Without further ado, I give you the best and the worst from items we purchased in August Oops! July. Are you ready? Awesome. Me too.

The best thing I purchased this month was this stellar water bottle made by Camelbak. It’s BPA free. It comes in several different colors (and two sizes!) and you can drink from it standing up, lying down, upside down, while running, doing cartwheels, having sex—you name it. It’s awesome. (Even Em likes to drink out of it. He can’t use a sippy cup and doesn’t like to feed himself a bottle, but he’ll drink out of my water bottle. Babies are weird.)

We got ours at Whole Foods but you can order them online as well. You won’t be let down. Promise.

The worst thing we purchased recently was the Play Spot flooring created by Skip Hop. It was a great idea in theory. Tobyjoe even went out of his way to pick it up one night after work. And it looked great! We were so excited! Here was a padded floor for Em to play (and fall down) on, one that may even keep our neighbors from banging on our pipes every five minutes.

Boy were we mistaken. And I tried hard to keep everything together for the first few days. But Emory was just so bloody good at taking it apart. Before I knew it, the thing was in ruin, pieces strewn about everywhere, two in each hand, one in his mouth. What a mess. What a mistake. What a waste of 80 bucks.

I don’t recommend this flooring for babies who: crawl, play, walk, move or fart.

Also, if you have cats and you live in a railroad apartment? You’re just plain stupid for buying this one.

(Stick with diaper bags, Skip Hop. Your diaper bags are awesome.)

Em isn’t feeling well. He’s come down with a cold. And I woke up with a sore throat today. We’re dead tired. I am shocked Toby made it to work in any reasonable form this morning. Em was up every hour all night long complaining and unable to breath. He’s really congested. We suctioned his little nose at 4 AM but that didn’t help. I even brought him into the bathroom and steamed him like a baby potato. To no avail.

Anyway, life feels very much the same way it did with a newborn. And I’m sure all our hard work with sleep training is going to be set back. Perhaps this is nature’s way of asking, “Do you really want another baby, Michele?”

The answer is still yes, but I if we’re met with another sleepless night like last night, I may be saying something different.

Tuesdays With Murray will return next week when we feel better.

One of the cool things about Em getting older is we now get to watch Sesame Street. We watch Sesame Street every morning. And I’m constantly amazed at who they have on. My mother assures me that it’s been this way forever, but I guess I’d forgotten (or I didn’t know any better at the time?) Anyway, every day they make me smile.

Check out this clip of James Blunt. (Make sure you watch it up to 1 minute, 45 seconds. The dance scene will blow your mind.)

Toby and I have been singing it ever since.

This morning Detective Elliot Stabler was on talking about mail—they used the DOINK DOINK sound and everything! Awesome.

I’m left wondering what I’ve been missing all these years.

The other day I was thinking about Schmitty. Schmitty was our 15-year-old cat who got cancer and died in a very short amount of time. Schmitty was chubby, loyal, beautiful and probably one of the sweetest creatures alive. We used to say that if there’s such thing as an 8-fold path, he was most certainly at the finish line. When he was put to sleep on April 21st, 2007, he entered nirvana—enlightenment. He would have left this tangible world forever.

I used to brag about Schmitty. You see, he was directly responsible for turing at least three people into cat people. In fact, they liked him so much, they too adopted cats. The surprising thing about these three people is that they didn’t particularly like cats before they met Schmitty. I took great pride in knowing that cats were adopted directly because of Schmitty. (I still take great pride in that.)

Schmitty was always spreading compassion.

We had to say goodbye to Schmitty. But we still think about him all the time. He comes to me in dreams sometimes, which is always bittersweet because I wake up aching to see him again—like, actually aching. But it’s nice to see him at all.

We miss him. That’s about all I can really say about that because if I continue writing about him, I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry this afternoon.

And so.

Murray.

We adopted Murray a month or so after we said goodbye to Schmitty. We got Murray because I needed to laugh. And Murray is a hoot. I don’t have to convince you of that. If you’re reading this, chances are you already know and love Murray—goofy as he may be.

Well, Murray and Em get along wonderfully. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more baby-friendly pet. When Murray plays with Em, he’s surprisingly gentle, like he knows he needs to be. And they actually play together. Murray makes Em laugh almost as much as he makes us laugh, which is pretty remarkable if you ask me.

I swear if I were a less cynical person, I’d guess he’s doing this intentionally.

Their relationship brings me some bittersweetness as well. You see, watching Em with Murray is great, but there are times where I just wish he had a brother. There are times where I think, “Oh, this boy is entirely too friendly and outgoing to spend all of his time playing with a cat!” And I feel a little sad for him and then I take him for a walk and show him the colorful arrangement of drunk and dying men our neighborhood park has to offer. (Again, sad.)

About two months ago I started to realize that Emory simply couldn’t be an only child. I was surprised by the change of heart. All along, I have said one child, just one. But I think I was even more surprised when I realized who brought the change to light.

A cat. Another freaking cat!

And so I have to spell it out for myself. I simply have to write it down for the sake of history.

Schmitty was responsible for convincing a difficult crowd that cats make awesome pets. At least three people adopted a feline because of him. He passed and we “replaced” him with a fuzzy feller named Murray.

Murray is responsible for showing us—a couple determined to have only one child—that we simply cannot stop at only one. We simply have to give our son a sibling someday.

I guess what I’m saying is perhaps this is what Schmitty wanted all along.

But I have to admit, I’m having a little trouble figuring out a way to tell Em’s eventual sibling that he or she was brought into the world because of a cat.

I started teaching Em how to sleep (or nap, rather) a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t follow a specific method but not because I didn’t want to. It’s because I’m too stubborn (or busy?) to read a 400 page book about how to get my baby to sleep. Publishers of the world: do you really think new parents have time to read incredibly wordy books? And if they do have time, do you really think they want to spend the free time they do have reading about sleep? Doing it maybe, but reading about it?

Maybe it’s just me. But the last thing I want to do whenever I discover a few minutes of spare time is read about how to get my child to sleep in 400 short pages. And believe me I see the irony in this. Because most of the time I have free time is whenever Em is asleep and usually the hours leading up to said chunk of free time are filled with frustration because I couldn’t get my child to sleep.

But the moment he falls asleep, I run for the refrigerator, the shower, or the cleaning supplies. I most certainly do not sit down and pick up a book about how to get my baby to sleep more. Because that would make sense and I don’t make sense. And I certainly don’t read directions. I’ve never read directions and I don’t always make sense.

But this post will hopefully make some sense.

Instead of reading a long book about how to get my son to sleep (like I should have done) I spent 6 months reading paragraphs here and there (sometimes accidentally); listening to friends (and sometimes eavesdropping on conversations of strangers); observing the specie firsthand (like Dian Fossey only my subject is my son and not a gorilla baby. Although, I bet they are similar); and of course reading stuff on the Internet (not something I recommend).

What did I end up with? So much information went into my head, I thought I had too many pieces of gibberish equalling information overload—like whenever you mix every color together with good intentions and end up with something resembling the inside of a baby diaper.

At first I thought I was going to end up with a fountain of misinformation. But I surprised myself. I took all the information, added a little something called “intuition” and I ended up with something that looked OK.

My potpourri of information came out tasting pretty OK.

What good is information if you can’t pass it along to help and/or welcome critique? And so for what it’s wroth, here’s my recipe for getting my son to sleep better (or at all).

WHAT YOU WILL NEED

(Consider these items necessary, as one might need a spoon for stirring or a bowl for mixing.)

1). ROUTINE ROUTINE ROUTINE!—It’s true. Postpone trips to the store, vacations, and life. Postpone it all. If you want to teach your child how to sleep better, you simply have to make sure you’re around at the times you want him or her to nap. Make a schedule. Stick to it.

2). FAMILIARITY—This could technically go under routine, I guess. But I think it’s different. Routine is more about time and how you react the moment you realize your baby needs to nap or go to sleep for the night. Familiarity on the other hand has a lot to do with where you do this and what they are given when you do it. If you sing “Believe It Or Not” from The Greatest American Hero, then continue to do so. If you offer a bottle every time they go down, continue to give them something to drink.

3). PATIENCE—Said Woman, take it slow. It’ll work itself out fine.

I ain’t no doctor. I ain’t no nurse. Hell, I ain’t barely even a mother, but I bet that if you use all three of the items listed above—no matter what ingredients you use—I reckon it will work.

THE METHOD

The moment I see Em rub his eyes or grow increasingly more frustrated for no apparent reason, it’s time. I grab a bottle of milk, my book (or computer), his orange pillow, the monkey, and a pacifier. I put him in his crib on his back and give him the bottle, placing the pacifier next to him (or in his hand). I feed him some milk and place the pillow next to his head.

Then I wait with him.

That’s all I do. Wait. My presence is there only to reassure him that everything is gonna be OK. I sit in a rocking chair near his bed. I am there if he needs me.

The only rule I have is no matter how fussy he gets, no matter how much he cries, I do not pick him up until he has napped. I find other ways to get him to relax. I follow the “no pick-up” rule strictly.

The first few days were difficult. He fussed a lot and I had to console him several times. The whole ordeal lasted well over an hour and half. It could have been two hours. I don’t know.

Day three came around and that time got shorter. He was getting used to the fact that crib equals sleep and sleep equals play with mommy, books and happiness. I think by day four or five I had him asleep within an hour.

And then that time got even shorter. It was taking him about 45 minutes to fall asleep. I was still sitting back there with him, but I was quietly reading or writing the whole time.

On Saturday, Em fell asleep the moment his head hit his pillow. I was shocked as was Tobyjoe. Em slept for one and a half hours that day without making a peep. And that was nap two! Nap one was an hour long.

It became abundantly clear to me on Saturday, that our homemade, half-assed method was working!

IN SUMMATION

I am writing this from a silent apartment. The soft hum of the air conditioner in the bedroom can be heard over the baby monitor. My son is taking his second nap for the day, sleeping soundly after 25 minutes in his crib.

He didn’t even fuss.

I realize that this feeling of elation can (and probably will) fall away as quickly as it grew, but I’m going to enjoy it for now. It feels pretty good to learn that my son knows how to sleep for longer than 30 minutes at a time. It feels pretty good knowing that this week (and this week alone) I feel as though my hard work has finally paid off; I succeeded at something extraordinarily positive.

Dare I say this?

I feel oddly powerful right now. I know that will probably come crashing down tomorrow, crumble in place around me, but right now I feel the strength of a thousand mothers and I want to give you some because I can and I owe you and you’re awesome.

So, here.

I mentioned some time last week in the comments section that I was having some issues trying to live here and be a mother at the same time. I’m having difficulty with things like grocery shopping, alternate side parking, and just getting around in general.

One of the hardest problems I have had to deal with is alternate side parking. For those unfamiliar with the concept, every other day (for an hour and a half) you have to move your car from one side of the street to the other. Let’s say it’s Thursday right before 1 PM. The street cleaner has come and gone and now everyone from the Tuesday/Friday side has to move their car from that side to the other side to avoid a ticket the following day.

What you get is this: at around 12:45 PM at least five people get in their cars, move them, and sit there until 1 PM. That way, they are guaranteed a spot the following day and don’t have to drive around forever (or park somewhere dodgy, like I usually do) later on.

That’s all fine. I get that mentality. If I had the time and never used my car except to move it from one side of the street to the other, I’d probably do that too. My biggest problem, however, is in regard to our neighbors. The house directly next door is home to an extended family. They purchased the entire three-story home (which is split into three apartments) and three families (from the same family) live there. It seems they have about 5 cars total, but three are there all the time.

And these people drive me crazy. They simply refuse to follow any sort of social contract when it comes to alternate side parking. They don’t take up one spot per car. Instead, they take up anywhere from four to six car lengths. And one of their cars is a monstrous SUV.

Below is a picture taken an hour ago. Behind the tree on the far left, you can make out a little bit of the SUV. That car is owned by the older guy and he lives on the second floor. His car talks. It says things like, “PROTECTED BY VIPER! STAND BACK!” which is REALLY awesome when you have a baby napping. The car in the middle is owned by the guy living on the third floor. The car in the back is owned by guy who I think is the younger brother of the guy on the third floor. He lives on the first floor.

The amount of room in front of the SUV is double the space of what you see behind it. I can’t get a shot of that from here, but here’s an illustration:

And, no, this isn’t the fault of any other car on the street. These guys know exactly what they’re doing. They do it almost every day. Granted, they have no control over how close the car behind the last guy parks in relation to their own, which is why when the red car pulled in late last night after a rarity occurred and someone left, I snickered.

I can’t tell you how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed by how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed I don’t have the guts to say something to them about it.

This morning, as we left to see Tobyjoe off to the subway, I decided it was time to write a note. I put it on the SUV, (delicately of course as IT’S VIPER PROTECTED!) On our way back home, I removed the note from the car because it seemed too passive aggressive and pathetic. Plus, I know it’s not going to change anything.

And so…

I’m embarrassed I wrote this. But I simply don’t know what else to do. Yes, I could ask them to stop, but they won’t (and I’m too much of a coward anyway). They do this because they don’t want anyone scratching their precious hunks of metal (they never drive). (Edited to add: I learned from a comment that it’s for another reason entirely. I feel so stupid!)

I’ve watched my mother’s once mint condition, hand-me-down get keyed, scraped, dented, and smashed in only a year’s time. But I don’t do crap like this. Having your car’s bumper destroyed is one of the things you silently agree to when you live here with a car.

I’m not proud of myself for feeling this much rage over something so mundane and simple. I try and do the whole “Embrace it and let it go” thing—you know, breath in, breath out.

But I can’t let it go. It never stops pissing me off. So, I wore patchouli today in hopes of conjuring up some residual hippie vibes leftover from college. Someone’s gotta give and it simply has to be me.

I’m amazed at how quickly Em is picking up new things and I constantly wonder where he’s getting these new ideas from. Sometimes I think I get it, and other times he just starts doing something and I’m left scratching my head, wondering if he’s keeping night hours elsewhere.

They’re precise little human recorders, babies. It’s no wonder how they can turn out so graciously sweet or so horrifically angry.

His new thing is all about books. He loves reading books and then rereading books and then re- re-reading books and, well, you get the picture.

He crawls down off of my lap, walks over to where his books are kept, grabs a new one, walks back over to me, hands me the book and then turns around and waits for me to pick him up and read to him. Now, I can’t believe he does this. I can’t believe he enjoys hearing me yammer on about ducks, curious monkeys and blue horses, green frogs, purple cats and jumping on the bed. One day I read Brown Bear so many times I lost count.

One day, however, each time I finished reading one of his books, I placed it in his basket of toys underneath Huggy Bear. (Not the guy from Starsky and Hutch.) I realize this doesn’t qualify me as a patron saint of motherhood, but I was going cross-eyed and I needed to do some chores around the house. I can’t just not do it, you know?

I’m pretty sure that the fuel used to run a parent consists of few parts guilt.

Anyway, I wonder what the record is for number of times someone’s read a Super Chunky Good For Me! book in one sitting.

Last week I took him to a local “World Music” class a family-oriented café here in Williamsburg called Mamalus. The management is thinking of offering weekly classes. They’ve been offering freebies for the last couple of weeks. Most of the classes seem to be for older children, but we signed up for the two that included his age group. (Incidentally, I have noticed that Em is kind of in a bit of a “no-man’s age group” when it comes to classes. He’s either too old or too young. But we make due.)

So, we arrived early and it was already packed. There was a couple standing at the corner holding several different instruments. They were obviously running the show.

They pulled out drums and rattles and moroccos and bells and then bigger drums—all types of instruments. We went around the great big circle and the Cuban music man sang out each baby’s name to the beat of a drum. When he got to Em, Em was unsure of how to react. I told the man his name and the man beat the drum and sang EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! Em just stared up at him, open-mouthed and perplexed—not frightened, but maybe a little unsure. (Or maybe he was just recording it?)

After every child had their moment in the spotlight, the room erupted. Parents and nannies danced; children sang, babies waved their hands in the air. And I’d have declared it a room full of chaos had it not been belted together by song.

Since our visit, Em has begun this adorable sing-songy chant of sorts. At first I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then I realized that every time I sing, or every time I turn on one of his musical toys he would react. It’s really adorable and strange and I want to dance all over again.

Children are capable of making those normally seduced by shame realize that the only thing shameful about life is feeling shame at all.

So, whenever Em is older and he lets us know how embarrassing we are, I’ll tell him he has only himself to blame. And then I’ll thank him.

I made lunch for Em yesterday and this is what took place behind my back.

Remember this from Chapter 7?

(Music by Loose Acoustic Trio)

I signed up for WeightWatchers on May 30th, 2008. As of tomorrow, I’ll be halfway through my trial period. This post is an update to what’s been happening, how much I’ve lost, frustrations I’ve met, and things that have helped me out over the last month and half.

Let me begin by saying that I’ve lost 8 pounds. I expected to have lost more than that by now, and I’ve been fluctuating between a 6 to 8 pound loss for three weeks. Am I experiencing a plateau? I’m not sure. But I’m going to continue and hope that the next couple of weeks bring me higher numbers.

One of the reasons I’m so irritated by the plateau is because I’m working out as well. (Although, I just started with a regular daily routine last week, so perhaps things will pick up?) But I feel like I should have lost more weight by now. Maybe not. Who knows.

All in all, this diet is much easier to follow and stick to than South Beach. I tried South Beach several years ago and while the diet works, I wasn’t able to stick with it and I felt like I was hungry most of the time. I was on it for about 4 months. I lost 19 pounds. The diet was trying, however. And I gained it all back.

The South Beach diet just wasn’t one I could stay on indefinitely. I feel that WW is.

One of the reasons I like WW diet is because of the bonus points you’re given on top of the daily allotment. There have been some weeks where I am doing just great and then BAM! we order pizza and I devour 3 slices in one sitting. There were two days last week where I blew right past my 21-point weekly allotment. One day I consumed a massive 45 points!

But that amount comes out of the weekly “bonus” points. And so you’re not beating yourself up quite as much as you might on other diets.

Another reason I like WW is that the product line is oustanding. Let me begin by saying that I’m not super keen on eating foods with a long list of ingredients, but I decided that this time I’d blissfully ignore my inclinations and just go with it. At this juncture, I have tried several of the packaged meals offered by Smart One’s. (Only the vegetarian ones, however. We prefer our meat come from local farms), I’ve tried several of the desserts, and a whole bunch of bread products. This has helped me get a grasp on point allotment. It also helps me feel full. (Sometime down the road, I plan to take off my training wheels and give up the packaged meals. I may continue to buy their bread products, however. You simply can’t beat a bagel for two points and a whole grain english muffin for one.)

If you don’t mind eating food with a long list of ingredients, I highly recommend trying out their pre-packaged meals.

I’ve learned that foods high in fiber and low in fat are golden. So, cheese glorious cheese? Not so glorious for the midsection. Incidentally, that’s been the most difficult thing for me to give up. I am a cheese lover. But when it comes to hunger and point allotment to fulfillment ratio, cheese ranks as one of the foods to avoid.

I’ve learned that you can have unlimited amounts of vegetables and almost as much fruit as you can stomach. (I love fruit, which could be another reason that South Beach proved difficult for me.)

Wine and beer? Avoid it. It won’t do anything to make you feel full plus, it messes with your metabolism (as does caffeine, actually. But I’m not about to give that up). Beer is higher than wine, naturally. But lite beer is better than regular. (I tend to prefer the dark stuff, so beer hasn’t been something I’ve touched lately.)

Salad dressing is the devil, for the most part. Seriously. In fact, I have joked and said that if every American went into their fridge right now and threw out every condiment, we’d be a lot thinner in only a month’s time. I think there’s truth to that statement.

If you’re a snacker, you have to figure out what type of snacks to eat. I have gotten through some salt cravings by making Newman’s Own popcorn (96% fat free). I usually add Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and I have myself a relatively healthy snack. (Well, if you ignore the sodium content in the Lawry’s. heh.)

My favorite snack, however, is a cucumber salad my mother made us when we were growing up. I’ll cut up one cucumber, add a spoonful of lite mayonnaise (or fat free), and some white balsamic vinegar. Sprinkle on some pepper, and you have yourself a tasty treat. (This has gotten me from one meal to the next dozens of times over the last month. Plus, it’s awesome.)

In a nutshell the diet is working albeit slowly and some days I get really annoyed especially when my weight fluctuates. But putting on weight is much easier (and more fun but not as rewarding!) than losing it.

I am going to stand strong and readdress my situation when my 3-month trial ends. At that point in time, I’ll decide if i want to pay the month-by-month fee and continue, or if I need to figure something else out (like liposuction and a breast reduction). But I’m pretty satisfied with the way things are going, however, I’d be a LOT more satisfied if WW sent me free products and in turn I’ll write reviews and give them free advertising, because buying this stuff costs money we don’t have. I get email all the time asking me to agree to blog post sponsorship and I always say no because I worry about what I’ll have to agree to. But if WW came to me and asked me to do such a thing? I’d do it in a heartbeat.

That’s all for now. As always, feedback and/or suggestions welcome.

I’m not sure if you’ve had the unfortunate experience of reading about the ugly display that took place on Thinking and Drinking with Lizz Winstead last week. I’m guessing that if I heard about it, everyone has.

To put it bluntly: It was a train wreck.

Nutshell: Lizz Winstead (host of “Thinking and Drinking”, previous writer for “The Daily Show”) asked Tracie Egan and Moe Tkacik to be guests on the show because “Their work on Jezebel has made them role models for young women everywhere.” (One 20-year-old blogger who was in the studio audience stated that Moe is her “Feminist Superhero.”)

Moe and Tracie are said to have arrived drunk and they proceeded to get drunker. The conversation started off with jokes about abortion and how many they’ve had. They talked about how the pull out method is the most fun way not to get pregnant. The conversation then moved on to rape. Some of the things these women said about rape had me opened-mouthed and speechless. I was in bewildered awe over the seemingly blatant ignorance.

I am not a reader of Jezebel. I am by no means someone who can speak about their writing history or their background. I do not know their audience. After having watched the video, however, I am happy I never got to know these two women—as writers, role models, bloggers, whatever. They came off as arrogant, childish, and worst of all, irresponsible. As someone unfamiliar with Jezebel, I have been turned away entirely.

But! The whole situation has left a horrible taste in my mouth. And I am not sure why. Perhaps it’s because these two are seen as role models.

I am left asking one giant question:

When did feminism become about sexually explicit vulgarity, sleeping with a different guy every night, or boasting about the number of abortions you’ve had?

(I bet Lydia Lunch and Lung Leg are pissed off—two generations too late. Sorry, ladies! Who knew fisting might one day become a symbol of feminism?)

I fail to see how getting blasted drunk and having a lot of sex is feministic. The way they acted bugged me, sure. But I think what bugs me the most is that they are looked up to and respected. Plus, they’re probably making close to a hundred grand a year doing this, acting this way.

But my husband said, “You CAN’T change the world. There are going to be idiots. I don’t know why this bothers you so much. Let them go. But if you really want to make a difference, contact the editors and producers. If they think advertisers are going to back out, they will reprimand the writers.”

OK, so I’m not going to try and change the world or contact anyone involved because it won’t do any good. He’s right about that. That’s why I chose to avoid linking to either of the women’s sites because I’d rather not add fuel the fire. (If you want to find all the “good” stuff, they can do so by clicking the above link to Lizz Winstead’s article.) My words will mean nothing—just take up some more virtual space. I can’t ask these women how they’re feminists. I’m a teeny tiny voice in a sea of millions. (Plus, I am sort of a pussy when it comes to online fighting.) But I do want to ask one parting question:

What is Feminism? Is it Dead?

Because I think it’s dead. And I think a hideous intruder has risen in its place.

We’ve decided against letting Em cry-it-out and have instead enrolled in the more passive sleep education course. You see, Em is one of those babies who does not calm down by crying. Instead, crying makes him more and more hysterical until he erupts, spit and other bodily fluids spray out of his mouth, eyes and nose and his head looks like some kind of pierced water ballon. He gags and sometimes it sounds like he’s going to vomit. It’s awful.

Naturally, I have only let it get to this point twice in his life and both times it felt needlessly cruel. I know that it works for some people, but we simply cannot do it. (And we don’t want to.)

And so we’re trying something less aggressive where we’ll sit with him and console him when he needs to be consoled. It’s not yet going according to plan. He still cries because he wants to be picked up. But we have high hopes. (This is all still very new. We’re still reading up on how to do it. I anticipate a long road ahead of us.)

Anyway, on Friday Tobyjoe decided to sit with him and watch him cry as I frantically tried to block it out by cleaning the entire apartment.

Normally I lock Murray in our bedroom whenever I mop because he really likes to be involved. He’s weird. But this time I thought he’d be OK. Plus, I wanted to keep noise and cats as far away from Tobyjoe and Em as possible.

I decided to clean with Murray in tow.

Everything went just fine up until the very end when the entire railroad apartment was wet. That’s when Murray decided it was time to attack.

The next 30 seconds were that of hilarity and I so wish I had them on tape so I could watch them over and over again. And I swear to you, all 30 seconds took place in slow motion. Like, someone actually slowed the rotation of planet Earth just enough for me to thoroughly enjoy what was about to take place. Even the baby’s cries were muted. It was just Murray and me and a slippery apartment.

Murray successfully jumped over the mop, but whenever he touched down on the other side, his feet gave way on the slippery floor and his back legs slipped out from under him, making his entire body skid to the left. In an attempt to correct the sudden momentum, he immediately turned his body to the right, a decision that may have worked had Murray not thought someone (or something) did this to him. He wanted to find the culprit! He jerked his head from one side to the other looking for the invisible prankster. That threw everything off and sent him into a full-force right-hand slide. Still unable to make peace with the slippery floor, and still in search of the guy who pushed him, he just kept sliding, like an out-of-control slalom skier.

This went on for the entire length of our apartment. All I could think was, “PAUSE! PAUSE! STOP! STOP!” and then, “REWIND! REPLAY!” because in my head everything, including my every day life, can be controlled by the DVR. And, oh my God, I love this show!

But I couldn’t pause it so I could show it to Tobyjoe. And I couldn’t rewind it and watch it again. This was live. And it kept happening until he finally hit the wall at the very far end of the apartment.

Time immediately sped up again and the baby’s cries came billowing out of the bedroom once more. And Murray, unfazed, walked directly to the food bowl to refuel because sliding across a wet floor counts as exercise.

There’s a digital clock at the top of our stove. Each number is made up of digital sausage links. They’re curveless and rigid but they do the job. Twos look like backwards fives, threes like eights without Western borders.

When we first moved in, the stove was brand new and so the clock was as well. It worked well. Each sausage did its job. Together, they made up numbers.

About three years ago, our oven just stopped working. For no reason, just stopped working one day. I turned it on to 400 degrees gleefully anticipating a homemade pizza, and a half hour later it was still cold. We did what all renters do, we called our landlord.

When the repairman arrived, he sold our landlord on a warranty. Included in that warranty was the clock, which had had recently lost the top digital sausage making up the second number. I remember when it happened too. I remember trying to figure out why it was so dark at 4 PM.

The repairman didn’t have the parts to repair the clock. “You’ll have to schedule another visit. But you should know that you have a warranty. The clock’s included.” He said. “The light, too.”

Due to my Easy Bake Oven and Shrinky Dink days, and the fact that I really enjoy watching things cook, change, grow, shrink, melt, move, and brown like old paper, the light burned out a few months after we moved in.

It’s been dark ever since.

We’re outgrowing our apartment. And for the life of me, I cannot figure out who is buying up all the real estate in our neighborhood, who can afford to. I have asked a few people and no one ever really gives me a straight answer. I’m still asking.

Who is buying up all these condos and houses?

I’m still very much in the dark waiting for an answer.

But it was only recently that I began to realize that we actually have to leave here, that it’s not really a choice anymore. It’s becoming a necessity. We don’t have the room here for a toddler. And it’s not safe.

But I think the moment that I realized that we simply had to leave, was right around the time my son turned 9 months old. We were two hours north of the city and we watched him touch green grass for the very first time.

I said to Tobyjoe, “Do you realize this is the first time Em has touched grass?”

Neither one of us said another word.

Truthfully, I have no idea how to make this work. As much as I want to, as much as I’d like to, as much as we should be able to, we have no way of making this work. And up until recently, I haven’t been willing to accept that fact.

The clock on our stove has become a failure at its only function. We don’t even try and guess what time it is anymore. And at some point during the last two years, three more digital sausages burned out. I always thought I might catch one of the sausage’s final, parting moments. But other than that minor amusement, it’s been useless for a while.

What good is a clock that can’t tell time? What good is a clock that’s slowly dimming over time—quite literally?

Last night I was baking a homemade pizza when I paid our barely functioning clock a brief glance. I noticed that yet another link had gone dark. And with a chuckle it occurred to me that I may have had its function wrong all along. Perhaps it’s not there to tell us what time it is at all, or, at least not in the usual sense. Perhaps it’s letting us know in its own special way—through the dimming and eventual darkness of individual digital sausages—how much time we have left.

I just finished The Girls (thank you, Fran!) and The Road. Both were fantastic. The Road is probably one of the best books I’ve ever read. It will haunt me until I’m dead and gone (or I become a babbling old person with a deteriorating memory). It was filled with such nightmarish imagery! It’s downright terrifying and beautiful, horrific and sublime. If you haven’t read it, I suggest picking it up immediately, and do so before the movie is released. (Viggo Mortensen has been cast as the lead man. I’m not sure how I feel about that yet, but judging by what other women say, I gather he’ll bring some horny chicks and gay dudes to the box office.)

I could go on and on about this book and would very much like to, but that’ll ruin it for everyone else. The Road makes me wish Spread had made it. (Side note: I had such high hopes for that site. Yet another failed mihow project. I enjoy hating myself for online failures, which is why I’ve become so good at creating them.)

Anyway, I need a new book to read now. Maybe I should keep with the “The” theme I’ve got going. heh

Won’t you please help me (again)?

A few of you have emailed me asking about the vegan ice cream recipe I have. Tonight I’m giving vegan coconut ice cream a try. (The batter is currently chilling in the freezer.) I have high hopes for it, but who knows how it’ll turn out. Anyway, here’s the recipe I used:

5 cups coconut milk, canned

2 tablespoons agar agar flakes

1/8 teaspoon sea salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon coconut extract

1 cup maple syrup

Method:

1). In saucepan, combine coconut milk, agar flakes and sea salt. Whisk. Bring to simmer and cook slowly until agar is dissolved completely. (20-30 minutes)

2). Remove from heat and stir in vanilla, coconut extract and maple syrup. Whisk. Pour into shallow pan and cool until firm. (I’m using a shallow Pyrex.)

3). Add mixture to ice cream machine and churn until firm.

Please note! I cut the above recipe in half because I didn’t have enough coconut milk. I know with baking, things can go horribly wrong if you cut recipes in half. I’ll let you know how my amendment turns out. I’ll most likely update later assuming I have Internet access. (Time Warner is STILL out over here.)

EDITED TO ADD:

The ice cream turned out wonderfully! It has a great, creamy consistency and scooped nicely. Em and Tobyjoe both ate it up. I put a few chocolate chips on top and voila!

Let me know if you have any questions and/or suggestions.

Time Warner cable is out AGAIN. It’s been out since we returned home, no telling how long it was out before that. I’m wondering if this is a Brooklynwide outage or if we’re just really that unlucky. Either way, I am hijacking a neighbor’s wireless and it’s spotty. I’m here, the trip went well, and I’ll write more whenever I have some (real) Internet access again. TWM may have to wait until next week.

In the meantime, check out this hilarious picture taken of Em while we were in our hotel room. That’s what happens in our house whenever you take away the firewire cord or the guitar tuner or (in this case) the Nikon memory card reader.