We took a drive today—a spontaneous outing. We headed north along the Hudson River and visited a number of different towns along the way. One of them was Cold Spring where we found some of the greenest, most plush grass I’ve seen in years. It was Emory’s first experience with real grass, (and by real grass I mean grass not covered in trash or drunk hobos).

I took this family portrait.

Click here to see a couple more.

We’ve been in contract for over two weeks. I haven’t wanted to write about it because things aren’t looking so good. You see, we bid on a house that needs work. It’s an 81-year-old house. (Remember what Elizabeth Warren said about first-time homeowners buying older homes that need a lot of maintenance?)

We knew after our initial inspection that the house had some problems. The plumbing, the electrical, the termite damage in the garage, the underground oil tank—we knew about all of these things. We spent 1300 dollars to find out. But then we broke the inspection down. We hired an electrician, a plumber, and a chimney inspector, all of which charged us a lot of money. It was at that time we realized how many more problems we were facing. The chimney estimate alone came in at $15,000. It needs to be entirely rebuilt. And it’s not just about luxury. The (gas) heating system ventilates through the chimney, which means there’s potential toxicity involved.

Before we found out about the chimney, I wanted to kick myself for being so green to the housing business. Who knew to turn on two faucets at once to make sure the plumbing works? We didn’t. And so whenever our home inspector came out and told us that if one flushes a toilet and runs the shower at the same time, the shower stops completely, we were surprised. Who knew that it’s against code to have a sump pump drain into the sewage system? And who knew how to even look for that? Not us. But we were willing to pay to fix all of that. We figured we’d ask the seller to pay for the leaky pipes (1300 bucks) and upgrade everything else ourselves. We knew we’d eventually have to put roughly twenty grand into fixing the kitchen, and the second floor bathroom. We were even willing to rework whatever water pipe leads out to the street to get better water pressure. All of this takes a lot of money, money we were willing to spend.

But the chimney? How could we have known about that? Green or not, it’s not something we could see. We weren’t expecting to have to pay for that. And quite frankly, we don’t have the money to pay for that. We barely have the money to pay for the house. Tack on the extra 11 grand in annual property taxes and we’re very nearly tapped out in monthly expenses.

And none of this is the seller’s fault. I wish I could get mad at him, direct my anxiety at him. But he appears to be a great guy. I want this to work out for him. I want it to work out for us, too.

To make a long story a little longer, we’re still in contract and we will be until the seller agrees or disagrees to our terms. We’re nearly 2500 dollars in the hole and we still don’t have a place to live. We’ve spent twenty-five hundred dollars on a house that may or may not be ours in the end. This real estate business is a joke, right?

It’s like an off-Broadway production, one with a lot of stumbling, messing up of lines, lying and paperwork. This production lacks grace and decency. It’s fueled by money. Countless times I have thrown my hands up during the performance and have said, “Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of joke? We’re being Punk’d, right?” I am seriously convinced that we’re test subjects supplying fodder for the next reality TV show.

I stumbled upon this quote recently. It sums up how I feel about real estate—buyers market or not, this is the most ridiculous game I’ve ever been a part of.

“Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on, or imbeciles who really mean it.”

Our lease is up on July 15th. (I begged our landlords for more time. They gave me two weeks.) After that, we have no place to go. I’m beyond stressed. And when I’m stressed like this, I try and avoid thinking about it, dealing with it, so it bubbles up in different, unattractive and physical ways

For example, my hair is falling out. Every morning the bathroom sink acts as a stress level indicator; I know just how bad it’s been or going to be. I am gritting my teeth while I’m asleep—a habit I suffered from so badly in college I had to wear one of those night guards and have the enamel of my molars recoated. I wake up with headaches. My shins are developing the same itchy rash I wrote about having while we were living in San Francisco. I’ve had an eye twitch above my left eye for over a week. I’m quick to snap at Tobyjoe. And, oh my god, the headaches, have I mentioned the headaches? I’m forgetful. I’m manic. I can’t fall asleep at night. I have mental chatter like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I say the same lines over and over again in my head until each word loses its meaning.

I realize that these are good problems to complain about, relative speaking. Some people wait all their whole lives to buy a house. But if you had told me how I’d feel right now back in December whenever we first set out on this mission, I’d have said no thanks.

I’m 9 months into motherhood. Becoming a mother has been a very difficult transition for me. It’s rewarding, sure—it’s all those things a mother feels she must say so people don’t accuse her of being anything less than grateful for having children. But it’s also a full time and stressful gig, one that requires a rational state mind.

But instead of dealing with this mentally, I am apparently letting my body take the brunt. That’s the way I roll with stress. I know no other way.

I loathe blog entries like the one I’ve just written because they always come off whiney and narcissistic. But I have received many, many emails asking me where things stand and friends have asked, “How is the house hunt coming along?” Doesn’t this question warrant an answer of some kind?

Every time I approach a response, the words all hit my mouth all at once. And so my reaction is to sum it up with a guttural sound or a swift hand gesture. I have found it nearly impossible to answer the question.

I think the answer is summed up pretty well in the Twitter graphic shown above. A more telling one may be for you to have a look at our bathroom sink; the hair (or lack thereof) on my heady-head-head is doing a bang up job answering the question for me.

(Note to self: You know what’s funny about this one? This is the first video you took telling that particular story and when you totally derailed yourself midway through you went on to take a few more. Yet, after watching them all, you settled on this one because it’s more you and Emory will most likely appreciate that part someday—mistakes, fudgepacks and all. “Mama? What’s fudgepack?”)

Tobyjoe gave me an early (first ever!) Mother’s Day present on Saturday. I now own The Flip. I am in love with it. I feel the same way about it that I felt about my Elph back in 2001 when I took pictures of everything and nothing.

Here are a few of my first, not so major motion pictures.

First I give you Emory’s new weird baby thing: Banging his head on his highchair! (Seriously? This would have worried me if it hadn’t been for an offhanded comment my mother made. She said, “Soon he’ll enter the head banging phase. I remember when you three did that.” And then he did.)

Babies are weird.

Here’s one I took while walking through McCarren Park on Sunday. Whenever it warms up, McCarren Park turns into a beer guzzling, hipsterfest on Sundays. I think it has to do with the kickball leagues. And if the breeze blows just right, you can smell the VD in the air. MmmmmmmMMMMmmm VeeeeeeDeeeeee.

Pay attention and you’ll hear the hipster dude behind me say, “You’re going to upload that to MySpace for us, right?” To which I replied, “WRONG HIPSTER! HA! I’m going to upload it to FLICKR and my BLOG! Because I am a COOL BLOGGER!! I have a BLOG! MySpace is for LOSERS! and PEDOPHILES! DUH!! I AM SO COOL!”

Next up we have a video of Emory on the swing. I could not have come up with a better soundtrack. This pretty much sums up the sound of summer in Brooklyn. But for whatever reason, the ice cream trucks seem to come around at really weird hours, like 11 PM? What kid wants ice cream at 11 PM? I get the feeling that some of these ice cream trucks aren’t just selling ice cream.

But you didn’t hear it from me.

Last but not least, we have a video of Emory dancing on the table to New Order at Nita Nita while eating Kashi’s version of a Cheerios. Unfortunately, you can’t make out the music and so it just looks like Tobyjoe is shaking him by his arms. Also, he has no pants on. Normally, we have our kid in pants but it was a special occasion, one that didn’t require pants.

Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to become really annoying now that I have The Flip?

Today is a special day and I only just realized it halfway through writing this post. It’s special because we adopted Murray one year ago today. I know this because tomorrow marks the anniversary of when I announced it on mihow.com.

I haven’t ever admitted this before, but I kind of feel sorry for Murray. Sometimes he has to deal with an annoying amount of affection. You see, every time I get word of someone doing something horrific to an animal, or whenever I witness an animal in distress, I dig him out and hug him. Sometimes I hug him so tightly and for so long he very nearly passes out. (Only, not really). I fool myself into thinking that Murray is powerful, powerful enough to transfer all the affection we give him on to more needy creatures. I imagine that somehow, through powers unbeknownst to me, he’s able to pass love around—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

I realize this borders on absurd, but love knows no logic.

Murray fetches. Did I ever tell you that? He fetches. I know that many cats fetch. For example, my cat, Pookum fetches tampons, but Murray will fetch until you give up. He doesn’t get distracted. It’s just him, you and whatever balled up piece of trash you can find. In fact, I have no idea how long he’ll fetch before giving up because I’m the one who always ends the game. He’s sporty. If there were a fetching league for cats, I’d let him enroll.

On Saturday, we watched the egotistical Kentucky Derby prematurely ejaculate all over our TV screen. The event deemed “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports!” made my heart stop for almost that long.

I used to love horses. I still like horses but when I was a kid, I loved them. I wish I could express to you just how much I loved them. Only my mother could do that. Like most little girls, I begged my parents for a horse. I even prayed for one. I once asked my mother that if one should wander into our backyard, could I then keep it? She said yes. And so I waited for that miracle. I’m still waiting.

But I digress.

Whenever Eight Belles fell to the ground, my childhood emotions bubbled up like vomit and sucker punched me right in the gut. I simply could not control myself. My hands covered my face and I began crying.

Tears fell into my soup and onto my salad and Emory looked over wondering where my smile had gone. I wanted to tell him that sometimes people do horrible things to animals for “fun”, but that overall we’re pretty good! I wanted to reassure him that we named him after Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals, and that his best friend right now is a cat.

“Turn this off!” I yelled, covering my eyes. “Turn it off! I can’t watch any more!”

Toby grabbed a hold of the remote control and turned the channel.

“Now, say something to make me forget.” I cried.

“Look at this.” He said. Murray had his belly up and his legs spread wide, a position he has grown very fond of lately.

Needless to say, I cracked up. And then I Pepe Lepewed my cat until he wriggled free. Unfortunately, eight thousand hugs and kisses couldn’t save Eight Bells.

So, in honor of sporty animals everywhere, I shot a video of Murray playing fetch. The director’s cut is over 4 minutes long but I shortened it because it’s just a video of him and me and a balled up napkin. Pretty boring, right?

But after you watch the video I think that you’ll agree that the title “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports” no longer belongs to the Kentucky Derby. It belongs to Murray—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

Now, run along and smooch on some animals.

I’ve written at least 10 posts about this and deleted every last one of them. If this one makes it up, I’ll be shocked. (Here’s to number 11.) The YouTube Video below is of a lecture given by Elizabeth Warren. It’s enlightening, terrifying, confusing, sad, informative, long but outstanding.

I have decided to post it anyway. It’s long but it’s worth it. The statistics alone offer so much food for thought, your head will be reeling. (Please note: you don’t actually have to watch it. You can get the gist just by listening to it, although the charts at times do help illustrate her points. Also, the lecture starts at 4:45.)

There are so many things I want to talk about, write about, discuss. This lecture illustrates and voices a great deal of the frustration my family has experienced as we try and find a safe and affordable place to raise our son. We are the family she speaks of in search of a decent education for our child, willing to buy something overpriced just to see our son grow up educated and safe. This is scary stuff, people.

I’m going to stop rambling. But please, if you have time, watch the lecture. Let’s start a revolution. We need to change course. America’s future depends on it. I truly believe that.

Emory is a week shy of nine months. Man, does time ever fly! He’s grown so much. Every part of him has grown, well, except for his hair. He’s still as bald as can be.

I really wish these little dudes came with instructions. Whenever I screw up putting Ikea furniture together, I always just disassemble and start again. But these babies come without instructions, diagrams or warranties. You can’t undo bad decisions. And you can’t blame your mistakes on them for being Swedish and printing cryptic literature. There are no Command Zs when designing a baby. They remember stuff, they create habit, routines. And the older he gets, the bigger the habits—both good and bad.

For example, ever since vacationing in March, he’s been sleeping with us. Whenever I reintroduce him to his crib, he wakes up crying within an hour or two. I’m usually so sleepy, instead of letting him cry it out, I bring him back to our bed where he sleeps soundly. (If he’s in our bed, he sleeps all night for at least 10 hours straight.) Believe me you, I’m well aware of the fact that some folks will find this completely crazy.

There’s the whole eating situation as well. I’ve not yet felt comfortable about what’s considered too little or too much. More and more, he has little to no interest in baby food. He wants what we’re eating. And he lets us know by smacking his lips together. I kid you not. My mother will attest to this as will my husband. He will smack his lips together until you give him a bite of whatever it is you’re eating. It’s absurd. It doesn’t matter if your meal is spicy. smack smack smack! He wants it. Meat? smack smack smack! He wants it. Noodles, soup, salad, pickles, sandwiches? smack smack smack! He wants it all. Baby food? Not so much.

This causes me great anxiety because during his 8 month doctor visit, she suggested we avoid letting him snack. She asked us if we’re snackers. We’re not.

But here’s our predicament.

A perfect scenario might be that I feed him and then feed myself because it’s nearly impossible for us to eat at the same time. But I run into problems because once he’s finished eating and it’s time to feed myself, he wants to nibble on whatever it is I’m eating. Doesn’t that count as snacking? I really, really don’t want to create bad eating habits this early on. Will my boy grow up eating around the clock?

During the day I try and hide from him while eating. I’ll cram a granola bar down my face while he’s babbling in The Baby Mobile. I’ll eat a quick sandwich when he’s not looking. And sometimes when he sleeps I’ll make something a little more substantial. If I can. Emory’s naps rarely last longer than 25 minutes. Try doing laundry, using the bathroom, cleaning up, paying bills and eating something decent in 25 minutes. It’s not easy.

The other night we made asparagus and mushroom couscous. He seemed more interested in the asparagus than the jarred sweet potatoes I held in front of him. So, instead of watching him throw his hands up and overturn each spoonful of orange goo, I ground up some asparagus using the mill I got from Jen and Mike and gave him some.

He ate it, reluctantly, but he ate it. He ate it because we were eating it.

That’s absurd, right? The way I see it, we’re going to have to start eating baby food or he’s going to continue to eat ours.

Stories For My Son: Scene Three.

(Watch the others here.)

P.S. I am having great difficulty (both technically and personally) with the good ol’ blog today. Do forgive me for any weirdness you may have seen here today.

I save flowers. I dry them out and I save them. I have kept a bouquet in a homemade vase for several years. The picture below was taken of our place before we had a baby, before we moved the futon from the guest bedroom (now the nursery) into the dining room (now the makeshift guest room/storage area).

The flowers and the vase are outlined in white. And at some point it moved to where the food processor sits in the picture above. (Also outlined.)

The bouquet has grown a lot since then. It grew larger each and every time Tobyjoe bought me flowers. Sometimes I’ll add one or two from a bouquet, sometimes more. It represents a timeline of moments and holidays.

For example, there was that really difficult day last year. I was very pregnant and becoming more and more immobile by the minute. I had just discovered a massive band of stretch marks all over my underbelly. I called Tobyjoe to complain about it. He asked me if I wanted anything, needed anything. What I really wanted was a cupcake, but cupcakes are what got me there in the first place, so Tobyjoe brought home flowers instead.

One might assume, given what I just wrote, that I’m really attached to said bouquet. It does cover years worth of loving memories after all. And to some degree that assumption is true, but probably not to the degree that it should be.

For starters, they are dust magnets. I haven’t ever seen any other household item gather so much dust. And they’re impossible to clean. If you touch them, they crumble. But they’re sentimental, right? And so I have held onto them because throwing them out feels like burning books, trashing art, shredding old love letters.

Plus, we’re moving soon. The idea of moving a bouquet of dried flowers doesn’t sit too well with me. I knew that once we moved, the flowers would have to be destroyed. Tobyjoe and I would have to start anew.

The point is, the flowers had a lifeline. I just had no idea how short it’d be.

Two days ago, I was in the kitchen cooking chili cheese tofu dogs for Tobyjoe and me. Murray was sitting on the back of the futon, watching me move to and from the kitchen. At some point he grew bored with me and decided it was time to play with my memories.

I’m not going to go on and on about how it happened. I think I’ll let the picture below sum up the aftermath. (Keep in mind, this was taken after I removed the still whole branches, some of which were still covered in thorns. Ouch.) The really good news is the vase I so lovingly threw while living in Washington was still in tact. The flowers weren’t as lucky.

I’m a little relieved that I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of the memories, throw out the dried flowers. Murray took care of that for me.

Now if only he could do something about the memories my body saved from eating all those damned cupcakes.

What if you woke up today and read the following expert from a blog based out of Brooklyn.

I saw a woman pull a baby out of the trunk of her car on Friday afternoon. It was horrifying.

You see, I was at the bodega on Meeker Avenue buying some lottery tickets. I rounded the corner and headed to the park. I noticed a woman rummaging through the trunk of her car. As I got closer, I saw her lift a baby out of the trunk!! We made eye contact. I gave her a look like, “You’re a sick person!” At first she was smiling and then she realized she was busted. Her happy expression turned into one that read, “Let me explain. I can explain.”

“That’s right you’ll explain, you sick bitch. But not to me. Save it for child services! THIS IS SO GOING ON MY BLOG!“

What kind of sick person puts a baby in the trunk of a car? You’d ask.

Let me explain. I can explain.

We live on the top floor of a three floor walk-up. Every day I take Emory out for a walk. We visit the park down the street, the one filled with shirtless Polish drunks, men and women so wrinkled and dehydrated, the whole of their body looks like the eye of an elbow.

I take him to the swings, an enclosed area protected by a sign that reads, “CHILDREN AND THEIR GUARDIANS ONLY.” Emory loves to people watch.

In order to avoid having to carry the stroller up three flights of stair each and every day, I store it on the first floor next to the front door. On Friday, however, I had to retrieve it from the trunk of our car where it had been left the day before.

I held Emory in one arm and opened the trunk with the other. As I bent down to get the stroller, I smelled urine. “Did you go pee pee?” I asked Emory.

I touched his diaper. It was puffy. “You went pee pee, didn’t you?”

I wouldn’t call myself a lazy person but I do try and avoid unnecessary exercise while toting a 20 pound baby. My thoughts were: why bother walking all the way back up three flights of stair if I don’t have to?

We’ve changed Emory in the car on many occasions. It’s not easy. The car is small. It’s even smaller now that the back seat is taken up by the car seat. Even when you do change Emory in the backseat, it’s impossible to lay him down flat.

I looked down at the flat, clean, carpeted trunk and had a brainstorm. I was so proud of the idea, I couldn’t wait to share it with TobyJoe. This idea was so grand, it begged the question, “Why hadn’t we thought of this before?”

I changed Emory in the trunk of the car as he laughed and giggled and looked up at the sky. Changing him lately has become quite the chore. If I don’t give him something interesting to look at, he screams the entire time. But this? This was one of the easiest changing sessions we’ve ever had together. The scenery and chorus of birds amused him greatly.

Just as I was applying the finishing touches to my baby’s bum, a woman rounded the corner. At first I didn’t think anything of it, I was, after all, just changing a baby diaper. But as I lifted Emory from the trunk of the car, I saw a look cast across her face, and let me tell you, words fail to describe that look.

I wanted to explain the situation to this woman, but she seemed entirely too freaked out. Plus, an explanation may come off as my making excuses as to why I’m driving around with my baby in the trunk of a car.

I chose to ignore it and go about my merry way. I put Emory in the stroller, draped the diaper bag across its handles and shut the trunk. She crossed the street gabbing away on her cell phone presumably telling some gasping third party about how she just witnessed some crazy woman lifting a baby out of the trunk of a car.

Motherhood is slowly shedding me of any decency or care I once had about what others think. This is something I am becoming unabashedly proud of.

Stories For My Son: Scene Two.

(Side note: I realized today that I have a lisp. I am not sure if it’s due to my excessive hearing loss or all the orthodontic work I had done as a kid. But it’s there, clear as day.)

A couple of weeks ago I decided to make a sandwich only to discover we were completely out of bread. As I cursed at Toby for finishing off the bread and not letting me know, I heated up some soup instead. Later that day I purchased two loaves of bread at our local Key Foods.

A few days later I was lying on the floor playing with Emory when I noticed something peculiar underneath the couch. At first it looked like it might be Murray’s red catnip pillow. But we got rid of that a long, long time ago. What was this mystery object under the couch?

I put the loaf of bread back where it belonged and noticed that TobyJoe had finished off the other loaf. We were down to one loaf of bread that loaf was punctured by cat teeth and paw prints.

Our apartment isn’t exactly baby friendly. We live in a railroad apartment where one room leads into another making it impossible to have any closed off area for a baby. It’s just a big open space—no definite barriers, no doors to shut, nothing. It’s a great for giving the illusion of open space, but horrible if you have a baby. It’s just not possible to close off an area in a railroad apartment.

This means that on any given day I spend the majority of my time with one eye on him and the other on the laundry, cleaning, bathing, cat feeding, Internet writing, bill paying, etc. etc. etc. It’s not easy. I’m not trying to sound like a big ol’ whiney bitch, but it’s not easy.

Some areas of the apartment are just all out dangerous, take the computer desk for example. There are more wires leading to an from that desk than one might find at Clark Griswold’s house at Christmas time. I refer to this area as the Gaza Strip.

There are, however, a few areas where I can take one eye away from him for a second. For example, the rug in the living room is really safe. It’s usually covered in toys, wooden spoons, spatulas, and plastic containers for amusement. I call this area The Green Zone.

So, yesterday I was hanging out with Emory in the Green Zone letting him play and babble. I didn’t worry too much about his getting into trouble since it’s such a safe area. But then he started to crawl away from the Green Zone. That’s when my left eye began to wander.

If you have a toddler and/or a baby who crawls, you are very aware of the moments of silence that erupt when they’re not supposed to. Perhaps your little one stops moving suddenly, all babbles come to an end. It’s at that moment you realize he or she is up to a degree of something less than positive. It doesn’t mean there’s something horribly dangerous taking place either. It’s probably more likely that you’ll interrupt your little guy stuffing a handful of cat hair into his mouth or sucking on your very filthy sock. Or maybe you discover that he’s remoistening a slice of very stale bread taken from a loaf of bread that’s been stored in an otherwise empty side table.

Why Murray is storing loaves of bread, I haven’t the slightest idea. But he’s making childproofing this apartment all the more difficult. I really am starting to believe baby and cat are in cahoots.

And our bread is now being refrigerated.

Sleep tight, Big Guy.

Toby has been working a lot lately. I was starting to wonder if I still had a husband. The good news is, the project is wrapping up. I’m excited for obvious reasons—I get my (weekend) husband back. But I’m also excited because I finally get to share the project with everyone!

The Barbarian Group worked with CNN and created a pretty awesome campaign and system for taking select (video) headlines and turning them into t-shirts. (You get to the page shown above by clicking one of the small t-shirt icon on the homepage next to some of the latest headlines.) I can’t tell you how awesome I think this idea is. Plus, the design is remarkably clean. Go check it out if you have time.

I love Top Chef. Toby and I are huge fans. We look forward to it each and every week. It’s not unheard of for one of us to wake up on Wednesday morning and express out loud how excited we are about 10 PM. And season three was awesome.

I don’t know what it is about season four but I almost can’t stand it and I can’t put my finger on why. Did they hire different editors? Writers? What’s going on? Perhaps it’s the people. I really don’t care for many of them.

You might call this is a stereotypical blog post (ie. bitching). It is. But I really want to talk about why season four of Top Chef seems to suck so very badly. Is it just me? How do you feel about it? Please feel free to disagree, agree, or tell me I suck for watching reality TV at all.