I know that I've grown more and more conservative over time, but this is big.
George W. Bush talked in public and hasn't pissed me off once
Shhhhhh. It's a secret.
P.S. More on children's day later. All went off without a hitch. Kiernan looks forward to a future career as an NYPD sketch artist.
Little Monster Adorable Child To Work Day
Tomorrow is the famous day of the children and the working place. In my eagerness to appear enthusiastic and score brownie points in my new work digs, I have inadvertently gotten roped into chaperoning an activity for 36
(AAAAAHHHHH! YES, THIRTY SIX!!!!)
nine and ten year olds, one of whom is my "thinks-he's-my-freakin'-peer-only-child-syndrome-poster-child" little angel. I've also managed to involve Tim in the donations of the pastry and caffeine variety. Those brownie points better be a comin', yo.
But seriously. I finangled (is that a word?) three of my boys to pose as perps for the "activity" portion (as opposed to the sugar induced gyrations portion) of the event, mostly by convincing them that the hot chicks from the 4th floor looooove kids and would be there all day. This is the general idea: The kiddies get together, get told about a crime that just went down in a park on the west side (about a three block walk away) get shown the mugshots, and get told they have to go surveil the suspects. We all parade through Tribeca toward the park. Chaos ensues, children are lost, I get personally sued. The end.
No, no! Just kidding about that part! Seriously. We get to the park, where the boys are undercover, and the children assault them. Fun had by all. Playground time. The end. Hmmmm. Perhaps we should have planned this better?
No, really. It'll be fun. The big upside is that we're allowed to wear jeans (yay! Jeans!). The downside is that I ran out to buy a new pair over the weekend, which fit perfectly well at the time, but now have that suspicious tight rolly thing where my waist is supposed to be. Boooooo.
The additional upside is that my boss won't be in. He claims his court order won't allow him to be around children. I haven't decided yet whether I believe him or not.
No, no! Just kidding! No, really. I'm not sure. Shit. Don't people get fired for blogging?
Venus in an Airbrushed Mani
Kiernan couldn't sleep last night. It's spring break, so it didn't really matter. Except for the constant
"I can't wait! I can't wait! Nidia's coming over!"
Nothing drains parental self esteem like a fully loaded, brunette mane-ed, big brown eyed hunk-a-twenty one year old latina babysitter. Especially when she'll sit down and make lego inventions with your kid and play Grand Turismo III better than you could have ever, ever dreamed. Kiernan actually cried after her first session, wailing
"But I'll never SEE YOU AGAIN!"
Guess it's safe to chalk him up as heterosexual. Hell, the guys at work are jealous.
Oh, and thank you all for your warm welcome back. The structure of having something to do while your baby and your baby daddy become absorbed with the Ramones documentary on PBS and shoo you away every time you dare to utter some silly thing or another is immeasurable. It's good to be back.
Also, this blog shouldn't have "More Pedro!" anymore, cause my boy had an off night. Stupid Smoltz. Stupid Wright/Piazza/Floyd-pop-fly-last-out giving me hope in the bottom of the ninth. Grrr.
(Just kidding. Let's Go, Mets!)
Tentatively, that is.
On a rare weekday off (due to Kiernan's ridiculous number of vacation days - hey, city of New York, how's about giving us parents a few days off, too?) I have found myself meandering back in to blog mode for the first time, in, oh, three months (?!).
Therefore, I am prepared to becme addicted once more to that insidious, horrible thing they call THE BLOG (isn't that like the star trek thing? No? It's borg? Okay, while I'm still a dork, I'm not THAT huge of a dork.)
In my first radical departure from my former bloggy life, I have reduced my blogroll to things that I actually read. Why did you think I kept the page up for so long? I'm too lazy to bookmark these things myself, you know.
I got it, I got it, I got it(!)... and went out for pitchers of Sam Adam's with the boys. My boys? Yeah, they got it too. Good for them and me.
Let's get this straight. I'm a boy's girl. I like hanging out with guys who discuss football and critique women. Because they're less judgemental and catty and BAD than most women I've met. Don't get me wrong -- I get along just fine with other women-who-like-men. Women who are happy to be one of the boys. I'm that girl. That said, I got the division I wanted, which makes me happy. And so did my boys ( like I told them -- "my man is at home, but my boys? My boys are right here!" Um, let me add that "right here" was a horribly overpriced West Village bar, but that we were able to get 2 pitchers of Sammy for $15 bucks at a time. And that at least one of my "boys" is 20 years older than me -- but he's SMOOTH, yo. Life is good on the ol' fraud squad.)
Eden's little quizzle might sort things out for those of ya'll who might still be confused.
You are a SEDL--Sober Emotional Destructive Leader. This makes you a Dictator.
You prefer to control situations, and lack of control makes you physically sick. You feel have responsibility for everyone's welfare, and that you will be blamed when things go wrong. Things do go wrong, and you take it harder than you should.
You rely on the validation and support of others, but you have a secret distrust for people and distaste for their habits and weaknesses that make you keep your distance from them. This makes you very difficult to be with romantically. Still, a level-headed peacemaker can keep you balanced.
Despite your fierce temper and general hot-bloodedness, you have a soft spot for animals and a surprising passion for the arts. Sometimes you would almost rather live by your wits in the wilderness somewhere, if you could bring your books and your sketchbook.
You also have a strange, undeniable sexiness to you. You may go insane.
Tomorrow is IT! The DAY!
Tomorrow my training is over -- that's right, o-vah -- and I'm really really psyched up to get my assignment, which I really really hope is one thing as opposed to this other thing and, well... just keep your fingers crossed for me, okay?
And now, training homework and takeout food (the ever healthful sausage and pepper heros form the place around the corner. New Year's resolutions? What New Year's resolutions?). And the lovely, lovely so-escapist-I-forget-that-my-brain-hurts Apprentice. Thank you, Donald.
I Heart My Borough
A Bronx Cheer
Mitch Keller, New York Times, Sunday 1/23/05
(Follow link for full article)
Let's face it: The Bronx, though many of us love it and are happy to live in it, though it has a greatness and even a grandeur evident to all but the unseeing, is Nowheresville to those who care about address and appearances. There is not an arriviste alive who aspires to have "Bronx, N.Y." as an official address. The folks back home in Harrisburg would not be impressed.
The Bronx is, in fact, a place that many thousands of people have aspired only to escape. It shows up in the "humble beginnings" part of the American success story, never in the "glorious arrival" part (baseball excluded). What is an essential fact that celebrity fandom knows about people like Ralph Lauren, J. Lo and Colin Powell? Sure, they started in the Bronx, but they made it out...
I'm a 10463 Riverdalian, but when people ask me where I live, I say the Bronx. Why would I want to conceal my association with a place that has the Grand Concourse, City Island, the botanical garden, the world's most famous zoo, Fordham University, the real Little Italy, Yankee Stadium and more park space than any other borough?
When I have time to kill, what am I supposed to do? Ogle the opulence on upper Independence Avenue? I'd rather take the bus to Arthur Avenue and ogle the olive oils and cheeses. You can buy an excellent cigar in the market there that they make right in front of you. Or maybe I'll stroll down to 231st Street and Broadway in Kingsbridge for a pastrami sandwich or a slice...
OCCASIONALLY, in conversation with New Yorkers who know the city well and to avoid sounding disingenuous, I do say I live in Riverdale. But most of the time it's simply "the Bronx." That is also the address I give when I travel, when I'm talking to people in a roadhouse down South or checking in at some rural motel out West. In those places the words "Bronx, New York" almost always elicit a double take, for there is not an American alive who does not recognize them and, thanks mainly to movies and television, have a strong idea of the place they stand for. Inevitably there is a remark like: "Wow. The Bronx, huh?"
I try to be on my best behavior with these people - friendly, generous, attentive. I have found that saying I'm from the Bronx gives me a sense of almost emissarial responsibility. People from "New York" are everywhere, and people everywhere are used to them. It doesn't mean much.
But the Bronx - that is a statement. That's a friendly poke in the jaw. That snaps Wyoming moteliers wide awake late at night. That makes me a representative of two separate places I like a great deal, New York City and the underappreciated, often ridiculed borough I live in. It seems important to behave accordingly.