To My Darling Husband

Dear Hubs,

I just wanted to write you this public letter thanking you for all you do. From buying me a brand new Macbook with only a minimum of cursing to your thoughtful Mother's Day gift of a bottle of wine for each child who drives me to drink (not to mention the tickets to see Ira Glass), you are the ultimate model of loyalty, affection, good humor, and generosity. Really, I can’t think of one single thing that I would change about you, except for maybe the way you refuse to put your shoes in the basket by the front door when you come inside. Other than that, you’re perfect! A true 9.99!

Why else do you think I run to the door when you come home each night and throw my arms around your neck (after picking myself up off the ground from my face-first fall over the flip flops you left in the hallway that morning)? It is only because I am so filled with joy to see you, my darling- and to remind you for the zillionth time to put your perpetually mud-encrusted shoes in the damn basket.

We’ve stuck together through good times and through bad. We’ve had so many romantic evenings together, dancing to 50-Cent here, eating Chateaubriand in a five-star European restaurant there, that I can’t even count them all. We’ve also had our share of sleepless nights, you changing puke-covered crib sheets, me pacing the floor with a wailing baby and then stumbling to my knees over the ginormous pair of Doc Martens you planted in the center of the hallway-for-God’s-sake-what-were-you-thinking. We’ve gotten through it all together. You, me, the kids, and your shoes. Your big, dirty shoes.

But we're more than husband and wife- we're also best friends. When you're not here, I feel lost. Everything reminds me of you, from the sneakers you dumped in front of the kitchen door to the loafers you abandoned in the exact spot where you took them off in the dining room. Images of your handsome face fill my head and I wonder how on earth I got so lucky to end up with a man who is so much fun to be around, and yet absolutely refuses to put his fucking shoes in the motherfucking basket!

Here's to the years we've shared, Dearest, and to many more years to come. May we spend them together in a perpetual state of blissful Nirvana (which requires, I'm told, bare feet) and learn to recognize trouble by any name, whether it's Nike, Birkenstock, or Bass Weejun.

All my love,

Lindsay

The Episode

Wednesday will forever live in my mind not only for the Cataclysmic Event That Shall Not Be Named, but also because on that extraordinarily fateful day, Bruiser experienced a rite of passage that will affect him for the rest of his life...

He discovered his. Uh... You know.

"Mommy!" Punky yelled from the kitchen floor on that most significant of afternoons. "Bruiser taked his diaper off!" This was not an out of the ordinary occurence, unfortunately. I sighed and looked down from where I was eating lunch at the table and... there he was. Discovering. And laughing loudly.

Punky was laughing, too. "It's so silly!" she giggled helplessly. "He has a belly button way down there!" The three of us sat laughing for a few minutes, me feeling slightly guilty. What was the protocol for this situation? I hadn't exactly read up on it, what with the burning of the baby advice books and all. I resisted an urge to snatch his hand up and say, "Get away from there," which is what I do in just about every other situation in which he finds himself. Instead, I politely looked away as he poked and prodded and chortled with glee. And when he was done, I put his diaper back on.

I half-expected the next morning to see a hair or two growing from his chin when I pulled him from his crib, or hear the crackle of manhood creep into his "Mah-mees." But in the aftermath of what I now refer to as The Episode, he's remained pretty much unchanged. There is no newfound wisdom in his eyes, no knowing grin when he spies girl babies in the YMCA nursery. There hasn't even been a repeat of The Episode, although he does try to sneak in a little self-awareness each time I change his diaper.

And I'm realizing this whole thing marks a milestone for me, too. It's the first of many, many occasions, I feel certain, in which I wonder how on earth I'm supposed to raise a... boy.

Oh God, Part II

After letting my computer dry out for three days, I pushed the power button and, miracle of miracles, it started right up!

And then it shut down again. Apparently, I hadn't been specific enough in my "kneemail."

Since the Lord helps those who help themselves, I made an appointment with a "Genius" at the Apple Store. After reading all of your comments, I was just sure that a Genius could fix the problem. All of my programs and files were showing up on the screen, after all- The damned thing just wouldn't stay on longer than ten seconds. Hopefully, the glitch would be an easy (and inexpensive!) one to fix.

With that in mind, I arrived at the Genius Bar at the appointed time and told one of the "Geniuses" my problem.

"My son spilled water on my keyboard," I explained. "It was only a little bit of water. And now the computer starts right up! See? But it won't stay on."

The "Genius" glanced down at my computer, then closed the cover. "Yeah," he said. "In the case of a water spill, we have to send the computer out to a third party for repair. They will repair whatever damage there was for a flat rate of $840."

"I'm sorry, there must have been some mistake," I said, flashing him a sympathetic smile. You see, I made an appointment with a Genius. Not a moron. Could you like, at least take a look at it and try to fix this?" Oh yeah, I said that all right. In my head.

"Your other option," he continued, trying to hide a wolvish grin, "is to buy a new Macbook, at a cost of $1099."

And then I fell down on the floor and died.

Once Hubs revived me, we had a hushed conference while the Moron smirked in front of us. The word "shit" was used, as was "bankruptcy" and "financial ruin." And then Hubs tossed his credit card at me in defeat.

"Okay," I said shakily, turning back to the Moron and holding out the card. "I guess I'm getting a new Macbook." I burst into tears.

"Great," he leered, ignoring my loud sobbing. "I can set up a one on one appointment with one of our specialists to work with you on exactly what you need. They will walk you through the whole process and-"

"Uh. I just need a new Macbook," I interrupted, wiping my eyes. "To replace the old one. And I need it, like, now. Can I not get it now?"

"Oh, of course," he frowned. "I'll get someone for you right away." He returned with a guy named Huckster. Huck for short.

"Let's go take a look at your options," Huck said smoothly. I held out my Macbook. "This is my option," I said. "I need the replacement. The one that costs $1099."

"Fine, fine," Huck replied. "You'll probably want to get this to go along with it." He held out an online backup program, with a $99.99 price tag.

"No," I said. "I don't. I just want the computer."

"If you had had Apple Care," Huck continued, "Your repairs wouldn't have been as expensive. I'm sure you want Apple Care this time around."

I frowned. "How much is Apple Care?"

"$249.99," Huck said quickly.

"No," I said. "I can't afford Apple Care, okay, Huck? Look," I said, lowering my voice. "I just need to get out of here as quickly as possible, before my husband blows a gasket." I pointed to Hubs, who was rubbing his temples over in a corner.

"Okay, okay," Huck said, and disappeared into the back. And really, that's all you need to know, right? I bought a new computer that I couldn't afford. All the money from our tax return that we were supposed to put into our savings account to replenish some of what we hemmorrhaged last year on having a baby, unexpectedly buying a car after our family car was totaled, and a serious illness instead went to buying a computer that we probably don't even need.

Today, I still don't have the computer because Huckster and the Moron are supposedly transferring the hard drive data from my old Macbook to the new one. Once we get both computers back, we're going to try and get the old one fixed at a more reasonable price and make that one the "new" family computer. Our current family computer is a Presario from 1997.

So that's the update. I'm broke and miserable. And I'm totally disgusted by my Apple store "anything for a buck" experience. I feel dirty just thinking about it.

Let's not speak of this again, mkay?

Oh, God

This afternoon is the Moment of Truth for my poor Macbook and for some reason, I don't have a very good feeling about it. I think it's going to take a little extra mojo to make the thing work. Details to come.

And thanks for your suggestions about selling Bruiser to the Gypsies or auctioning him off on Ebay, but he hugged me like, 50 times yesterday and has developed this charming way of saying "Mah-mee, Mah-mee, Mah-mee," with his face buried in my neck, so I don't think I'm going to be able to bring myself to honor any of your requests.

Thank God I wrote all of my Parents.com posts early in the week. It's like a part of me knew the Macbook Baptism was going to happen, because ordinarily, I'd be waiting until the very last second to post to The Blender. I don't know why- I actually like it over there, because I feel freer to post about my every day life, but there you go. Anyway, here's what's going on over there:

• Why teenagers and preschoolers really aren't all that different.

• I hate playdates.

• Except for when I don't hate playdates.

I'm going to put up some reviews later in the weekend, including TWO great giveaways. Keep your fingers crossed for me when I turn on my Macbook this afternoon, because on the craptop I'm using now, this post took about 1,000 hours to write. Seriously. I keep War and Peace beside the computer so that I can read a few paragraphs at a time while waiting for a page to load. That's how pathetic the last few days have been.

The Horror

Well, hello.

I have some crappy news with which only you, my dear Internet readers, will truly empathize.

Yesterday, the unthinkable happened. I was innocently typing away on my Macbook when Bruiser reached up and knocked my water over ONTO THE FUCKING KEYBOARD.

No. It's not working. Yes. I tried to turn it on. Which means, I found out too late, that I probably short circuited the whole thing.

And so I'm typing to you now from the craptop. It's the computer I bought used for a freelance job seven years ago, the one with a flickering screen, a dead battery, and "g", "h", and "delete" keys that mysteriously stop working for days at a time. It's the one that takes about five minutes to load a freaking page, and the one that can't support photo or video software. That one.


This is bad, bad news indeed.

I'm supposed to let my Macbook air dry for three days and then try again to turn it on. If that doesn't work, I'm just screwed. I have pictures on that computer that weren't backed up (not all of my pictures, but definitely some). I have personal writing that definitely wasn't backed up, most notably a long letter to Punky detailing the funny events of her life that would only be of interest to the two of us. And I definitely can't swing a new Macbook right now. I'm trying not to think of all of this, though. I'm trying to be hopeful.

So please, Internetz. Light a candle for my laptop. Pray for its survival. Send positive thoughts its way. I am severely limited in what I'm able to do with the craptop, thus my virtual future depends on the Macbook working again. And in the meantime, if you know of any powerful executives who'd like free longterm advertising on this blog (or my soul, whichever they'd prefer) in exchange for a piddling little ole brand new Macbook, send them my way.

One More Reason Not to Argue in Front of Your Kids

In one of those Moments of Mommy Guilt That I Will Revisit in My Mind for Years to Come™, I inexplicably opted to watch an episode of Twin Peaks last night without bringing the baby monitor to the TV room. It was only 45 minutes long, I reasoned, the kids had just gone to bed, and they almost never woke that early in the night. Of course, you know what's coming next.

I came out of the playroom at the end of the program and immediately heard screaming. Bruiser was ugly crying in his crib, and he'd been at it so long that he'd set Punky off, too. I quickly made Bruiser a bottle of warm milk (after two sips, he passed back out) and we decided to let Punky sleep in our room after she told us between sobs that "In the dark, all the things in here look like monsters!"

We pulled together some blankets and pillows for her at the foot of our bed, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. After a few (hundred thousand) whispered "Mommy?"s from Punky's makeshift bed, she finally grew quiet, leaving Hubs and I to continue a (completely ridiculous) argument that had been flaring up all day.

"[Insert cliched argumentative insult of your choice here]," Hubs whispered angrily.

"[Insert immature response to cliched argumentative insult here]!" I fired back.

"Mommy! Daddy!" Punky called at our feet. "You need to go to bed! It is way past your bed time!"

We shut up. But Hubs couldn't resist a parting shot.

"[Insert lame blanket statement that isn't even true here]," he said quietly.

"Hey!" Punky shouted. "I said be! Quiet! You're just wasting your time!"

Despite myself, I burst out laughing. How can anyone argue with a four-year-old around to mediate?

Oh, And You Can Take That Spirit Stick and Shove It Where... Never Mind

"Hi... Lindsay?" a woman asked me at the supermarket yesterday.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I'm Aimee Taylor," she said. "We cheered together in Junior High."

"Oh my gosh!" I said. "Wow. Hi."

"I used to see you on TV all the time when you were a reporter here," she continued, "and I always thought, 'I know her!'"

We chatted for a few minutes, reminiscing about other girls on our squad. She couldn't have been nicer. And as I continued on in the grocery, I thought about how much things had changed since the last time I had seen Aimee.

That bitch had tried to make my life a living hell.

I went to a school where the girls who made cheerleading won a coveted free pass to popularity. That's why in seventh grade, the first year we were eligible to be on the Junior High Squad, every single girl in my class tried out for two open spots. In the end, my best friend, Stacy, made it, and so did I.

There was no question Stacy would make the squad; She had been cheerleading on the Pee Wee Football Pep Squad since she was in diapers. But I have no idea how I got in- I mean, I had never cheer led in my life. And it showed. I had done a lot of theater as a child, and for the judges to have chosen me despite my flailing arms and legs, I must have played the role of my life.

No matter. The day after the Senior Captain of the Varsity cheerleaders posted the Junior High Cheerleading roster on the gym door, a poll was taken at lunch, ranking the seventh grade girls in order of popularity. My best friend was number one and for the first time ever, I was number two. God, I want to do a Herkie just thinking about it.

By the time our week-long cheerleading workshop rolled around, though, neither popularity nor a big smile were enough. I sucked, and the rest of my squad let me know it. The captain, in particular, took sadistic pleasure in letting everyone else sit and watch me do cheers over and over again in front of the other girls, "until I could get them right." Aimee, along with the other eighth graders, would snort and whisper and sigh and roll her eyes while I became more and more discombobulated. Fortunately, our sponsor, a well-liked high school English teacher, noticed what was going on and pulled me aside for a pep talk.

"You're doing it all wrong," she whispered angrily, tightly clutching my arm. "You're really horrible."

"I know," I said. "I'm trying, but it's hard. I've never done this before." 'Hard' was an understatement. Learning cheers was like trying to speak Mandarin backward. Half of them made no sense whatsoever. Consider this:

"Get back! Get back!
Gack! Don't take no slack!
We're rolling down the field,
won't stop to your attack!"

What the hell? Gack? I swear I'm not making this up. Whomever wrote our cheers would graduate to a career as an e-mail spammer- Of that much, I'm sure.

Anyway, from that week onward, the older girls on my squad treated me like an empty bottle of Love's Baby Soft. They pretty much ignored me at practices and perpetually kept me on the back row during games. Stacy made a halfhearted attempt to continue being my friend, but it was hard, particularly when we'd be talking and one of the older cheerleaders would interrupt us in order to invite her, but not me, to a cheerleading sleepover.

Yep, seventh grade was pretty much the worst year of my life. So far.

But damn, it sure was good to see Aimee again. She looks just like she did in Junior High. Particularly if it's dark and you're partially blind and you overlook her Sharpie-applied eyeliner and sun damage wrinkles. And then you turn your head sideways and squeeze your eyes almost shut so that you can only see about a third of her. At that point, she's practically a ringer for her 13-year-old self. It was really heartening to see she's doing so well.