They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight... shunting trucks and hauling freight...

I love, love, LOVE my little boy. He will be three in the spring. He is gorgeous, funny and let's face it...a frickin' genius. Really, I truly believe he is smarter than the average toddler, along with the rest of all the proud parents on the planet.

Speaking of planets, he is very into the solar system. He names all the planets and can pick out the Big Dipper in the sky which just blows me away. I love that he calls cherry tomatoes "moonsquirters" with a bonafide british accent, courtesy of Charlie & Lola. My new favorite is that he now says "how 'bout" all the time. For example:

Daddy: Hey, how about if I read a book to you?
Peanut: How 'bout Mommy?

Mommy: Hey, how about we change that poop dipe?
Peanut: How 'bout NO?

Little pisser. Are you still with me? Have your eyes gotten that glazed-over look yet that people who don't have kids tend to get when some parent or other is blathering on and on about their kid? I used to get that look too. Of course if you don't have kids, I doubt you're checking out this blog.

Remember the crap-ass train set we bought from FISHER-PRICE, whom, by the way...does NOT stand by their products whatsoever when they are purchased from area stores only to be determined pieces of crap upon getting them home? Due to space issues we moved the train set into his bedroom. It sits there, untouched. I know my husband feels badly about it, because he's the one that picked it out, and was hoping he would get much enjoyment out of it. He did though...he got enjoyment out of all of the presents we bought him until at least January 1. I don't take offense, the kid is two for gods sake. Will it be any different when he's twelve? I doubt it.

So the point of the train story is that he has done what we were praying he would not do...become a Thomas The Train disciple. I've always felt smug about the fact that while other parents are running around like crazed lunatics battling for various Thomas garb...saving coupons to get 40% off of a single piece of train track, etc., my husband and I were thanking our lucky stars that we weren't being forced to break our bank accounts for the dopey-looking train and Sir Stupid Hat or whatever because, as my genius son has stated, "Thomas is boring." We thought so too.

Well, apparently the Thomas Fairy has been spending his nights in my son's bedroom, sprinkling him with Thomas dust or coal dust from the coal car, I don't know...but overnight he has become Thomas' biggest fan. My day care provider had a small set at her house, not a giant train table or anything, just a simple plastic set. He loves it. It's all he has talked about all weekend. This morning, he said "How 'bout Thomas?" instead of "How 'bout Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?" and sat through the whole thing. As I sip my coffee at the kitchen table I realize I'm frantically searching ebay for Thomas.

I escape to Walmart to get some much-needed toiletries. I decide, just in case, to peruse the Christmas clearance toys. Awesome deals! I bought a Mr. Mouth game for $5 as well as Hungry Hungry Hippos. I'll save these for his bday. I'm ready to turn around and skedaddle when I stop in my, oh I don't know, tracks shall we say.

There, on the highest shelf, sits all of the Thomas clearance items. They scream out to me with their bright-red low price stickers. I see $30, I see $20....not enough to suck me in. But then I spy a box that's not marked, that's slightly different than the rest of the sets. I look closer. The heavens start to sing. It's $10. A simple set with a loopy track complete with Thomas himself, a bridge, a tunnel, a train station and some decorative shrubs. I snag it. I feel guilty because I know my husband will be even more disappointed, because he knows our boy is going to blown away by this when he wakes from his afternoon nap and sees that his fantastical Mommy has assembled it for him as a surprise.

I just can't help it, I just want to make him happy all of the time. Does this mean he will be a spoiled brat? Why have I suddenly found myself stumbling over the difference between wooden, die-cast and plastic Thomas stuff? Why is the theme song burrowing a hole in my brain...oh what's that, something's climbing out of the hole - it's Sir Topham Hatt! And James! And Percey and Gordon and GAAAAHHHHHHHH.

Just what I did NOT want to happen. I've become one of them. One of those crazed lunatic parents I've previously mentioned. But I know that the look on my son's face will make all of the craziness worth it. I just love that little peanut.

Update: Train set went over fabulously. He got much enjoyment out of it for 40 minutes, then the evil DVD's were calling his name. Husband seemed smug about the fact that the train set wasn't great enough to distract him from t.v.

Sexaayy...

So I'm at Wegmans at 7:00 this morning for the famed bi-weekly grocery shopping trip (I'm happy to report that once again I found "Flashback" and guess what - Stairway To Heaven...and all is well with the world. Phew!). I woke up at 6 and dragged ass out of bed with a killer sinus headache. No coffee in the house. Was so tired last night I put both contacts into the same side of the case, decided to wear glasses so as not to exacerbate the headache by trying to figure out which contact is which. Ratty ponytail in effect. Pull on jeans fresh from the dirty clothes hamper.

There are some scary looking people grocery shopping at 7 in the morning, and guess what - I'm one of them. Since there is a blizzard outside I take the opportunity to wear my scarf just under my eyes, and "forget" to pull it down to a more reasonable body part (like say, my neck) once I'm inside. I do my shopping, praying I don't run in to anyone I know because, from wearing a fleece scarf around three-quarters of my face I have learned that I forgot to brush my teeth before leaving - lovely.

I collect my produce, all the while avoiding the good-looking man who keeps smiling at me (me? me? well of course I mean, I HAVE been working out...), but wait, certainly his smile is pure amusement as he is obviously thinking "wow, that is one FUGLY mama..." or maybe he is reminiscing about the great sex he had last night with his own sexy mama, whom by the way is still asleep in her satin pajamas while her sexy man dragged his ass out of bed at the crack of Jack to do the grocery shopping for her...

In my produce man trance I realize I'm standing there holding a package of mushrooms and my eyes have unfocused, you know that thing that happens when you zone out and look like a crazed zombie? Wait, is that laughter? Who is cackling? I pretend it's not the hot produce man but in my heart of hearts I know the truth.

On my way to the checkout I realize I have forgotten to grab some Aleve Cold & Sinus. Completely off topic but I can't BELIEVE how much money I shelled out for allergy shots and multiple Allegra prescriptions, all the while feeling like shit, when I could have been taking Aleve C&S over the counter. This stuff is awesome! Anyway, I turn my cart, teetering with at least $250 in groceries, and lose a package of ground turkey, along with some Pirate's Booty. I bend down to get them and take out a display of Goody hair elastics. I hastily put things back and try to act like I've got everything under control.

I go to where the sinus meds are kept and don't see the Aleve. I begin to panic. I have a toddler for gods sake! Doesn't Wegmans know I need to make it through the day with just a shred of sanity?? Can I manage with the Advil or Tylenol Cold & Sinus? I start sweating. I look frantically for the Aleve, thinking in my haste I've overlooked it. I look closer. There, where the package should be, is a paper card advertising the drugs I want. I look closer and see that there instructions on the card, I'm to take it to the pharmacist and ask for the meds there. Good deal. Odd, but I'm happy all the same.

I turn the cart (we'll call her "Titanic") towards the pharmacy and stop dead in my tracks. I see an ex-boyfriend checking out. Not just any ex-boyfriend. THE ex-boyfriend. My first real love. Okay, second...but I liked him better than the first. I catch a glimpse of myself in the little mirror next to all the Revlon makeup and nearly shriek in horror: I am HIDEOUS! Dashed are my dreams of his realizing that I'm the one that got away. He will realize I'm the one to GIVE away.

I dart in and out different aisles (had to ditch the Titanic in order to do this) to ensure my invisibility. He is far enough away that he doesn't see me. Relief washes over me as I watch him walk out of the store. I am safe.

I return to the pharmacy with the aforementioned Aleve card which has been twisted into a nervous pulp. The cashier looks at me with the same smile that the hot produce guy did. Maybe I don't look all that bad, I tell myself. Maybe men don't care as much as women think. I hand him the card and he promptly asks for my identification. For what, sinus meds? I ask him why. Without looking me in the eye he explains that the state is cracking down as people are buying OTC meds in order to make crystal meth. As he explains this I convince myself he thinks I'm a meth addict. He still has the smile on.

I get my stuff and prepare to head to the check-out with the Titanic. The cashier at the pharmacy looks like he wants to say something. For a split second my foolish mind tells me he's going to ask me out. How sweet! He was probably like 3 when I was in high school.

"I'm sure you're aware that you have a Chiquita banana sticker stuck to the side of your head?" he asks me.

In my mind I see the powers that be frantically rushing around their control room looking for the button that will open up the cavernous hole beneath my feet and I will quietly drop in. "Hurry up, hurry up before her head explodes!" they are yelling.

I pluck the sticker off of the side of my head, damning the hot produce guy the whole time. No wonder the jerk was smiling. I pull my scarf up under my eyes and get my index finger stuck in a snarl when I try to nonchalantly fluff my hair. "Of COURSE I'm aware of it." I say. I'm not crazy after all. Just in bad need of a shower and a cup of coffee.

I arrive home with the arsenal of groceries that will hopefully last until the end of the month. Husband asks me why my shirt is on inside out. Lovely.

Borat

I realize that this movie is SO late 2006, however this is what happens when you have a toddler. You just don't get out much. The good news is, we are so lame and homebound much of the time that blockbuster movies like this one eventually end up in small theaters downtown. These theaters charge far less money than the mall cinema. They also make popcorn with real butter, and sell water bottles for $1.00. Best of all you get the lucky opportunity to sit in a living-room sized theater with easy chair seats - YES!

The movie itself was hilarious. I assumed I would hate it. Slapstick comedies are never my first choice. My husband and I laughed our silly asses off through much of the entire movie. I definitely could have done without all the ass-munching in that one hotel scene, but after all was said and done, it rocked. I love Sacha Baron Cohen. I'm sure there are millions of people who missed the point of the movie altogether, who assume he's a racist bastard. If that's the case, you weren't paying attention. He shows us how ignorant some people (Americans, in this case) are. I find it amazing what comes out of people's mouths due to sheer ignorance.

Sacha Baron Cohen, you ROCK! I'm sure there are some who may be mortified to know he is up for many awards this year i.e. Golden Globes, SAGS, and hopefully Oscars. He truly deserves to win. I can guess that those who disagree the loudest are only upset that they may have seen themselves in his movie.

Hey, I wasn't born yesterday...or was I?

I discovered pot when I was nineteen, my best friend introduced me and we spent a lot of time getting stoned and discovering all things mary jane. Like making homemade pipes out of toilet paper rolls, eating a whole bag of Doritos in one sitting, decorating the face of a large man named Tyrone with that cheap Wet 'N Wild lipstick while he was passed out - okay, so that's a story for another day - a big part of all this is that we started discovering music outside of our Boyz II Men/C&C Music Factory bubble.

We rolled joints to The Doors. We thought Morrison was God and lusted over the Val Kilmer version of him. We did bong hits to Led Zeppelin (will always remember an old friend looking down his nose at me and dryly saying "what do you mean you have never heard Stairway To Heaven?"), we listened to all the stuff my sisters grew up on and loved it.

We spent a lot of time driving around. We listened to that radio show "Flashback" with Bill St. James. Bill St. James of the cosmic deep and sexy voice. He would whip off 60's and 70's trivia and spin good tunes that we felt the need to get baked to. , Each week a different year was in the spotlight. It was a really good, although really lazy, time in my life. We were young and free...and we were young!

This has been a nice trip down memory lane for me. So much so that I've nearly forgotten to include the whole point of this story.

It's Sunday morning. 6:45 a.m. I'm driving into the city for my bi-weekly shopping trip. I look forward to it, it's a ritual. I sip my coffee out of my travel mug and eye the sunrise in the east. I think of what I'll make for dinner that night. I immediately grow tired of wondering how I'll get anything resembling nutrition into the 2 1/2 year old and flip on the radio.

Imagine my excitement when I hear good ol' Bill St. James announcin his signature "Flashback" with all those trippy effects on his voice. I can't believe it! I immediately feel 20 years old again. I get the urge to light a cigarette, but oh wait, I quit smoking in 2002. I instinctively turn the volume up, feeling those little prickles you get sometimes when you hear a good song (I'm not the only one, right?). I'm thinking Zep's The Song Remains The Same. I'm hoping anyway.

But wait, why is it that Bill St. James is spinning U2's New Year's Day? What's that now, is that "Foolin" by Def Leppard? Are you Fa-fa-fa fuuuucking kidding me? I mean, what year is this, anyway? What! 1983? I'm so old that Flashback is up to 1983? Bill St. James, surely you jest. You're a traitor, sir! In 1983 I was twelve years old, that was like, five minutes ago...how is it that the music that I grew up on is now considered "oldies"? This is not what's supposed to happen Mr. St. James, Sir! Oldies are oldies, dude - how dare you play 80's songs early on a Sunday morning! How about some Jimi Hendrix? He's old AND dead - come on now! Okay, okay, I'll try to calm down - but only if you can assure me that Duran Duran isn't included in all this "old" talk. That might put me over the edge.

So what does this mean then - are there 20 year old kids out there tonight, getting stoned in their cars to Spandau Ballet's "True"? Are they smokin' up to Dexy's Midnight Runners "Come on Eileen"? I'll bet they've never even heard of Pink Floyd or Black Sabbath.

My, my, as the world turns...I remember a time when everything seemed so much bigger, life was stretched out in front of me, like a long ribbon of road. Now I sometimes feel I'm still on that road. But what's that - up ahead? Oh, it's a brick wall. I feel the burn now more than ever since I've had a child. I want to soak up every bit of his childhood. I want things to slow down as he begins to go through life. Why does everything go faster when we get older?

Well I suppose I can't dwell. Have to do what we can while we're here, etc., etc. Although I must say if I were twenty years old today, for sure I would be getting chinese eyes along with Mr Roboto.

Happy New Year, right? I mean, it is the New Year, isn't It?

Then why is there still a GD christmas tree in my living room? Why are there still presents in their boxes laying underneath it? Why are there still tiny figurines of fat men in red suits laying their lazy asses all over the house?

Oh wait, that lazy ass is me. I just can't get it together after the holidays. I feel overwhelmed and unorganized. While I think it's perfectly okay to have piles of clothes strewn about my bedroom I need order in other parts of my life. Bills need to be paid, floors need to be vacuumed and then of course the toilet needs to be cleaned. Errands need to be done and they are just piling up in my head when I should be writing them on paper. I am the Keeper of the Order (was that a serial killer or something? Stephen King book? I think so. Maybe Jackie Collins? Yep - that's it, Hollywood Wives) and if the Keeper has fallen asleep on the job then there is no order and no order makes Lo an irritable, PMS-y type girl.

Oh wait, maybe it's all just PMS.