Goodbye, Blogger.com

Baby Poop and Business Suits has moved. I will no longer be posting the intimates of my life on this site, but, instead, you can find me here at my new site. It's not perfect yet, but it's a start.

I'm sorry, blogger.com. I know it was only a moment we had together, and it was fun while it lasted, but I've found someone else. Someone stronger, sexier, and well, smarter.

I'll call you, okay?

No, I haven't been hit by a comet

To my five loyal readers who might have been wondering why I haven't posted in the last week (these five loyal readers include my sister Hillary, Dean Gemmell, my best friend's mom Jan, and my two imaginary friends whose names I won't mention),

I haven't posted cause 1) I'VE BEEN CRAZY BUSY!!!! AAAAAHHHH! and 2) I'm in the process of switching my blog to typepad.com, and it has been taking a lot longer than I thought it would.

I know you're just dying to hear what I've been up to, and want more details about my zits and toenails. Be patient, my loves. I'll be back with plenty-o-ranting and many not-so-deep thoughts soon.

Gerah

The Non-Intellectual Lowdown

I am a 27-year-old zit-head with long, sharp, jagged toenails. I'm sorry, whoever is reading this, but these are the things that I spent most of my day worrying about, and, so, this is what is on my mind right now. I do not claim that what I write on my blog has to have any sort of intellectual or cultural significance. It's my blog. I'll write what I want. No, I don't spend ALL day thinking about my complexion and my feet, and yes, I do have "normal" everyday thoughts, like, "AW, jesus, my alarm clock is going off already?" or, "THIS is what I brought for lunch to eat today?" or, "Okay. I have 35 projects to accomplish this afternoon and I'll probably get to 3. I should just get up and leave my closet-sized cubicle RIGHT NOW and walk out the door and be done with it."

Honestly, my life has not been too bad lately. I find I've got more to write about when things suck, and I can sit down and write about how terrible it is being a working mom and how I can't juggle it all and waa waaa waaah, cry me a river, right? Then I wait for comments to appear on the blog from people telling me they understand me, or how no, I am NOT a terrible mother for wanting to beat my kid.

Well, life's been good, so, I've got nothing to complain about and get sympathy for. Okay, I lied. I do want to complain about my toenails. This morning I was running late and in a mad rush to get out the door as usual, and I was searching through my drawer to find a pair of black tights that don't have giant holes in the crotch, feet, or runs up the leg. While I was frantically searching, Kyra was picking up the bedside phone as usual and pushing numbers asking "Mee-Ma? MEE-MAA!?" into the receiver. So, while I was trying to insert one leg into the hole-less tights I was also trying to avoid my daughter from accidentally pushing 0 or dialing 911, or phoning Bolivia, and SOMEHOW I cut a large bloody gouge in my hand with my toenail. Let me say that again. I cut my hand with my toenail.

If that isn't a sign of how I've let myself go since motherhood, I don't know what is. And, WHY I am now using my 1 hour of free time today to write about this rather than giving myself a home pedicure, I have no idea. Let's not talk about it.

I did also note this morning on how being a working mother spoils all of those good nutrition intentions I once had. When I was home with Kyra every day, breakfast time, for example, was a very important time. Before she was eating "big people food" I made all of her baby food with direction from the Fresh Baby kit. Home made baby food you say? Radical, yes, I know it. I'm a goddamn anarchist for pureeing peaches in a blender and freezing them in trays rather than buying four THOUSAND little Gerber jars of food. Anyways, when she started eating normal food, I always made sure she had a nice warm meal, and fresh fruit, etc. like home made waffles, whole wheat pancakes, etc. I was a good mom. Now, I bring a breakfast bar into the bathroom in the morning and let her eat it off the floor while I'm showering. Okay, okay, some days she gets cheerios. Off the floor.

DISCLAIMER: The breakfast bar/cheerios are just a tide-you-over-till-REAL-breakfast. She gets a real breakfast at daycare. AND I make a real breakfast the days I'm home. For new readers, I only work three days a week. Tomorrow the kid's getting pancakes with bananas in them and fresh friggen' maple syrup. Tomorrow's a good mom day.

I also want to mention the zit thing. Why, for the love of christ am I still getting giant zits? I am going to be a salmon-colored-dress wearing bridesmaid in 3 weeks, and if I have a GIANT zit for this event I will be ticked right off.

I just had a flashback to one of my favorite childhood shows, "The Wonder Years" of the episode where Kevin gets the giant zit and is an emotional wreck. That is me right now. I am Kevin Arnold, a self-conscious, pubescent teenaged boy.

Beware Parents, They Hear EVERYTHING

I've just finished cleaning up from an evening with the in-laws at our house. During their say, my darling little five year old niece was looking for our cat, Elliott, and suggested we go upstairs find him. We looked and looked to no avail, so I mentioned to her that he might be sleeping in my husband's closet, downstairs. She then replied: "My cat likes to sleep in my closet too, but he wakes me up in the middle of the night because he scratches the HELL out of my wall."

Aw, isn't that sweet. The adorable little curly headed five year old curses like a sailor.

How's The Weather?

The month of March in Michigan is enough to make a generally optimistic, happy person like myself want to slit my wrists.

This morning, before I even opened my eyes as I lay in bed, I could sense the silvery-grey, gloomy light hurdling it's way through the window blinds into my bedroom. On a sunny day, the brightness of the early hours pulls me from my cozy sleep, and invites me out of bed in a happy, chipper, energetic, childlike voice. "Get Up! Get out of bed! There's so much to do! Clean the house, go for a walk, bake, sing, tapdance, whatever!"

Today the voice was more like some demonic moaning from another dimension. "STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. INNNNNNNNN. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED. IT'S TWENTY DEGREES OUTSIDE. IF YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE TODAY, YOU WILL BE COOOLD. WET. AND COVERED IN MUUUUUUUUUUUD."

Although the demons were telling me not to go out this morning, I had a prior engagement as a juror at the KIA to review applicants' submissions for the upcoming annual art fair. A year ago, when I was a 100% SAHM (Stay At Home Mom), I relished community involvement activities like this. Although I wasn't working a full-time job for money, I was volunteering right and left and being a really good doobie. I'm not happy to admit this, but now that I'm working again, I don't give a rat's ass about volunteering in my community, sitting on boards, or helping out others. When I'm not at work, I want to be home with my family. I hate that I feel this way now, but my free time is limited. If I have to choose between promoting arts and culture and my child, sorry arts and culture, the cute little blondie running around my house comes first.

As I got on the highway, I honestly couldn't believe how crappy the weather was. Not only is it March and it was snowing, but it was also raining. It was snaining. Or raowing, whatever you want to call it, it was a big grey slushee of a morning. I then thought to myself for the 400th time this year: "Why do I live in this god-forsaken place? There are so many other places on this planet that would be more pleasant than here!? Yes, our families live around here, but that's why they invented airplanes and email. Living in Michigan is abuse. We get maybe 3 months of good weather out of the year if we're lucky, and then the rest of the year it seems as though we are always looking forward to the next season, but it never arrives.

March is the worst though. It's a big kick in the shins. Last weekend we had a couple of glorious days. When I say glorious, I mean freezing, but sunny. My body has been screaming for outdoor activity. I have gained five pounds in the last month (which, ironically, is equal to the time I gave up exercising and housekeeping for blogging), and I keep wishing that it would AT LEAST get nice enough to go for a walk. So, last weekend, we bundled up, strapped on my new pedometer, (yes, I know, I'm a dork) zipped Kyra up in her Nano Bag in the stroller and went outside. I was determined to get a good hike in. About 1 mile into the walk I was getting a bit tired. I just kept thinking to myself, "Gerah, toughen up! Frodo and Samwise hiked all the way to Mordor, some days, even without food. Quit your bitchin'!"

Exercise is good for the soul. The problem is, in Michigan, just when you start getting some good weather and get excited about being outdoors, you get a blizzard the next day and get stuck inside for another few weeks.

I need a vacation. If anyone would like to send me free airplane tickets and an expense paid stay at an all inclusive resort, just send me an email and I'll give you my mailing address. I'm not picky about where the resort is, anyplace that's not spewing slush from the sky will do.

Who Forgot The G.D. Muzzle!???

So, yesterday was my birthday. Whoooopie. Yeah. Blah. I always hated old people that say corny stuff like, "Oh, yeah, just another birthday... Let's just not talk about it and pretend it's not happening... Oh, hehehehe, hoo hoo hoo, yes, I've been 25 for 25 years now..."

Wocka. Wocka. Wocka. Shut up.

Well, I am one of those people, starting yesterday. I'm grumpy and cynical and I'd like to tell myself to shut up. As of yesterday I'm old and annoying and don't want to get any older. I used to not get the "cucumber boob" jokes or understand why women complain about "those damn teenage girls in their slutty outfits," but now I get the jokes and think that girls in high school dress like hussies.
I blame it all on stupid J-Lo.

On any other birthday I would have walked around happily telling everyone I see on the street that it is my birthday, then look forward to a wild night out including tons of friends and possibly a keg stand. Yesterday, for my birthday, I looked forward to my daughter's nap.

I spent most of the morning doing dishes. Our dishwasher broke last week and while on hour #2 of scrubbing plates, glasses, sippy cups, and those little rubbery sippy-cup-stopper-things, I started to loose consciousness and imagined I was Ma from Little House on the Prarie down by the river scrubbing the plates with Half-Pint in tow, or that my name was Pocahontas and that I was on the trail with a papoose strapped to my back. I might have been barefoot.

My big plans for my birthday were to go out to dinner with my husband and daughter, my parents, my sister and her man. My dad called during the day: "Hey, yeah, how ya doing?" "Fine," I said. "Why?" "Well, I was just thinkin' you might want to get a babysitter tonight."

How dare he, I thought. I LOVE my little gal. I enjoy spending time with her, out for birthday dinner and everywhere! I absolutely must include her in our birthday feast. So, I told him so. "Oh, okay, well, I was just thinking you might enjoy your dinner more if you got a babysitter, no big deal," he said.
So that was that. I told him!

30 seconds after we sat down for dinner I was wanting to bang my head on the table repeatedly and thinking, "WHY DIDN'T I GET A BABYSITTER!!!??? WHY!!!!! WHHHHYYYYYYYY!!!???"

The little princess was throwing a royal fit. There were three other tables dining at the restaurant when we arrived - within 10 minutes the place was empty, save for us. Usually, I can control my child by sitting her on my lap, walking her around, or bribing her with food, but tonight, she was seated away from me, in between her Grandma and her father, TWO OF THE BIGGEST SUCKERS FOR LETTING HER THROW A FIT.

Here are samples of comments that escaped from my mouth during the uncontrollable child fit:

"Would SOMEBODY get this kid some food!? Good, GOD, just put something in her mouth to shut her up!"

"WHO FORGOT THE GOD DAMN MUZZLE!"

And again, this time aloud for the whole restaurant to hear: "WHY DIDN'T I GET A BABYSITTER!!!??? WHY!!!!! WHHHHYYYYYYYY!!!???"

Then my mother commented:

"You know, when you were this age we loved you so, so, very much and we didn't think we were going to have another child, but, um, well, you started to become a complete spoiled brat, and we decided you needed a sibling..."

(CODE TALK FOR "HURRY UP AND GIMME ANOTHER GRANDBABY, YOU BABY FACTORY.")

Once little grouchy pants (I'm talking about the baby, not me here,) got some food in her, she cheered right up. (She gets that from her mommy.) The rest of the night was filled with good eats, laughs, and a sweet little girl voice saying "Ha-py Urfday, HAP-EE, HA-PEE, HA-PPY..."

And when I reflect back on my birthday last year, which was also my first birthday as a mother, I realize that this year wasn't actually so bad. Last birthday, we spent the whole evening massaging a constipated baby's stomach with towels laid out all over the living room floor and inserting suppositories into her "a-hem" while on the phone with the on-call doctor who was instructing us to dig her poop out with our fingers.

Yeah, this year's birthday wasn't so damn bad after all.

Doin' the Food Dance

This morning the Dutkiewicz fam got up and around early and went to one of our favorite restaurants, Food Dance Cafe for breakfast. We love this place not only because the food is spectacular, but because the restaurant is like a gigantic piece of artwork. The walls are covered with murals of gigantic larger-than life vegetables. One wall features huge asparagus spears that must be at least 30 feet high. There are giant pumpkins, grapes, radishes, carrots - you name it. The hallway walls are painted so that on the way to the bathroom, you walk through a field of corn and if you look closely, you'll notice little pixies and faerie folk sitting on the stalks.

Formerly, it was Jeremy and I that got all giddy and excited to go there, but after today, I think we have a new mini-Food Dance lover. During our meal, Kyra was so happy she was laughing, squealing out loud and chair dancing. She'd take a bite of her pumpkin pancake and then put her arms out and boogie. She was diggin' it so much she just had to dance.

I must mention - most parents complain about their finicky eaters and kids that spit their food out and throw it on the floor - this was never a problem for us. Our kid can CHOW DOWN. We actually used to get worried that she was going to explode. We'd be sitting there at the table, jaws dropped, watching her shovel it in, going, "Where the hell does this kid put it? She eats more than we do!"

Today was no exception. Jeremy and I were finished with our meals, our plates had been cleared, and the bill was on the table, but the little lady was still going strong. Bite of toast, dance. Chunk of cantalope, dance. Squeal, giggle, look around, point, dance. Eggs, pineapple, O.J., boogie, boogie, shimmy.

Miss Kyra was doing The Food Dance.

Magic Fingers

I just got home from getting my hair done this morning, and I must say - my stylist is gifted. I mean, the actual hair style is good, fine, great, but, that's not the the talent I'd like to focus on here. This guy is damn amazing. He gives a shampoo scalp massage than could turn a salon into that restaurant scene from When Harry Met Sally...

The first time I went to get my hair done by this fellow I didn't know how to react to this scrumptious shampooing. As his bubbly thumbs worked their way down the back of my neck, I wasn't sure if I should feel molested and offended or grab him and give him a great big kiss. Do I comment on what a good job he's doing? Do I tell him how good it feels? I tried to imagine verbalizing my gratitude without sounding like an audio clip from some soft core porno: "Oh, gosh, that's great, wow, WOW, that feels goooooood." I decided to keep my mouth shut.

"Is this normal?" I asked my EX-hairdresser who is a friend of mine. "What's up with this massage? It was like, pure heaven. Why is he doing this?" I said. "Yeah, it's totally normal." she replied. "I'm technically supposed to do that for all of my clients too, but I'm always usually in a hurry and don't bother."

WHAT WHAT WHAT!!!!? She was supposed to be giving me an orgasm of the scalp for all these years but she was just too busy!? ARG. I want my tips back.

Anyway, so today after he rinsed, I finally spoke up.

"Could I bring my husband in and pay you to teach him how to do that?" I said. He giggled.

"No, really. You're good. Has anybody invented a robot that you can buy and it will give you shampoos like this at home? If there isn't a robot like this, there should be. I'd buy one today." Again, polite laughter from him.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I just wanted to note how amazing a little TLC to the head can be. Man, it made my whole day great. I would recommend to anybody who gets their hair cut and who DOES NOT currently receive this special treatment to ask why. And if you don't get a straight answer, ask to SPEAK TO THE MANAGEMENT. ASAP.

When I came today, I picked up my lil' gal to give her a hug and noticed she had also been freshly bathed and shampooed. I put her head up to mine and inhaled that glorious just-bathed-baby smell. At the same time she exhaled Cheerio breath back on me.

The smell was as good as the scalp massage, but this time the pleasure was all for the nostrils. Toasted oats and baby shampoo. I would have never imagined that combination would smell so wonderful. I wish I could bottle it up and take it out and sniff it in 15 years when she won't want to give her mama sweet baby hugs anymore. Instead, she'll be flipping her freshly shampooed hair at me, slamming doors in my face and not even want to eat Cheerios, let alone eat them and then let me sniff her breath...

Oh, Kyra. Stop growing so fast. Or, hurry up and grow, attend cosmetology school, and then visit me every day to give momma her special shampoo.

Bottle Of Wine + Blogging = BAD

I am posting this as a personal reminder to myself. This would be in that same category as being drunk and phoning up your Ex to tell them how much you love/hate them. It never ends well, and should be avoided at all costs.

Click and Clack

Set your alarm clocks for 10:00 a.m. Tomorrow, (Oh, wait, TODAY!) I will be caller #9 on Car Talk, the fabulous show on NPR, with the hilllllarious hosts, Tom and Ray.

I will not be able to hear the airing, as I will be getting my hair cut, colored, and styled, and will pay half my week's wages for the aforementioned services. I am hoping that my sweet, adorable, computer geek husband will find a way to record the show so that I don't miss it...

I had an interesting evening tonight, in fact, I am having a rough time typing because I am sure I consumed 6 or more alcoholic beverages.

NOTE TO READERS: It just took me five minutes to get the spelling of alcoholic correct.

This leads me to another topic: Does this make me a bad mom?

I refuse to believe I am a bad mom because I went out for a night on the town and had some drinks. I will have you know, I don't drink much anymore. A night like this is rare for me, but I cannot shake the mommy-guilt feeling. You know, the one that sits on your left shoulder and says: "You bad, BAD, mom. How DARE you leave your innocent, sweet, little daughter, and go out wining and dining without her."

So, actually, I'm trying to refuse that feeling that is sitting on my left shoulder. "GET OFF MY SHOULDER, YOU EVIL LITTLE BASTARD!"

I know I'm a good mom. My daughter will wake up, bright and cheery tomorrow morn, at six-friggen a.m. with a semi-hung over mom who loves her dearly and would jump in front of a train to save her life.

Tell me how awful I am. Tell me that you understand me.

Tell me that you heard me on car talk this weekend.

Sincerely,

Bad Mom Geahrah, I mean,

Gerah