Three Things

1. I think Lula needs a haircut.
2. We're staying at Aunt Bob's.
3. You shouldn't let musicians babysit.

Re: 1. Yikes. Straggly McGoofybangs.

Re: 2. Our house is currently uninhabitable. Painting is nearly complete, carpet to come soon. I haven't actually seen the place since I've been back.

Re: 3. Our friend Tom is in town, playing at the Kennedy Center again. While I was at work, Bump left Tom alone with both kids for a few minutes while he ran back to our place to get something. Tom left the baby gate open, and while he was getting Lumpyhead some juice, Lula went tumbling down the stairs. She's sporting a rocking bruise on her left cheek.

Their Name is Rio and They Lay the Carpet Down

I'm home. I can report that the past few days have been almost as crappy for Bump as they have been for me. His days certainly involved more manual labor, but mine required just as much endurance.

One of my colleagues gave up half of her bachelorette weekend (her husband and six-year-old son were out of town) to babysit my children. With generous help from Aunt Bob, Pete, Sarah and Mark, Bump moved stuff to storage and got the apartment ready for the painters.

Carpet is the next hurdle. Bump spent all morning calling around to schedule estimates.

We decided not to use a place called Rio Carpet in Gaithersburg. Bump was annoyed when he couldn't get the Duran Duran song out of his head, and I ruled them out because I was sure they would just lay a strip of carpet down the middle of the room and leave.

Something You Might Want to Keep in Mind When You're Buying Underwear that You Know is Going Straight to the B-Team

On Thursday night, my very nice Sioux Falls cabbie was gracious enough to stop at a drug store en route from the airport to the hospital.

I felt some time pressure -- with the cabbie waiting and the store closing in 15 minutes -- but knew it was imperative to find the right style of underwear. When pregnant, low-rise is pretty important. And it was as tricky as you might expect to find non-granny panties in a Lewis Drug Store at 9:45pm.

I was pretty psyched when I found an acceptable style - two packages, even. I snapped those suckers up and ran back out to the cab.

When I got to the hotel, I realized I had bought the wrong size.

I was crushed.

After I showered a mere few hours later the next morning, I chose small underwear that was clean over previously worn underwear that fit.

Internet, let me tell you this: If you're going to buy underwear in a size too small, get these.

Seriously.

They may have been hanging on for dear life, but those panties did not ride up, bind, or cause any discomfort at all.

Yesterday I was able to buy some underwear that was clean and the right size. I considered buying the Hanes microfiber again -- so impressed was I that the weensy-sized ones were performing so beautifully -- but I was skeptical the correct size would work as well. Instead I bought the stuff I normally wear, and today all is well in the World of Underpants.

So you can rest easy again.

(Oh, and my dad is doing well. He didn't need a valve replacement, had a triple bypass, and is in good spirits. His heart function is still worrisome, but he's certainly out of the woods. Thank you so much for all your good wishes.)

Refugee

Bump and I were planning to pack up half the condo and move it to a storage unit this weekend. The place needs less furniture to show well, and we thought it would be easier to paint and recarpet with less stuff around.

At around two o'clock, my mother called to tell me my father is having open-heart surgery tomorrow. My office had to pull me off the House floor to deliver the news.

I hopped on a 5:30 flight to Sioux Falls and didn't have time to stop at home to pack. I bought some tee shirts at the Minneapolis airport, and had the cabbie stop at a drug store for underwear and socks.

I had a new toothbrush and some toothpaste in my desk drawer, courtesy of my last dentist visit. I have an extra script for prenatal vitamins in my briefcase which I'll fill from the pharmacy in the hospital.

My mother is a mess. Bump is overwhelmed at the prospect of caring for two kids while packing and moving large pieces of furniture. My dad is subdued by the thought of serious surgery and his own obvious mortality.

I haven't had time to think. I have never gotten on a plane with literally no luggage and only the clothes on my back. I'm holed up in an hotel room straight out of 1962, but it's surprisingly clean and even more shocking: wi-fi enabled.

Bright side? Other than the wi-fi? I'll buy a few more clothes here as I am able, and maybe the new ones will actually fit me right now - as opposed to everything I currently own. In the meantime, damn am I going to be sick of this suit.

He Knows Who the Sucker in the House Is

Last month, Aunt Bob gave Lumpyhead Bob the Builder Legos. Lofty and Scoop, to be exact. (Or as I knew them, "Blue One" and "Yellow One.") And OH! the rejoicing and affection that filled the house.

Nothing was more awesome than Lofty and 'Coop. Lumpyhead asked to bring Lofty and 'Coop with him everywhere. Lula was not allowed within a three-foot radius of Lofty or 'Coop without the sharp rebuke, "BAY-BEE! Lumpyheeeud's pwaying wif dat!" God forbid she actually get her sticky hands on his prize toys and pull them apart.

A couple of weeks ago, Bump bought Lumpyhead Muck and Roley (aka "Red One" and "Green One"). Much joy followed.

Now, Lumpyhead points out on a continual basis that there are Bob the Builder machines that he does not possess in Lego form.

Lumpyhead: It's Roley!
Bump: Yep, that's Roley.
Lumpyhead: Where's Dizzy? You don't have a Dizzy.
Bump: Right, Buddy. You don't have a Dizzy. I know because you remind me like five times a day.

The thing is, that same conversation goes differently with me.

Lumpyhead: Where's Travis?
Me: I don't know, where is Travis? (Who the hell is Travis?)
Lumpyhead: You don't have a Travis.
Me: Okay. You don't have a Travis.
Lumpyhead: You don't have a Travis yet.
Me: Wha?
Lumpyhead: Mama buy one.

Nice.

Sasquatch Saw My Family's Carbon Footprint and It Scared Him So Bad I Think He Peed Himself

No kitchen = no dishwasher.

Also no sink.

We have to fill the Brita with a cup because the pitcher doesn't fit in the bathroom sink. I can't tell you how many times I have forgotten that I need to fill the water pitcher before I fill my glass, and I'm left with no method to fill the pitcher without going out to find another cup, which, goddammit, I just wanted a drink of water.

Bump and I are using disposable plates, cups and flatware.

I swear we would be giving Lula disposable bottles right now if we could. Lumpyhead usually only gets juice in a box when we're on the go, but he's now getting most of his juice from the vessel called a "Don't Squeeze It!" Does Solo make a sippy cup? Don't you think it was time they got on that?

You know what else? We're not recycling right now. We can't get to the second trash can/recycling bin, so we're just tossing away our recyclables with the regular trash.

With all the demolition-related noise, Bump often takes the tormentors out of the house for the day. If they fall asleep in the car, Bump sometimes drives around until naptime is done.

Bump drives an SUV.

I feel really bad about all of this. I don't hate the environment, really I don't, but you try washing a day's worth of dishes in your bathroom sink and see how fast you dive for the paper plates.

My little Dutch soul has come to terms with all the take-out and restaurants. I tell myself it's temporary, part of the cost of renovation.

But here's my cheapass, wanna-be-green quandary, Internet:

Bump and I have a very old - nearly useless - desktop computer. We call it "The Anchor," because it's so ancient my office tech guy says that's all it's good for. We plan to transfer the data from The Anchor onto an external hard drive, trash the machine, and import the data onto a sparkly new computer to be acquired sometime after we move into our sparkly new house.

I know I'm supposed to bring The Anchor to some special place and pay a fee to throw it away. (I also know I'm supposed to do something special with batteries, but honestly, I've tossed more double-As into the trash can than I can count, not out of malice, but because I always forget.)

This computer thing, though, is vexing me. Going through tons of extra effort and then paying someone else to dispose of something confounds me. It's a computer, not a body.

But I probably owe the environment at least $15, a penance for the plastic forks.

Helpful Hints from Lumpyhead's Mom

If you have one of those "automatic adjusting" alarm clocks that syncs up with an atomic clock somewhere in Colorado or some such, the most important button this time of year looks like this:

You know, it's bad enough that Daylight Savings Time kicks your ass by screwing with your kids' schedules. Does it really need to pile on and mess with your head? When you are certain you changed that clock already, but you change it once more anyway, and then in the middle of the damn night it fucks with you again.

I can hear that frigging clock in Colorado snickering at me.

Or maybe that's you.

::

You know what sucks more than not having a shower for over two weeks?

Not having a kitchen.

Not having a kitchen for a couple of hours sucks. Not having a kitchen for many days sucks even harder.

The dining room looks like this right now:

Donkey balls. As in, what it sucks.

Because the kitchen looks like this:

Good thing the paper towel holder is still there.

What was originally going to be just a linoleum and countertop replacement, with no need to move cabinets or appliances, has become a full-on new tile floor job.

The good news - for me, anyway - is I'm at work most of the time. So I don't have to deal with it. Perhaps this is the bad news for Bump.

::

Yesterday Bump and I were complaining about our relative girthiness. A few minutes later, our conversation turned to what to do for dinner, which is tricky without a kitchen and requires some planning.

Lumpyhead yelled "Maybe just a salad! Or some rice cakes."

If you don't want your kid to suggest that you're too fat, don't let him watch The Incredibles trailer at the beginning of Finding Nemo.

In My Head, I Pronouce "Debut" as "Dee-Butt"

Can you believe it? Tom Hanks was on the Hill yesterday, yet CSPAN-3 still covered our hearing from start to finish.

Our tech guy marveled at around 11:30pm, "There are still 40 people in the audience." Then he added, "Don't these people have homes?"

So, yeah. I was on TV.

Bump Tivoed it, which was nice, because it meant the tormentors got to see me this week.

Apparently my big fat head showing up on our living room TV pissed Lula right the fuck off, just like everything else does.

Lumpyhead thought it was neat, though. Then he immediately asked Bump when he could see Papa on the TV.

Great. My son sees me for the first time since Sunday, and asks to switch to the Daddy Channel instead.

Behold:

Cringe.

This is the only time I have honestly thought, "Wow. We really need to get a smaller TV."

There's a video link on the CSPAN site, but it's probably temporary and has my full name in it, so . . . If you're dying to see it, email me and I'll tell you where it is.

I See You, You See Me, You See Me on CSPAN-3

I know I'm the girl who cried CSPAN before, but I may actually be on CSPAN tomorrow. Not regular CSPAN. Not even CSPAN-2. CSPAN-three.

Probably around noon.

I'm guessing that if you happen to get CSPAN-3 on your cable lineup, you have no idea what channel it is. Am I right?

Last year, Al Gore preempted me. Jeez, you win an Oscar, lose an election, and invent the internet and suddenly people are all "ooh, let's follow him around instead of watching a bunch of old dudes talk about boring stuff."

It will be really boring. You've been warned. But if you're looking for something to do around lunchtime, point your browser to the CSPAN website and wave at me. I'm the not old white dude. There won't be very many of us.

Pregnancy-Induced Run-On Sentence

You know how the maternity crazies turn you into (more of) an idiot? Like when you have cramping and nausea and interpret it as the baby's brain turning inside out or as a sign you're about to spontaneously miscarry after fifteen weeks of perfectly normal pregnancy but it turns out it was probably just the McDonald's sausage biscuit you ate for breakfast? Yeah, that sucks.

Hey! Previously unheralded benefits of getting sick at work on the weekend: an overabundant selection of newly-cleaned toilets. I've been hesitant to admit this to you internet, but I LOVE being the first to use a freshly cleaned toilet. Am I alone in this? I suppose it really only counts if you're the one who didn't have to clean it in the first place, but I experience a little thrill when I get to put the seat down. (NOTE: this "seat up" excitement only exists at work, when it signals the custodial staff has just been there. The sentiment goes distinctly in the other direction when it is the result of a forgetful dude at my house.)

Being the first to sully a sparkling privy is usually a nice bonus, but when you're puking in a semi-public place, it's really more of a requirement. Hurling is difficult enough, it need not be compounded by thoughts of "Hmmm, mere seconds ago, someone else's ass was in the space my head now occupies." (For me, anyway, that relief is usually only granted by extreme drunkenness. You know what? I think it's better when it's provided by the janitor.)

Speaking of pristine commodes:

I christen thee: The Flying WASP.

Okay, Bump officially christened it, but it's probably best not to think about that.

As of Friday, we have a fully functioning bathroom. I KNOW! How awesome is that? Why, yes, for those of you following along at home that does mean we were without a shower for more than two weeks - a full nine days longer than anticipated. Thanks for pointing that out. Why, no, I'm not bitter about that at all. Not at all. Ermf.