The stamina of Chuck Schuldiner 3 Sep 2010

Yesterday I was commiserating with another mother about the temperament of our infants who are close in age, although her son doesn't seem to have as much trouble as Marlo does with teething. I've mentioned this before, but when a tooth starts to poke its way through her gum she is inconsolable and sits on the floor screaming like someone stole the Oompa Loompa she had on layaway.

Another woman was in on our conversation, but she doesn't have kids, and she asked if it was really that bad. And I held out my arms to signify hours and hours and hours of bad. And she was like, wouldn't that be kind of fun, though? To have permission to sit in the floor and just scream all day long? And I could totally see where she was coming from, and wanted to extend that to having someone feed me grapes and wipe my bottom while cooing.

But then I thought about it for a second, and I don't think I could sustain a scream for that long. Even though I work out every day, I think I could maybe make it five minutes. Maybe. Think about the stamina it would take to scream for over and hour. And then think about how boring and monotonous it would get. Unless you're into death metal, then I guess it would be a total party.

Is that what I'm raising? Someone who is going to grow up and growl lyrics about violence and Satanism and necrophilia? Because I think my dad would prefer she turn out that way rather than vote for a Democrat.

There's hope yet, Dad!

by dooce in Daily, Marlo, Parenthood

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as The stamina of Chuck Schuldiner. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Breakfast nook 2 Sep 2010

We've been eating off of old Mormon Church tables that the previous owner left behind until the table we ordered finally arrived for the breakfast nook. For a while there it felt like we were sitting down to eat refreshments at a wedding reception being held in the gymnasium of the church, but only Mormons will probably understand that reference. AND MY CRAVING FOR GREEN JELLO.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Style

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Breakfast nook. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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My first grader 2 Sep 2010

During our family photo shoot Leta's transitional lenses started to darken because of the light, so I had her take her glasses off for a few shots so that we could get a good shot of her eyes. I think it worked.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as My first grader. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Office remodel, episode two 1 Sep 2010

This should surprise no one except for maybe the two people who just googled CONSTIPATED WALRUS BALL and pulled up this website for the first time that Jon has spent the last ten days researching the gravy out of how to use all his new video equipment. Also, we've been to therapy since the last video, and so this episode of our office remodel doesn't have the I REFUSE TO THANK YOU FOR UNLOADING THE DISHWASHER WHEN I HAD TO ASK YOU TO DO IT IN THE FIRST PLACE kind of tension going on.

However, I've heard that kind of tension is good for make-up sex.

(Skip that part, Dad. Mom, you know what I'm talking about.)

I think you'll like the improvements, including the surprise at the end. And yes, without giving too much away, that is photographic evidence of the mustard yellow pajamas and dead bird on my head from the weekend. Who loves you?

brightcove.createExperiences();

Click here if you are having trouble viewing the video. (Give it a moment to load before you click this link!)

by dooce in Daily, Video

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Office remodel, episode two. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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So I know I can't dance 31 Aug 2010

If reincarnation is true, I want more than anything the ability to dance when I come back as another being. I don't care if I'm a frog or a piranha or a rock inside a cave. LET ME BE ABLE TO SAMBA! I could watch people dancing for hours. Forever, maybe. And when it's done right I get goosebumps and start to cry and feel like calling my mom to gush about the beauty of the earth because I know she won't go twitter about what a nitwit I am.

(plenty of Internet strangers already have that job covered)

I saw this on Kottke today and have watched it several times. And then I got goosebumps so badly that I had to go put on a coat. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but I am so envious of people with this talent.

Just, DAMN!

(also, seeing Patrick Swayze doesn't help the tears)

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as So I know I can't dance. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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When there were three 31 Aug 2010

Life was so much simpler then. Before Rambo came into our lives and drew first blood.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as When there were three. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Won't you be my neighbor? 30 Aug 2010

Everyone I know has had The Summer Cold, and up until last week I had managed to avoid that plague. Jon had it all week last week, and then I woke up Friday with my throat closed so tightly I couldn't even drink bourbon for breakfast. And I was all, what will my cousins in Tennessee think of me now!?

Chad! Robert! I promise I can still cook me up some good roadkill!

And it hit me hard. So hard that I put my pajamas on Friday night and did not change out of them until, oh, five minutes ago. Now, I don't own fancy pajamas. Mostly I just wear Jon's discarded XXL t-shirts. And it just so happened that the one I grabbed on Friday night was his mustard yellow Webtard t-shirt from Mule Design (note, the shirt has been discontinued, probably because they got as much hatemail as I'm going to get for even agreeing to own such a shirt in the first place, don't I know that some people have raised high-functioning webtards? And while you may see them as different they are just the most special beings in the world.)

Shit. I'm already a homophobe for suggesting that some gay men take a long time to get ready. And now I'm throwing around the word TARD. Next thing you know I'm going to be making fun of hill folk. Your unfollow finger is getting twitchy!

All of this to say, we have to take our garbage and recycling cans to the curb on Sunday nights, and Jon was in a rather untoward mood last night. So instead of asking him to do it and having him accuse me of nagging him to do it, I just up and done did it myself! In my pajamas. Barefoot. WEBTARD AND ALL.

Mind you, if I haven't changed out of my pajamas in over two days, it's pretty safe to say I haven't brushed my hair in just as long, and as I was walking out the door I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the glass of the window. HOO! What was that band called in the eighties? Flock of Seagulls? One of them up and died on top of my head!

So I was wheeling out the garbage can that was full of Marlo's poopy diapers when suddenly I saw a man in a suit rapidly approaching me, and since that can was so heavy I really couldn't drop it and run. Otherwise that thing would probably have crushed me. So I kept my head low, thinking surely this man would not see the dead bird on top of my head or the mustard yellow t-shirt or the fact that I did not have on a bra. There are only so many ways to make it look like you're not trying to cover up your bra-less boobs. I learned each of those ways last night. None of them are convincing.

Because it wasn't just the man in the suit who approached me, it was two other neighbors. THREE STRANGERS IN TOTAL. All eager to meet the new family on the street. Except my nose was running, I had WEBTARD written across my shirt, I was grabbing my boobs in all sorts of awkward ways, and my hair was pretending it was an entire crowd at a football game trying to do the wave except the fans in the end zones were messing it up because they were so drunk.

Oh, shame. Heather B. Armstrong is thy illustration.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Won't you be my neighbor?. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Vermeer 30 Aug 2010

Except instead of Girl With a Pearl Earring it's Dog With Old Maternity Underwear.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Vermeer. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Diva 30 Aug 2010

Someone did not get the Cheerios she had written into her contract for photo shoots, and here she is throwing a fit even though we did provide diapers made from the wool shaved from lambs blessed by the Pope.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Diva. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Featured community question wherein Jon makes his mother proud 27 Aug 2010

Today's featured question comes from user dirtdiva321:

I figured this was an appropriate question given that Jon and I eloped on a cliff at Yosemite eight years ago this week, and that Monday morning we were sitting together on a couch across from our therapist. I like to compare her to a chiropractor: we see her when we need some adjustments. Except instead of popping a bone in my neck she just rolls her eyes and says, "I thought I told you to stop being so dumb."

Jon and I see our therapist at least twice a year, more if there's a lot of stress in our lives. Sometimes we can slip back into behaviors that we thought we'd overcome, but you know... low immune system, lack of sleep, etc, and next thing you know Jon is on the toilet with his iPad and I'm standing on the other side of the door, Marlo in a death grip around my neck, and I'm screaming THERE ARE NO LEISURELY POOPS IN PARENTHOOD, JON.

That's one of the things I love about him most. Not the hour-long poops, no. GOD, NO. It's his willingness to work on things, to take a look at himself and see his role in whatever is going on between us. He goes to therapy with me without dragging his feet or covering his ears with his hands. I feel very lucky to have found someone with this mentality, because I know some men would very quickly change the subject from "therapy" to "you're acting like your mom, now excuse me while I openly scratch my junk."

I love that he knows how to wear a pair of pants so that they hit his shoes at just the right angle: not too high, not too low. Trivial, perhaps, but I guess this speaks to his style. He's got just enough. He knows how and when to look good, but not so that it would take him longer than I do to get ready. That may be old fashioned of me, or it could be that I dated quite a few closeted gay men in Los Angeles to know. You never want your man taking longer than you to get ready. Because if he does then odds are that he really wants it up the pooper.

And then third? I have to mention that he is an amazing father. He steps up. Sometimes (like many men I know) he has to be reminded to step up, but that's usually because he knows I'm a control freak and doesn't want to mess up whatever system I have in place. THAT was a fun therapy session:

Me: I need you to help more on the weekends.

Jon: I would, but last time I did you got mad at me for every little thing, like putting Marlo to bed so early!

Me: RIGHT! BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW HER SCHEDULE!

Jon: You mean the schedule you have written down only in your brain?

Me: Yes! THAT ONE.

He's particularly amazing with Leta and usually has an endless well of patience when it comes to her quirks. I'm much more like my father's side of the family, the one that throws rocks at cars and approaches discipline as if we're raising a military. He's incredibly skilled at working through her brain to find out why she's reacting a certain way when my knee-jerk reaction would be STOP ACTING THAT WAY. NOW GIVE ME FIFTY PUSH-UPS. ONE ARM.

I have a lot to learn from him. That's a number four, I know, but it needs to be said.

Happy eight years, Peanut Butter.

by dooce in Community, Daily, Jon

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Featured community question wherein Jon makes his mother proud. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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