeve of Zestas.

So, nachos.

The second sign this was a bad idea: We found a great parking spot and on our cold sprint to the restaurant, passed two or three more great parking spots. Through the windows, plenty of open booths. The ebbs and flows of the food industry, right? Maybe on a Wednesday. But at 5:45 p.m. on a Friday night at a restaurant close to Amsoil Arena, where UMD was hosting St. Cloud in about the amount of time it would take to consume a dinner, one would think this place would be teeming with jerseys chasing a pre-game Tex-Mex high.

Nope.

A half dozen members of the restaurant staff greeted us when we walked in. It was like a commercial for customer service. "At the Chicken Sock, we boast a 4:1 employee to customer ratio. You won't be able to wet your fork without our attentive staff making sure the tines are a dental match with the curvature of your mouth." We were whisked to a booth near the other empty booths and happened past a table where two young people were pushing more than half-filled plates of food back at the server. Or were they half-empty plates? Uh-oh, I thought.

The nachos were incredible. A mound of evenly distributed nacho ingredients -- though I'm not sure there were any of the advertised jalapenos -- spread across thin, crispy and lightly salted chips. On one half, a good sized splat of guacamole and on the other half, sour cream. Reader(s), we demolished it.

We should have stopped there. If we had stopped there, this post wouldn't exist. We would have had this pleasant plate of nachos and gone home satisfied, crave fulfilled. It might have changed my Pavlovian response to merely hearing the restaurant's name. It might have become a Friday night nacho hangout, where I shared loads of laughs with my gal pals. I definitely wouldn't have said about 100 times in the past three days: "Some restaurants seem to get away with selling slop because they have primo real estate." Soups on, tourists.

But, the entrees.

"It's meat," Chach said, looking at her plate. That was the third sign. Technically it was what she had ordered. But it was a soft shell taco filled to the rim with a greasy mess of oily red ground beef. Later it would fall open and I would see a hint of lettuce, maybe the place where a tomato might roost. It had all gotten muddied and lost in the concentration of double meat doused with meat doused with grease.

"It's spicy," she said, though it wasn't.
"If it's anything like mine, that's the salt," Chuck said.

I ordered a chicken chimichanga again, thinking the Shitty Chimichanga Lightning couldn't possibly strike twice in the same place. But there it was again, a sad and soggy lump of gooey tortilla wrapped around mediocre chicken. The sauce was probably seasoned with the scorch marks on the bottom of a pan. The pinto beans were dry; I didn't touch the rice.

"How is everything tasting," the server asked.
"Yes," I said, because it was, technically, tasting.

I ate about one-fourth of my food, Chuck and Chach managed just less than half. We assured her we didn't need a box for any of it, no-no, really. Then I paid more than $50 to just get the plates the hell away from us -- though the smell of Chach's taco somehow got embedded into my skin.

So that was pretty awful. My worst meal for as long as I can remember.

Here's the thing: I wasn't looking for an artful stack of organic things grown within a 20-foot radius of the kitchen. It didn't even need to be great. It just had to be not awful. The next day we drove past a sign advertising Taco John's and that, I realized, would have been far, far superior. How hard is it, really, to make inauthentic Mexican food?Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-16465798264975908932016-01-10T00:57:00.003-06:002016-01-10T00:57:52.139-06:00Vacation Day 1: Orange is dead ...

The power went out 35 minutes into my elliptical workout. I can't even remember what was happening on "The Good Wife," it was all so traumatic. Suddenly dark. The furnace quieted mid-gust. The equipment no longer erasing calories. I used my phone's light to walk upstairs, where I found Chuck lightly asleep in bed.

"The power went out," I said, when he moved.

The wind was loud. The cold already sneaking in the windows. I watched the house across the street, dark save for a beam from a flashlight bouncing around an upstairs bedroom. No streetlights, no cars. Freaking freaky stuff. Freakiest of all: My phone's battery at 43 percent.

"I'm at 10," Chuck said and I got a case of the dreads. Nothing stresses me out more than a low phone battery.

The head lamp was burned out, but I found a flashlight on the floor behind the toilet. Chuck found a lantern and a portable light. I cowered under the covers reading Patricia Highsmith getting colder and colder and colder. The story is just getting juicy. The power company's website estimated we would have electricity by 1:14 a.m.

I purposefully did not do the math on how long it would take before our pipes would freeze.

Then the carbon monoxide detector started going off. A single beep every few seconds. We both Googled hard. It seemed pretty obvious that it had something to do with the lack of power, but it also seemed silly to never again regain consciousness just because we understand Ocaam's Razor. So then a whole firetruck pulled up in front of the house and three firefighters gave us a PSA on CO detectors, checked our levels, complimented our cat and left.

We ate a bunch of hummus and agreed that we didn't feel dumb about calling at all.

***

A man and a woman were at the grocery store together. Every time he picked up an item, he smiled at it. It was like the apples were talking to him.

***

Chach had a screaming fit because I wouldn't carry her here and there and when I finally got around to picking her up, she put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep. Rare. No nightly bedtime battle. I didn't miss it a lick.

***

Chuck made us ramen for dinner. Favorite foods include: miso, chili oil.

***

The Rock Star Amy Abts alerted me to an interesting obituary and I spent the next two hours reading, Googling and texting. So vague!

***

We watched about 90 episodes of "The Great British Baking Show," which is such a pleasant bit of theater. In between, Chach would stand in front of the TV and perform with her ukulele. Picture: Toddler in her pajamas and a winter hat.

"One. More. Song. One. More. Song," we'd chant after each song, so she would play another.
"Old MacDonald had a penguin," she began.

At one point she put the kabosh on our adoration.
"I'm not going to play one more song," she said. "I'm going to take a bow."
So she clutched her hat in one hand, the uke in the other, and she crossed her legs and bent at the waist. A sort of Oliver Twist era street performer.

***

Lunch was tempeh reubens and salad. Chach ate peanut butter toast and blueberries.

***

My hoodie-footies were too hot this morning, so I stripped down to shorts and a tank top. Chach looked at me sitting next to her and exclaimed: YOU DON'T HAVE ANY PANTS ON. YOU JUST HAVE LEGS. (Pause) YOU GO PUT PANTS ON!

We spent much of the morning at the kitchen table. Chach created an elaborate city made of her paint containers.

"Orange is dead," she said. "I better take him to the cat place."*

FOOTNOTE
* We told her that Chuck took Hal to "the cat place" instead of saying he was sick and going to the vet.Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-12520697755447476622016-01-10T00:18:00.001-06:002016-01-10T00:18:29.591-06:00On the eve of ... It was cold on the eve of the first day of vacation. Our daughter resists winterwear and so is rushed to and from the car with a coat draped over her like a celebrity out on bail. But even she agreed to put her actual toddler arms into her winter coat for the frigid block walk to dinner. We stood on a corner waiting for the light and she burrowed against me and laugh-screamed in cold, cold agony.

The host tried to seat us at a sore thumb table in the middle of the room, but I nudged her toward a newly vacated table by the window. Chach colored with complementary crayons.

"What are these?" she asked, shading with green.
"Tattoos," I said, which must have been confusing. She knows a dog named Tattoo, and that's all she knows of the word.

We had an appetizer of focaccia, pesto and goat cheese to be dipped in red sauce. The server snuck Sriracha onto the corner of the table, which wasn't a bad idea at all.
We had a large pizza with Italian sausage and garlic. Chach took one bite.
"Spicy," she said, then slurped down a bunch of strawfuls of milk and pretty much ate nothing else.

After dinner I emptied the aisles at the co-op and Chuck scared up some vermouth. We got home late-ish, put Chach to bed and retired to the basement to drink martinis and listen to records well past curfew.

Chach woke up at 6 a.m. in need of an emergency diaper change. Chuck did the heavy lifting, then I swept into the room without opening my eyes and carried her into the lounge where we shared a futon for four more sweet, sweet hours of sleep and the First Official Day of Vacation.Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-10762983785823727702015-12-30T22:22:00.000-06:002015-12-30T22:22:28.920-06:00Super into this week: Pajamagrams, lentil soup, murder ...

Things that happened this past week:
1. I received the best gift of my entire life: A pair of hoodie footie pajamas from Pajamagram. And they are even more fan-flipping-tastic than I had imagined. There are even little thumb holes in the long sleeved arms.
2. Chach said to me: "Does Elsa have nipples?"
3. I found out that neither Chach nor I have strep throat.

MAGAZINE
"I'm Having a Friendship Affair" by Kim Brooks, New York Magazine
I'm not totally like this, but I'm enough like this that it made me want to drink wine and braid someone's hair. Also: Then I started following Kim Brooks on Twitter.

MUSIC
"LA Lately" by Israel Nash: 1. If I like a song and the song mentions Los Angeles, I will like it even more especially since I haven't been there for years and I've been watching "Transparent" and some of the generic city views make me woozy. 2. This song reminds me of another song that mentions Los Angeles, "Black Lexus" by Joseph Arthur, which was the first official Song that References Los Angeles that started me liking songs that reference Los Angeles.
Aside from that, this one has this big swirling sound and is a little Pink Floyd-y and a little Neil Young-y, but I'm putting heavier weight on the Joseph Arthur for the sake of my pride.

PODCAST
"Millennial"
Megan Tan is a recent college graduate who isn't sure of her next move, so she decides to make a podcast about figuring out what's the what. Lesson One: She gets an email from the Los Angeles Times asking if she's interested in applying for an internship making video for the paper. She hems and haws and interviews friends and ultimately decides nah, she doesn't want that to be her job. She's into radio. She wants to do that.
Pause, suffocate a little: Wouldn't a person interested in telling stories get some huge value from learning from other photo journalists at the Los Angeles Times, even if the medium is different? Answer: Yes so hard.
Anyway, I've decided to swallow my shock and remember that I am a tourist in Millennials-ville, so. Here is a decision that A Millennial made, Old Lady Gen X.
Anyway, five episodes in. I feel like I could stop, but I'm not going to and then, soon, I won't be able to.

SOUP
Red Lentil Soup with Lemon: This is like Lentil Soup for the person who has no faith in Lentil Soup, like, for instance, me. I've tried lots of Lentil Soup in my life and, yum, hot texture. This one requires some accessorizing -- like, add that lemon juice, olive oil and Cayenne pepper -- but it's super good and one of those things I can just happen to have the ingredients to make in my kitchen AT ALL TIMES (well, usually). So welcome to my second favorite homemade soup.
PS: This week I realized my tomato paste had lily pads of mold floating on it, so I just substituted Trader Joe's Roasted Garlic Marinara and then got to feel pretty smug when it didn't suffer. Boom.

PODCAST
"Serial"
I'm halfsies on this season. Bowe is no Adnan. I'll probably listen to the whole season, but I probably won't, like, slip into a robe every week and sit in a dark living room sipping whiskey while we listen and then shoot looks of shock, horror and surprise at each other and wish the next six days away.

WORDS, ELSEWHERE
I wrote this thing about how I probably ran over someone's Christmas presents.

PODCAST
"The Living Room" episode of Love + Radio
This is a fine, fine piece of storytelling. A woman secretly watches her young neighbors live a very sexy life, until something changes. Then she watches that, too. So great.

TV MARATHON
"Making a Murderer"
Now THIS is "Serial."

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-54127690595125600382015-12-21T22:09:00.001-06:002015-12-22T00:18:14.637-06:00Super into this week: Pea soup, Janet Jackson and animal encounters ...

Things that happened this past week:
1. I had the worst sore throat in the history of my throat and stayed home for two days complaining about how much saliva hurts. It now occurs to me that strep is something to consider, but when.
2. We went to a birthday party for a trio of 3-year-olds at the zoo. There were animal encounters.
3. I thought I had been a victim of identity theft and then I realized that I'd signed up for Apple Care and forgotten and been charged for it. So now I don't have a working debit card because of the way I really jumped in there and took care of business with my bank. Way to go, Adult Me.

WEB SERIES
"The Bedford Stop"
I'm such a sucker for this kind of thing: In this case, it's like 3-minute episodes about twentysomethings living in Brooklyn. It's like "Tinder-brunch-Tinder-Tinder-Got-So-Drunk-brunch-Tinder" and it's fascinating.
Sider: I'm absolutely obsessed with Tinder culture. It's easy. It's fast-paced. It turns the whole game on its ear. The idea that these women could go on a date, technically, every single night with a new person. In one episode, a girl shrugs and is like "Whatever. Free dinner." FREE DINNER.

MUSIC
"Control" by Janet Jackson
We were in the middle of a dance party that started with "No Diggity," segued into "Shoop" and then was headed toward MC Hammer when I decided to veer left and listen to Janet Jackson instead. And then we just kept listening for as long as it took to Swiffer two rooms. Even though there is no place in modern times for this album, it's still fun to listen to. The voice is so sassy and insistent about its strength and independence. Then, randomly, there is "Let's Wait Awhile," which is achingly big-eyed and earnest. It has always been, for me, the theme song to Sweet Valley High, Book 23: "Say Goodbye." I think this album was playing every day of elementary school. It made me want to write a letter to my old friend Betsy.

FOOD
Split Pea Feel Better Soup
(I'll probably not be taking food photos anymore in my life. There is just no way to do it without looking like my meal jumped off an apartment building and landed on a plate 20 floors below.) But, this is the best soup I've ever eaten. If you make it, mind your herbs and seasonings. Don't approximate, they are crucial to the end, flavorful, warm-belly finale. Best if served with homemade gluten-free bread, made my someone else's dough-slopped hands.

TV
"Transparent"
This show is just so, so, uggghhh-noise. Aside from Mora, and sometimes not even her, everyone always does and says the exactly wrong thing and it's so messy and great. And I love Gaby Hoffmann and her character and love to think that everything she does and says has been informed by being the opposite of Kevin Costner, her earliest of costars. My favorite line, mid-Season 2: "I can't have real emotional intimacy with someone who hasn't suffered under the patriarchy." So serious. Anyway, I love this show better than anything else right now.

MUSIC
I've been listening to NPR's Songs We Love, which is a mix of like 31 hours of music as selected by public radio music people from all over. Then I've been yanking out my own faves from that list to make my own mix. It turns out I don't hate country music. And other mysteries.

WORDS, ELSEWHERE
Here's a column I wrote about taking Chacha to "The Nutcracker."Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-4982881514382371362015-12-17T14:49:00.003-06:002015-12-17T14:49:56.357-06:00What it is like to call in sick (at this point in my life) ... Last night: Throat feels like it has ballooned, leaving something the size of a pinhead to swallow through. Head, cottony. Tolerance level for a toddler who firmly believes that what's mine is her's (my phone, the bread for my tempeh reuben, the space I'm standing in) and, hey! can I play with that knife: Low. Eschew elliptical workout in favor of "Fates & Furies" while tucked into the body pillow I've snaked around my person. Shiver. Feel cranky. Dose self with Nyquil and morph into a snoring lump of dead weight.

I had a dream I was in Austin, Texas, visiting the daughter of my mother's best friend. She wasn't Her-Her, but more of a hybrid: a mix between her and another girl I barely knew in high school, the neighbor of one of my good friends. So complicated!
Our plane was late.
She seemed to resent our arrival.
Though she lived in a very large house, we all slept in her bed.
I heard her complain about us to the neighbors and when she served us spaghetti and beans for dinner, mine slid off the plate and onto her carpet. I ate it anyway, while she looked on with disgust.
"I like your mom," I told her, trying to find a point of entry.
"I don't usually make small talk," she said.

Wake to Chacha's morning mantra, a somewhat weepy: "Mamamamamamamamamamama." Feel Chuck wake, remember that I'm sick, slide out of bed and pad down the hallway. They both return, Chacha with Abu the Elephant and Honey Boney, the perpetually sleeping soft baby who came with her own sleeping bag. One tucked under each arm.
A fit is had. She wants me to go downstairs and watch her eat oatmeal. I want to conk out and dream of a place where I don't have to think about my throat everytime I swallow. Calm voiced negotiations occur and her father whisks her away.

More sleep.

Wake at 11 a.m. to a fresh smoothie, which feels amazing, and coffee, which also feels amazing. A sore throat, it seems, needs temperature fluctuations.
Consider options:

1. Go to work.
2. Stay home and sleep.
3. Stay home and work-work and home-work.

Lean toward 2 while thoughts of 3 creep in.
I could sleep, but also do some laundry.
I could sleep, but then go to the grocery store later.
I could sleep and also read Fates & Furies.
I could listen to podcasts, paint my nails, Christmas shop and get in a good, long workout.

Remember that I am home because I am sick.
Babysitter arrives, takes away child for a few hours.
Crawls into bed.
Can't. Stop. Typing.

Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-84086707186296215142015-12-15T22:10:00.000-06:002015-12-15T22:10:41.144-06:00Super into this week: Bathwater barfing and Girl podcasts ...

Chach, pre-Nutcracker.

I like to get a jump start on my New Year's Ressies, and one of them is going to be writing more even if that writing is just making a weekly list of what I'm: SUPER INTO THAT WEEK. This feels necessary as I can no longer remember what year I was super into, for instance, the Shout Out Louds (and other great Swedish bands) and apparently I wasn't keeping track of STUFF I WAS INTO when I made this great Bean Sandwich Mousse and now I can't find the recipe.

Things that happened this past week:

1. Chuck's and Chuck's Fanny's annual Birthday Rally in Spirit Valley, in which, yesterday, I realized I'd gotten a phone number from a woman at the bar who just moved to town and has a 2-year-old and we were going to have a playdate. Eeps. It's all kind of a blur of bumbling with the karaoke microphone and hitting the Taco John's drive thru. This is all very strange, as I was drinking beer. It reminds me of a time I did The Worm at the bar and this girl I knew said "You did the worm on beer?"

2. Sum it up this way: Have you ever been so mad you barfed pizza in your bathwater?

3. Chach, Ma Pista and I went to "The Nutcracker." Right before the end of the first Act, Chach stands up and yells "Cock-a-Doodle-Dooooo!" and the turns around and smiles. We made it midway through Act 2.

3. An orthopedic surgeon told me about all the innards of my shoulder that are torn and I decided to rehab instead of having surgery because I have a flailing toddler and can't be handicapped by a sling at this point in my existence.

4. Chuck and I drank absinthe (and nothing happened.)

So, here's what I'm super into this week:

PODCASTS
Slate's "Double X Gabfest" Podcast

Simply enough: I like how these women talk. Hanna Rosen, Noreen Malone and June Thomas, an in-the-news podcast. I like the word choices, timbre, and sentence structures, the ideas and the questions they ask. It's Women Yes, topic-wise, but not exclusively. Recently: "Carol," suicide clusters in Palo Alto, a somewhat personal essay by Katy Waldman about anorexia, the curious case of Tashfeen Malik. Listening feels like having supersmart, inquisitive friends who arrange words well responding to the ongoing conversation in your own head.

Also: Each episode ends with endorsements ranging from books to Tiny Desk Concerts.

(Full disclosure: I hate the word "gabfest.")

Fempire
Annnnnd ... on the other side of the Three Women Talking About Stuff Coin there is this. If Double X Gabfest is like listening to NPR, this one is like shotgunning episodes of "Sex and the City." I hadn't heard of any of the women before I randomly downloaded the podcast in a Mad Podcast Download Binge that occurred when I upgraded my iPhone and got more storage. I guess they must be famous because they do things like go to work in their pajams and have someone else apply the pretty or have slumber parties with Lea Michele or take spin class one bike away from Ruby Rose. But, frankly, I'd listen to them even if they were only as famous as a trio of gals working the desk at my orthopedic surgeon's office. I don't even care that they interviewed "The Bachelorette." She seemed nice. They're funny and they make period jokes The only downer is that their between-segment audio sounds like car commercials and it hurts my ears.
The only other downer is the word "fempire," which could go on a list with "gabfest."

BOOKS

Review Stew: Midwest kitchens, New York rockers and things to quit

Here I come out of baby-induced review retirement to barf gobs of chortles and groans all over Minnesota Reads for the first time since that time in September when I got all hopped up on ultra-marathon running. We've got some novels, some memoir, some collections ... and one official No Can Do.

Play it As it Lays by Joan Didion
I thought I had read this, but I had not. And now, finally, I can in good conscience claim to be the fan of Joan Didion that I've always said I was.

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-33778633250649975162015-11-11T22:04:00.001-06:002015-11-11T22:04:12.052-06:00At three percent ...

I come to you waist-deep in bed covers with the computer battery in the red zone and a romantic question:

What if I just set this computer aside, scooched a little lower and fell asleep right now at 9:36 p.m. on a Wednesday night, 4,000-plus steps shy of my FitBit goal, a dirty kitchen, clothes done drying in the drier and ignoring the two unread New Yorkers, a Sloane Crosley and "M Train" next to my bed?

What if.

A few weeks ago I was talking to another writer friend about writing and she responded to my question with " ... I don't know. How are YOU using YOUR creative time?"

Pause.

"On an elliptical machine," I told her.

Which is pretty true. It gives me an excuse to watch an episode of "The Good Wife" and still feel productive. By the way, Will Gardner died in the middle of my second-to-last workout. I had to Kubler-Ross my way to the finish line. It was brutal. This is probably why I have PTSD about going back into the basement and queuing up the post-Will Gardner era.

So sleepy.

Anyway, this is all bad for business because I finally after a thousand million years found a writing group. We have our first meet up in two weeks and all I have to show for myself is:

1. An ill-formed novel idea.
2. Stray sentences tucked here and there in my brain.
3. An essay to rework because I think I'm supposed to read something in public sometimes somewhere eventually.
4. A TV show I want to write.
5. A curiosity about one-woman theatrical performances.
6. A FitBit.

A few days ago my blog got linked to. Like, remember when people used to have little blogs and then a bigger blog would link to it and the little blogger's site meter would explode and the little blogger would be like "FINALLY I ALMOST HAVE A FAMOUS BLOG." And then that night the little blogger would stare at her little blog and think "The next thing I write has to be amazing."

This isn't like that at all because blogs are dead, yo. But some of the muscle memory remained. I went straight to my site meter and sighed contentedly. Hi, new reader. I like your hair.

We put our cat Hal to sleep and, for the most part, we managed to do it without saying the words "sick" or "hospital" to our toddler. Instead, Chuck took Hal to "the cat place" and he's not coming back because he's dead. She never liked him, so it's no big to her, though now she has sort of romanticized him.

"Hal's over there," she'll say, gesturing toward the door.

We're so haunted.

(Battery at 3 percent.)

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-38208029584887629912015-10-13T22:02:00.001-05:002015-10-14T01:07:51.354-05:00A hundo ... I received a gift of $100 and I decided that I was going use it on a series of small things for myself and that I was going to be very directed about it. I was going to develop a want, nurture the want, burst with the want, then plunk down the plastic and buy the thing. I was going to keep a record of these purchases, so that after the money was gone I could say: LOOK AT EVERYTHING I GOT! and feel a shiver of thrill.

First it was going to be Jonathan Franzen's "Purity." But then I was lying in bed and I needed a new book and I was holding my Kindle, and it was just easier to click Buy It on Amazon than to go downstairs and type in this temporary credit card information. So. I just bought it myself.

Then I became obsessed with Toms. Everywhere I looked, strangers were wearing them. A Twitterer I look to for social cues mentioned them. It was like everyone at Toddler School had a pair: Solid colors. Stripes. Everywhere. My spirit shoe. So I went to a boutique within walking distance of my desk and they didn't have my size. A few days later, at the mall, I had the opportunity to hold a shoe in my hand and I didn't like the sole. I could imagine it slipping across the surface of the grocery store or dampening quickly when I inevitably stepped into a puddle. Then I was like "I'm not going to wear a pair of Toms in the winter anyway."

A pair of tall brown boots.
A massage.
My iPhone upgrade.
A haircut.
A Twins cap.

This is going to be like that hand lotion, Chuck predicted, as I continued to not buy anything.

A few years ago, JCrew and I had a free makeup consultation in this woman's basement, which she had turned into a parlor/office. She was very-much a woman-woman, the kind with skin so soft you could leave your fingerprint in the flesh of her cheek. The kind of woman who leaves you in a wake of powdery floral smells. She had a flattering hair style and could walk in shoes and she'd earned the pink car. She was fascinating and good. So good.

She did this multi-part thing to our hands that involved washing, exfoliating, lotioning and then extra-lotioning, that left my hands feeling like fancy sheets. I fell hard.

I bought the whole set up. I performed the cleansing-lotioning-lotioning ritual using Chuck's hands. We basked in the aroma of pure peach.

Then I never used the stuff again. I was saving it for occasions. It was not to be trotted out willy-nilly. I caught him using one of the hand lotions once and almost choked. You didn't just use the lotion. You had to do the process. Whatta waste.

Whatta waste, indeed.

So, anyway, right now I'm in the process of building up a want for Patti Smith's new book.Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-40620535290968293172015-09-23T22:45:00.001-05:002015-09-23T22:48:44.933-05:00The one where she loses a tooth (in a pretty prominent location) ...

Last week Chach took a digger on one of the more routine obstacles at the park, caught herself, mostly, but came down on her front teeth. She cried a bit. Insisted on being carried halfway home from the park.

Chuck gave her a medicinal popsicle when they got home, which went well, until he heard something that he described as sounding like a Tic Tac drop on the kitchen floor. Then there was a gush of blood and that was that: She's down to one front tooth. And her baseball-style T-shirt now has a pretty memorable blood stain.

She still has the right one. It's more pronounced now, without its partner in crime, but it's a pronouncement befitting the double chew-duty it has been assigned. The left one, and it's massive root, are in a baggie on top of the refrigerator while we iron out the logistics of a conversation we hadn't planned on having with our daughter for years. The one about the Tooth Fairy. [One would think this would be easy. It's like Santa with wings monkeying with your pillow and leaving shiny circles while you sleep before he (she? I've lost track) flitters out the window. But Chacha has recently begun referring to the Easter Bunny as Bob The Easter Bunny, so we will just let it the Tooth Fairy business rest for a bit.]

If I've learned anything from reading Dooce, it's that when a kid has a dental sitch involving baby teeth, no one is going to do anything about it. Still, when your kid gushes blood from her face hole, the inclination is to go to Urgent Care.

So we did and, as expected, a very smug doctor looked at us like we had asked her to give our kid a head transplant (read: Throw away the old one! Start over!) and said:

"You know we can't do anything about this, right?"

And so I, equally smug, replied:

"Yes. And I'm sure we aren't the first parents to bring you a kid who knocked out her front tooth."

To which she answered in the affirmative.

It took a bit to get used to, it has increased her comic stylings, like, tenfold, and she can no longer say words that start with the letter S. But she's happy, despite the impolite gesture she keeps making with her tongue.

"All else is otherwise normal." -- Bob Easter Bunny

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-91166386208994797982015-09-14T23:19:00.001-05:002015-09-15T02:06:24.333-05:00Vacation Days 7-10: The Rest of the Story ... "It is easier to resume a habit of not-blogging like it's 2004, than to resume a habit of blogging like it's 2004." -- Wham!

We were in a bit of a state on Friday morning. A real Oof-er, if you know what I mean. It started with a glass of wine at dinner on Thursday night, followed by the quiet reading of new Jonathan Franzen and a sneak peek at the September Mixtape I'm making for Chuckers. We sipped responsibly, but we sipped far into hours neither of us have seen in our current status as Adults with a capital A.

Unfortunately, there is no way to convey to a toddler that Mama invented a post-midnight snack involving sauerkraut, Thousand Island dressing and a cheese alternative that I won't say will assuage the stigma of lactose intolerance, but certainly makes dietary restrictions taste pretty freaking good -- especially when paired with sauerkraut and Thousand Island Dressing at 3 a.m. after a couple of Gin Old Fashioneds. So, anyway, Chacha woke at her regular time (singing, of course, a montage of hits from the movie "Frozen" and things with the same tune as the Alphabet Song and classic Styx) and we stared at the ceiling.

The day was already set to be a Choose Your Own Adventure of sorts. My friends would all be spending the weekend on Gull Lake, near Brainerd, for our annual Gull Lake Weekend. Both my parents and the Norwegian Wonder weren't available to babysit our Pet Monkey. But there was chatter among the friends that maybe Chach could just ... come with us. To an adult getaway with a handful of other people who have kids, but wouldn't be bringing them along because they are polite.

It was hard to tell if the invitation was sincere or if they were saying: We'll offer it, but you're a real jerk if you take us up on this because YOU CAN'T TAKE A BABY DANCING AT ZORBA'S.

So we hemmed and hawed and sometimes we were going and sometimes we weren't. Then, for a while, we were going to stay at a hotel in nearby Nisswa so we wouldn't rain on the drinking games and 90s tunes and Simon Says dance party that could potentially erupt, but we could stop in and say hello and return in time for the pontoon ride the next day. Then we just stopped thinking about it and sunk into the couch to do something we have literally never done in years:

TV marathon. With non-animated TV.* Adult TV where sometimes someone swears when they flub a Mystery Box Challenge. We queued up MasterChef Season 6 and ordered two zas with gluten-free crust from Papa Murphy's.**

Ohh, it was the most delicious bit of gluttony. Until, after about 3 hours of this, Chacha finally went over to the TV, turned it off and started crying. The jig was up.

Around the same time, the friends sent a barrage of texts and reiterated that it was okay to bring The Bug to Gull Lake. So we looked at each other, shrugged, and hit the road.

I had, fortuitously, gotten Chach's life jacket from the Norwegian Wonder, which makes it seem a lot like fate.

We got to the area around 10 p.m., stopped to pick up snacks, and the only Rice Crackers available in the grocery store had expired in June 2014.

We were greeted by a festive crew at the cabin, though, and Mr. Z. performed all manners of hi-five with the tot and the friends even added "Mr. Roboto" to the playlist.*** I tried putting the girl to bed after a chocolate chip bar and mega attention and it didn't take too well. By the time she conked, everyone else was lights-out, too.****

On Saturday we took a pontoon around the lake. Chach stood at the front of the boat in a very Winslet way and snacked on something called Beanitos that left an orange rind around her lips. We sipped and basked***** and got back to the cabin just in time to watch the sun start to set.

We left that night with a load of new iPad games that Mrs. Z. recommended, including one with robots ("Domo. Domo.") It didn't seem like her presence salted anyone's game.

The vacation was over for Chuck on Sunday, so The Girl and I went to Target and went for a run and went to the park like normal, non-vacationing people do.

Today we wore out our welcome with each other just in time for my vacation to end.

REASONS WHY CHACHA GOT MAD AT ME TODAY
1. We left the park.
2. I didn't leave the park in the direction she wanted to leave in.
3. I did not have a bar for her to snack on in the stroller.
4. Our neighbor R wasn't on his porch and I didn't know where he was.
5. I had no intention of making Noodles and Peas and Sauce and Toast (because we had that last night)
6. I only let her watch two episodes of "Word Girl"
7. She fell asleep while I was running, so she didn't know we had gone running.
8. She didn't want to go to the Co-Op.
9. She DID want to go to the Co-Op.
10. She didn't want to ride in the shopping cart.
11. She didn't want to walk.
12. I wouldn't carry her through the store.
13. She wanted to get out of the cart.

But we were pretty much cool after that for the rest of the night.

FOOTNOTES
* We aren't complete monsters. First we watched "The Last Unicorn."
** Long story, this gluten-free thing, involving a thyroid. As for the crust: Is it supposed to stick to your teeth? I'd totally order it again.
*** Though when they played "Let it Go," Chach looked around as though she expected Elsa to glide into the room on ice and turn the cabin into a castle.
**** We were awarded a King-sized bed, still everything people tell you about sleeping with a toddler is true, between the mid-night face slaps to the bed hogging, to the reality of sleeping as a family sentenced to create a letter H. She also woke at the crack of dawn and when she saw me open my eyes, she pounced on me with: "We go on boat now?"
***** And ate all sorts of stuff including REAL LIVE CHEESE.Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-88420656569249588532015-09-10T23:38:00.000-05:002015-09-10T23:38:06.572-05:00Vacation Days 5 & 6: It sounded like a creepy kitty-caller, wandering around in the middle of the night. A cackler with a steaming pot of green brew.
"Did we lock the door?" I asked Chuck.
"I think so," he said, already unwrapping his legs from blankets. "I'll go check."
I heard it again while he was gone and then the thuds of him sprinting up the steps. He ripped open the bedroom door.
"You have to look outside," he stage whispered, then went on to describe a scene resembling the slick poncho-wearing feral personality from "The United States of Tara."

We turned off the lights and I peered out from behind the shade.

She was crouched on the sidewalk studying the contents of our Little Free Library. She had hair down to here and so many legs. When she finally stood up, I saw that she had selected a pre-Scott Pilgrim Bryan Lee O'Malley. She tottered a bit. She walked away with a drunken tilt.

Stupid gravity. But nice get.

Also: I saw a snake today (in its natural habitat).
Also also: Chacha has a mega-mosquito bite that is big enough to host its own mosquito-bitten face.

Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-63848293484385024012015-09-08T23:31:00.002-05:002015-09-08T23:31:36.722-05:00Vacation Day Four: $14 ...

Captain Stubing

It all started with a time machine. A 92-foot, 3-deck modified yacht with a distinctly 1980's flavor, which was only enhanced by the busload of senior citizens from Bemidji who helped fill it to capacity. They were rumored to be a class reunion.

"What if I yelled BINGO?" I whispered to Chuck as we settled into a table with a view of sweet, sweet Lake Superior.

A table full of woman had already raided the gift shop for sequined caps in an array of colors. They were killing it. Someone bought the YOLO sunglasses from the spinner next to the Fritos. As soon as we boarded, a bunch of men made for the bar -- purchasing full rounds of beers for tables. They were inspiring.

I saw celery salt and said two words that improved an already great situation.

"Bloody Mary?" I asked Chuck and his face lit up. It was 12:15 p.m. somewhere.
The bartender asked which vodka I wanted and I said "whatever is a step up from gross."
He mixed in a shot and poured from a pre-made mix poured from an oversized Tabasco container. He asked if we wanted the fixings and I answered in the affirmative.
Pickle. Olive. Cheese cube. Salami. Celery Salt.

"This is the best day of my life," Chuck confessed.

Bloodies

It was amazing. Could have used a snit of something lukewarm, but carbonated, but shrug. A singalong soundtrack played, they sounded the horn and we made for the Aerial Lift Bridge for a 75 minute tour full of Duluth history and deep sea winds.

Chacha only tried to jump out the window once.

This was so much freaking fun.

***

Bed bugs, probably.

Somewhere near a grain elevator I received a piece of great news. I noticed a charge for $14 from my student loan company, and wondered if someone forgot a digit in this month's auto payment. Then I stopped, startled: I'd paid it off. Finally. Twenty years later. I'd paid off my final student loan. I remembered that day in my mid-30s when I realized it wouldn't be paid off until I was 40. And now, well, I'm ... 40.

So, yeah.

***

Drum solo

We had sushi, which was on my Vacation To-Do List, but it wasn't great sushi, so blerg-diggity.

Mixed response on the avocado role, A-plus on the soy sauce, tho.

***

Charlotte and I had a talk about how she is growing up and how she can run fast, jump, eat pizza, paint pictures ...

"Do puzzles," she added.

... and so she's not a baby anymore. So maybe I don't have to carry her everywhere.

"I little," she argued.

***

Crap. I just Googled to see which season of MasterChef we're watching and saw who wins it in a headline. I HATE MY LIFE RIGHT NOW SPOILERS HELP NOT COOL.

In other news, if anyone wants to see a pretty sweet impression of Cutter from Season 5, please stop by. Chuck has it on lock down.

"This is spare rib, with toothpaste in it. Seemed like a good idea to me." Shrug.

Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-40979240144610886742015-09-07T22:32:00.000-05:002015-09-07T22:32:10.259-05:00Vacation Day Three: Wet pants ... The third day of vacation can be summed up with this:

A mere toddler sprawled, truly pained, on the living room floor, face smooshed into a pouf ottoman, bare legs kicking at air and screaming with such sincerity:

"I NEED MY WET PANTS ON!"
(bedtime ensued.)

Also: I ran on a trail on purpose. Not this trail, a real trail with rocks and dirt. And I made chickpea burgers with guacamole.*

FOOTNOTES
* We bought 2 more pounds of sauerkraut, so watch out world!

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-86279579815238288602015-09-07T00:02:00.002-05:002015-09-07T00:02:47.038-05:00Vacation Day Two: That's my fun day ...

The air felt armpit-ian this morning, as though we were living among the droplets that collect in the wiry strands in the concave of an athlete's arm. Thick, dewy, hot. Though I had abstained from the abuse of cedar gin that felled me the morning before, I was reluctant to leave the bed.

There is this daily morning conundrum: The almost-uncomfortable bladder. The "I could pee, but I don't have-have to." It's like being on a road trip and stopping at the Little Store in Hinckley so one's companions can go, then retreating to a stall to push on one's lower abdomen to hurry along the function that, without this self-force, will strike in North Branch. It would be hard to fall to sleep again, but to void means shaking oneself from the hazy-laziness of waking.

Ultimately, I expelled the fluids and, of course, was never again able to find my sleep-spot.

The Girl slept on. She's become a teenager in her sleep patterns, pushing her wake-time to dang-near 10 a.m. I opened her door to hasten it, then again returned to our bedroom to listen to her first gusts and groans through the monitor.

It wasn't Chacha who woke, it was Witta, Chacha's alter-ego. A tiny puppy in a state of constant panting who requires an imaginary red leash and frequent bathing. This is nice. Witta does all sorts of things that Chacha will not easily do: teeth brushing, diaper changes, baths.

"You pet my fur?" Witta asks.

A few days ago, I was standing over her bed when she woke. The first thing she did is stick her tiny tongue out of her mouth and begin her doggy breathing. I laughed so hard I scared her and she began to cry. Anyway, this is how she woke again today. I can hear her quick pants as Chuck lifts her from the bed.

When she comes into our bedroom, she refers to Chuck as her "puppy dada."

Over lunch we work on a family version of the song "Manic Monday," but Chacha, she's Chacha again, refuses to be a backup Bangle.

"I sing Alphabet Song," she suggests.

Chuck and Chacha play imaginary hockey, which has complicated imaginary rules.
We eat Tempeh Reubens because now we are addicted to them and maybe we'll eat them every day.*
Chuck goes to work and Chacha retreats to her bed with the iPad to watch PBS Kids while I do laundry, fill her pool, empty the dehumidifier and otherwise allow her to be babysat by Word Girl & Company.

It becomes impossible to leave the house. I want to exercise, but Chacha wants to stand in her kiddie pool dumping water on my foot. She wants us to race from a slab of rug to the front door and back again. Again and again and again. She wants us to put together dinosaur puzzles, which she refers to as "my work," and spends most of the time muttering under her breath about missing pieces.

"Don't throw puzzle pieces at me," she says. "It hurts my boobs."

Time out: It's weird when she says things that I know she must have gotten from me. I will admit that I've told her to maybe stop stepping on my chest because it hurts my boobs. But worse than this one is when she wanders around the house and uses a sort of dizzy tone to ask "Where's my phooo-ennnn?"

Time in: We go for a walk-run and at every other corner she tells me to "ready, set, readysetgo!" and we take off. We stop in the park just long enough for the sky to turn ominous, like Destination Oz-ian and I sprint a half-mile home to avoid an important lesson about lightning.

There is a bath.

As I'm rubbing Chacha's back before she goes to sleep I hear her tiny voice say: "Get out."

Zing.

Chuck gets home and now we're both on vacation.

MASTER CHEF, HOLLA.

FOOTNOTES
* As a family, we've eaten two pounds of sauerkraut in the past few weeks. Has anyone -- other than us -- ever finished off a 32 ounce jar of the stuff? It seems unlikely. Possible we hold world record?Christahttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239226453430504007.post-84703680197592972422015-09-05T22:23:00.000-05:002015-09-07T10:58:37.268-05:00Vacation Day One: No dignity ...On the first day of vacation we woke up very late, probably because we were overserved cedar gin on the eve of the first day of vacation. By me. I overserved us. There we were, zombied out on vintage "Master Chef," and leisurely sipping when I suggested one more drink to KEEP THE NIGHT ALIVE NEVER SAY DIE, NIGHT. (And then there was another.)*

Also, I'd accidentally turned off the Toddler Monitor, so I wasn't awoken by the chirpy version of "Let it Go" that usually sounds from the room down the hall. So we ate breakfast at lunchtime and lunch at late-lunchtime and after Chuck made us very delicious Tempeh Reubens**, the world felt a little more bearable. I had the opportunity to create a new state of mind: Hangxiety: hangover-induced anxiety.

I met Chuck and Chacha in the Rose Garden and we coaxed the girl into her stroller with the promise of train viewings and horse sightings. Then we wound our way to Bayfront Festival Park for Pride Fest. Chacha, Bounce House curious, couldn't pull the trigger on this balloon-shaped fun factory. She was on the threshold when she began flapping her hands no-no-no:

"I too little," she said.

She fell asleep millimeters from the car, lost her mind when we transferred her to the carseat and then was rewarded with a $1.11 ice cream cone from McDonalds.

I put gas in my car.
Chuck bought the makings for ramen.
I ran back into the store and bought eggs and after we got home I went back to the store to get broth.
We ate delicious foods and my nose ran from chili sauce abuse.

I changed into my pajamas while Chuck laid on the bed and suddenly I became aware that I was performing a robotic dance version of the classic song "No Diggity." In my head I looked cool. Sort of retro. My moves felt fresh.

Chuck showed me what my face looked like. Ouch.

So I Dubsmashed it and it looked like a lost scene from "Beetlejuice." I fired it off to Fannie. Her anniversary is tomorrow, so she deserves nice things. So far: No response.

"More like 'No Dignity,'" Chuck said.

Now: Tube Time.

FOOTNOTES
* Still not sure who was booted from Season 5, Episode 6.
** These sandwiches are, without a doubt, the heroes of The Summer of 2015.

Christahttp://firstname.lastname@example.com


text:
New answers tagged singleton
Preface For any given project, the answer to this question will likely differ. This is simply a result of structure and overall philosophy. It may be easy and straightforward in some instances, but extremely difficult and complicated in others. However, if this is a difficult problem, that is a very strong code smell: something is likely quite wrong with ...
Are there any more options I should consider? have a look at php constants instead of global variables consider using bit fields instead of a SYSTEM variable or constant
A Data Access Object should only really exist once in your application. The logic remains the same, the only things that are different are the values coming in and out of the methods the DAO provides. With that in mind, obviously the first thing that usually happens is implementing the DAO as a strong singleton, that is when you have a static method on a ...
Singleton is refering to the concept just only one instance and the way to get access to the instance (through the so famous static method getInstance()) But there's still an instance behind all of that. A built object with a sort of resticted access. In your case, I would rather go for DI approach (dependency injection). Like the first block of code you ...
I wouldn't use a singleton. It's a recognised anti-pattern, and makes testing difficult. I would much rather inject in a concrete implementation, and have your service reference a DAO interface (allowing you to inject different implementations in)
Top 50 recent answers are included

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Relevant offers
More than 20 people have been killed in the Syrian city of Homs, a doctor says, as fighting raged around a road junction on a supply line to government forces in the interior of the country.
The opposition accuses shabbiha militia loyal to President Bashar al-Assad of killing some 200 Sunni Muslim civilians in Homs in massacres over the last two weeks, but a Syrian ban on most independent media makes such reports difficult to verify.
In a video statement from a makeshift hospital in the city, Mohammad Mohammad, a doctor who has been treating the wounded underground for months, displayed the bodies of five people whose remains had been charred to unrecognisable bits.
"They are the Uzam family. The father, mother and three children - the shabbiha burnt them completely, as part of the annihilation the regime is bringing on the area of Jobar-Kfar Aaya," Mohammad said, referring to districts of Homs.
"We are here surrounded. We have more than 20 dead today. They have been documented by name." He said the victims had died in fighting, bombardment and summary executions.
At least 60,000 people have been killed in Syria's civil war. Mostly Sunni Homs, a commercial and agricultural hub 140 km north of Damascus, has been at the heart of the 22-month uprising against Assad.
Syrian authorities have not commented on the latest fighting in the city. In the past, official media have described army operations as designed to 'cleanse' Homs from what they described as terrorists.
Speaking from Istanbul after visiting Homs, Mohammad Mroueh, a member of the Higher Leadership Council of the Syrian Revolution, said: "The rebels are holding their ground but the shabbiha are getting to the civilians.
"It's hard to describe what's happening in terms other than ethnic cleansing of Sunni districts in the way of Alawite supply lines," said Mroueh, who was in Homs earlier this week.
The Alawites, who follow an offshoot of Shi'ite Islam and comprise about 10 per cent of the population, have dominated Syria's power structure and its security apparatus since the 1960s. Assad and most of the ruling elite are Alawites.
A highway that passes near Homs has been used to supply Alawite forces deployed on hilltops in Damascus from bases in the coastal cities of Tartous and Latakia, which have a sizeable Alawite population, according to opposition sources.
Sunnis fear that the city could become part of an Alawite enclave stretching to the coast, where major military bases are located, if Assad was forced to leave Damascus.
"The massacres are increasing and Bashar al-Assad has began to draw borders of this mini-state and associate the Alawites more with blood so that they have no other option but to join him," wrote opposition campaigner Fawaz Tello in an article published on All4Syria news website.
Syria's conflict has grown more sectarian, deepening the Sunni-Shi'ite divide in the Middle East which burst into the open when Shi'ites gained political ascendancy in Iraq following the 2003 U.S. led invasion that deposed Sunni dictator Saddam Hussein.
A statement by an insurgent group, the Syrian Revolution against Bashar al-Assad, said neighbourhoods of southern and western Homs were being hit with battlefield artillery and barrages from rocket launchers.
Activists in Homs said at least 120 civilians and 40 opposition fighters had been killed in the past week and that rebels from the nearby town of Qusair on the border with Lebanon were trying to relieve pressure on the western neighbourhoods.
The armed opposition has been weakened in the city after a drop in ammunition supplies in recent weeks and after Assad's forces tightened a siege on western areas, according to opposition sources.
A counter-offensive by rebels two days ago in the western sector pushed back Assad's forces slightly, but they continued to pound the area with artillery and from the air, the sources said.
- Reuters
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River connections
Improvements to and near Riverfront Park in Cape Girardeau provide the city with new downtown assets that are sure to be popular for years to come.
The latest attraction is the south end of a new riverfront trail on the Mississippi River side of the floodwall. It is both aesthetically pleasing and practical. The trail's walkway shows off the mural facing the river. The mural depicts important and prominent landmarks and city history.
There also are park benches and several sloping ramps that take visitors close to the river's edge.
All of the newly opened trail is accessible by wheelchair, with a spacious cul-de-sac turnaround at the south end.
Also incorporated into the trail is a retaining wall topped by a balustrade originally installed in 1911 by the Frisco Railroad. This area of the trail provides a feeling of being right over the river as the water flows next to the retaining wall.
Soon the trail's northern segment will be completed. When finished, the riverfront trail will give visitors to the park outstanding access to the river.
The riverfront trail, combined with other downtown features, makes a visit to the river more rewarding than ever. New murals on the downtown side of the floodwall are taking shape. They offer historical scenes as if the viewer is looking through the floodwall.
The French colonial-style cabin that houses the Red House Interpretive Center offers a glimpse of how the city's founder, Louis Lorimier, lived when the Lewis and Clark expedition came to town more than 200 years ago. The Red House is near the floodwall across from Old St. Vincent's Church, another downtown jewel.
And the Bill Emerson Memorial Bridge, a vision of lights and cables at night, offers a splendid backdrop for a downtown visit and is spectacular from the new riverfront trail.
Taken together, the trail, the murals, the Red House, the bridge and the many other downtown attractions offer ample reason to spend some time on or near the river.