the great outdoors

Today it was nice enough that we went outside sans jackets. Elian just wanted to play ball so badly with Norman, but the dog clearly wasn't interested. He knew better. Playing ball with Elian means getting it chucked in your face at least once. Instead, Norman and I sat down together and threw the ball for Elian to fetch.

he writes the songs

This morning, while catching a bit of Ellen, little e was nothing short of hypnotized by the vocal stylings of Barry Manillow.

au natural

Ed and I try to eat organic as much as possible. So it only made sense that once Raisin was born he would too. May as well start him out clean, right? God knows, we won't have any control over all of the ho hos and cheetos he'll stuff into his piehole at his friend's house. But c'mon, $6.50 for a gallon of milk? Think of all the Bluefly shopping I could do if we didn't buy organic. And really, how bad can a few antibiotics, artificial hormones and pesticides be?

flack about slack

Apparently two of my readers (or should I say, my two readers) think I'm slacking in my blogification.

Let me just say I'm surprised it's lasted even this long. I gave it two weeks top when I started. And here's Ed who wanted me to blog about ADVERTISING. zzzzzzzzz.

But after looking back at some of my past entries -- things I had already managed to forget until I read about them -- I've decided that I need to try harder. This might not mean more entries, mind you. It just means shaking this feeling that I can easily just give this up if I can't manage to get something down for a few weeks.

Besides, as Raisin gets older, the kid's going to do far more interesting things. Oh, there will be stories to tell.

random thought #2

On the streets of Paris, they have these self-cleaning public bathroom stalls. You put your money in like it's some sort of vending machine, then you step inside and do your business. After you're done, you close the door. And this, my friends, is where the magic happens. The entire bathroom gets bathed in a disinfectant solution, leaving it sparkly clean for the next user.

So here's the question: Where can I get a house like that?

best. things. ever. volume 2

• The way you make that little noise with the back of your throat like a little french man "hugnh, hugnh, hugnh."
• Your pegleg sound when you crawl with a toy or ball in your hand.
• The way you hug my legs sometimes when the babysitter gets here because you don't want me to leave.
• How you press against my back or tummy with your foot when you're sleeping with us, just like you did when you were inside the womb.
• The way you throw your head and fall backwards -- even when I'm not there -- waiting for me to tickle you when we push the "10 bees" button
• How you give yourself away when you're doing something naughty by tsk-tsking yourself.
• How you give kisses to strange inanimate objects like your highchair tray, the step, books on the bookshelf and that astronaut on the last page of your touch and feel book.
• How your pudgy little fingers do the sign for bird every time you see one or look out the window at the bird feeder.
• The crazed look you get in your eye right before you swipe my face like a reeces monkey.
• How you lose yourself in what you're doing and walk without even realizing it and sit down as soon as you see someone watching you.
• The way you laugh when your papa does his kung fu moves.
• The way you tickle yourself to the music where I usually tickle you in your Baby Einstein video.
• How when I tell you what we're going to do, you very desperately ask me "Ball?" as if to say, "There will be a ball involved in these plans, won't there?"
• How whenever you see a banana or someone says the word "banana," you make sounds like a little monkey "oooh, oooh, ahhh, ahhh!"

one fish, two fish

I have two small problems with the Mall of America.
1. It's a mall.
2. It's the biggest mall OF AMERICA!!!!!!

As such, I try to avoid it at all costs, only to make very targeted trips there -- ones where I consult the online store floorplan to devise my parking strategy before I leave. That way, I can be in and out without much contact with people who actually plan vacations around a mall visit.

Yesterday we had this idea that we would take Elian to Underwater Adventures, a big aquarium at the lower level of the mall. Since we're normally up at the crack of dawn, we thought we'd avoid the crowds and get there right when it opened. Silly fools. When we got there, the line was already about 10 fathoms deep. Apparently people like to start their nautical adventures early.

But had the whole adventure consisted only of the koi pond at the very beginning, it would've been well worth the wait and the hefty $14.95 entry fee. The little guy smiled and kicked with delight as he chucked a handful of koi food into (or near) the pond. I overheard a woman comment, "Look at all the koi food you get for 25 cents!" Clearly she's shopping at the wrong koi food store. I was curious to know how much koi food she thought she should get for a quarter.

The excitement slowly began to wane as we passed the endless turtles and a taxidermy beaver exhibit. But then the tunnel. Oh, the tunnel. If you ever want to impress a one year-old, send him through a huge glass tunnel with giant fish swimming over the top. He was so excited. That was cool.

Afterwards, we took a shortcut through Camp Snoopy and sat down to some mediocre mall crepes. Despite the fact that we missed the Super 8 bed-making championship, all in all, it was a perfect morning at the mall. And never before have I used the words "perfect" and "mall" in the same sentence.

look what we did today

You try entertaining yourself when it's been snowing like, FOREVER!

wings

Dear Red Bull,

This evening I drank one of your caffeinated beverages fortified with Taurine. No, I do not intend to go to a rave. I was hoping to get a little work done while the little man slept. I was also hoping to match Ed's stay-up-late stamina and work laptop-to-laptop with him into the wee hours.

Well, Red Bull, I'm here to tell you that I have no wings. NO WINGS!!! DO YOU HEAR ME!?!?!?

You'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Goodnight.

and now for a really exciting topic

I can tell I'm getting old because lately I've been doing a lot of talking about my back. Aside from the upper shoulder tension that most people who work on computers can relate to, I've considered myself lucky to not to have a problem back. Until now.

Oh, I know what exactly is causing the pain. And I can almost say with 100 percent certainty, I know what any doctor will say should I decide to see one about this. But, I've already been to my favorite doctor, Dr. Google, and according to Dr. Google, I should bend at the knees when I lift, not at the hips -- oh, and I should also try to avoid lifting anything below my waist -- which, last time I checked, is the height of most one year-olds.

A lot of lifting goes on in this house. And while I can manage proper lifting alignment for some of it, most of it happens so fast egs.: "Elian, get your hands out of the toilet." (LIFT) And I'd like to see anyone try to put a 23-pound child in a crib, stroller or car seat without bending at least a little at the back. I've contemplated just dropping him in many times, but there are people who frown upon that sort of behavior. Besides, I kinda want him to like me.

It could also have to do with the fact that the only exercise I've been getting is walking the dog and lifting and carrying a small child. Or maybe I'm just old. Okay, I'm done whining about my back now.

Stay tuned for another installment of Exciting Blog Topics when we'll be discussing the fine nuances of the weather.

it's no wonder all our fruit is bruised

Did I mention our kid has a bit of a ball obsession?

You might think every trip through the Rainbow produce department with him was instead a trip to a ball factory.

What's that? A cantaloupe? Wrong, it's a ball.
Apple? Ball.
Orange? Ball.
Tomato? Yes, you guessed it.
Grapes? Little balls.
Blueberries? Ditto.

Today, as I was putting groceries away, I stepped into the bathroom for a moment, then returned to find a just-chucked apple bouncing across the kitchen floor. "BALL!"

And then there was much sadness as the balls disappeared into the produce drawer.

like a rolling stone

Our boy's hair has a life all its own. Some days, he's a dead ringer for Napolean Dynamite. Other days, Grandpa Munster. Now, we're pleased to introduce his latest hair twin.

what $2.49 well spent looks like

i bet you wish you could write about this:

Look for this tasty eggy sandwich at a convenience store near you.

chuck-a-duck

There's a game that's sweeping the nation. It's called Chuck-a-Duck or "Cha-Dahhh." Here's how you play:
1. Line up eight rubber ducks and one orange fuzz ball on the side of the bath tub.
2. One by one, chuck each duck into the tub. Don't forget about the fuzz ball.
3. While chucking is in progress, yell "Cha-Dahh" at the top of your little lungs.
4. Repeat steps 1-3 five times.

And that, my friends, is how you play Chuck-a-Duck.

Good night.

"help"

It's been said that sign language can help babies communicate, thereby helping to eliminate frustration. That's one reason to teach your kid sign language. Then there's this one: Who doesn't want to see a baby signing like a little monkey?

We started teaching Elian signs thinking it might be fun. If it helped him communicate, well then, all the better. The only problem is, now that he knows quite a few signs, you just can't pretend you don't see them and ignore his requests. To let him know he's been understood, you sort of have to give him what he wants. Even though he can say the word "milk" well enough for us to understand, it's not uncommon for him to aggressively squeeze an invisible cow udder when he wakes up in the middle of the night until we cave.

Then there's the little "game" he's been playing since Valentine's Day where he takes the mylar heart balloons I bought him and releases them to the ceiling at the landing of the steps where you have to climb the stairs in order to reach them. "Help" he pleads desparately beating his chest with both his palms. This continues until you go up the stairs to fetch said balloon and bring it back down to him. Repeat 10,000 times. Come to think of it, the only time this request for help has been used is when he wants me to fetch something out of his reach (balls, balloons, Target, etc.)

We originally taught him "all done," so he could tell us when he's done eating. Now he uses it in any circumstance when he's had enough of what's going on, as if to say, "BO-RRRRRINNNGGG, let's move on to the next thing. I'm SO all done with this. Remove me from this current setting and show me something more exciting."

Stupid sign language.

my valentine's date with a 91 year-old woman

"Amy, this is Lempi. Do you want me to teach you how to make my banana cream pie tonight?"

"Um, yes."

And so began my Valentine's date with our awesome neighbor, Lempi. She delivered step-by-step instructions as I measured and mixed, hanging on her every word, so that I too, might one day make the world's most perfect banana cream pie.

All the while, I could tell it was killing her not to jump in and do it herself. As I mixed the flakey, delicious homemade pie crust, she said, "Don't give up. Persevere." And having lived through the depression, she saw that I scraped and used every last bit from the bowl. If there was a bootcamp for pie making, I was there. And I was loving every minute of it.

Sure, there were a few setbacks. Like the time when the basket she had set on the gas burners nearly went up in flames (it wasn't the first time, judging by the blackened straw on the side of the basket). And then there was the washing of dishes with water fetched from the bathroom then heated in a tea kettle because "I don't want to hear the faucet leak all night!"

I made four pie crusts under her tutelage. I filled one with the secret banana cream filling she taught me to make. Then I would bring two empty crusts home to freeze and she would keep one. As we said goodbye, she gave me a big hug and in the process stumbled a bit. Two of the crusts went crashing to the floor. She felt so awful. And I never let on that one had broken into about a bazillion pieces.

Yesterday we finished the pie I made in my lesson. And I'm happy to report it tasted just like Lempi's famed banana cream pie we've come to know and love. And I now have the secret recipe. State Fair pie bake-off, here I come.

do crunch berries count as a fruit?

Ed and I were in charge of bringing breakfast one day for the Dells birthday celebration. He had this idea to go with a large selection of sugary sweet cereals that we never buy for ourselves. But according to him, it wouldn't fun unless we went a bit over the top with variety. So this we did. Cookie Crisp. Apple Jacks. Lucky Charms. Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries. King Vitamin. Fruit Loops. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The list goes on. The only flaw in this plan was that we were the ones who wound up bringing it all home. While the babysitter seemed pleasantly surprised, since then, there have been several nights where we've feasted from this selection for dinner. Oh sweet, heavenly partially hydrogenated goodness. The Lucky Charms were the first to go. Then, tonight for Ed, it was Fruit Loops followed by a bowl of Apple Jacks (he chose to stick with the fruit group). I, on the other hand, went somewhat sensible with Frosted Mini Wheats. But then followed that with a bit of Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries for dessert.

"Hello, Jenny Craig? I need help."

the year of the ball

Our little man has turned one year old. Actually, it happened a few weeks back, but who has time to blog, what with all the booger wiping that has to be done around here?

There was a big birthday blowout at the Wisconsin Dells (thanks, Grandma and Grandpa Schulz). Raisin got to share the celebration with three of his cousins whose birthdays all land within five days of his. The entire Schulz side was there and Grandma and Grandpa Johnson even stopped by for a special guest appearance.

There was some watersliding, wave pooling, present opening and, lest we forget, some throwing of the ball. By the time we got to the cake part, the kid was so tired he could barely lift his head, but once he saw the ball smack-dab in the middle of the cake, there was a miraculous recovery.

I'd write more but it feels like it happened so long ago. Wait. I almost forgot. There was also that part where mama got to take a big ol' 2-person whirlpool by herself. But only after fishing out the Tootsie Roll masquerading as a terd (oh, my funny family).

Happy birthday little man.

calgon take me away

I think of myself as one who is prone to stress. But sometimes I wonder, am I more prone than others, or is it just some bad timing on the part of the stressors?

Take, for example, this sequence of events that happened yesterday:
I'm working on an ad with an art director, who lays out only his ideas -- ideas that are, let's just say, ALL WRONG. The account supervisor calls me in a panic. The ad's due in an hour and where did all these crazy ideas come from that have NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CREATIVE BRIEF??!!! At this very moment, Raisin decides he is going to turn his fuss on. As the account supervisor and I discuss our plan of attack, I give Raisin a bottle. Seconds later, said bottle proceeds to leak out of the top and down his neck to his chest and back. WHAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Cue doorbell: Ding-dong (actually, our doorbell is more of a Brrrrinnng). Dog goes into barking frenzy. Doorbell rings again. Dog runs to front window to rip out the jugular vein of the neighbor on front porch. I hang up.

Curtain closes.