Hilary's Zoo

A little family in a big city, part 3

Earlier this month, a contingent of my close family members boarded an Amtrak that was passing through a certain dangerously hipster town in central Virginia.  Destination:  New York City.  Sensitive cargo: NIECUS.  Here's what happened next.

Part 1 is here.  Part 2 is here.

Episode 3: Diaper Change of Doom

This is what happens if the Niecus’ mother walks out of the room without taking the Niecus with her: War.

On the last night they were in New York, my sister and brother-in-law went out by themselves.  I volunteered to babysit, which means I volunteered Zookeeper B and my mother and Ranger to babysit, too.  I did this, and I would do it again.  I have grand plans for this Niecus, namely, to steal her from her parents, so a little crying in the middle of a posh restaurant isn’t a serious deterrent.

Actually, that’s a lie.  She didn’t cry in the middle of a posh restaurant.  Just everywhere else.

As soon as her parents left our apartment for the evening, the Niecus lost her shit completely.  She screamed down the whole building.  She cried so forcefully that it sounded like whooping cough.  We were a little dumbstruck, honestly.  I’ve met babies before.  It’s not like I'm unfamiliar with children.  Niecus is a different animal, though.  A screaming animal.  All anyone could think was “get out the door.  Get out the door, get the child outside, do something, do something, DO SOMETHING TO SHUT HER UP, ANYTHING.”  The problem with trying to coordinate four adults and one inconsolable infant and actually get everyone out and on the way to dinner is 1) nobody can hear anyone else, and 2) the mounting panic causes odd and inefficient behavior.  I put my scarf on and took it off again three times for no reason.  I remember Mother trying to wrap the Niecus up in her coat, which caused me to snap, “leave the coat and HAND ME THAT SPATULA.”  We did eventually make it out of the apartment.  The Niecus did not have her coat on, but at least I remembered to pack the spatula in her toy bag.  Because I’m a genius.

The miracle that happened between leaving the apartment and arriving at dinner was that Niecus chilled out and fell asleep.  For almost half an hour after we sat down to eat, she slept.  Then, when she woke up and reared her little dragon head, all she did was sit peaceably and play with her toys.  The four of us kept looking around at each other with idiot grins on our faces, like, “Omg.  Look what we did!  We have control!  Nobody even knows there’s a baby here!”

So what do you do when you’ve successfully arranged both a sit-down dinner and a happy baby?  I don’t know.  Evidently, the one thing you should definitely avoid is changing the happy baby’s diaper.  The one thing I definitely pursued was changing the Niecus’ wet diaper.  I carried her down to the bathroom, past hordes of hipsters at the bar, basking in what I perceived to be their great admiration.  “Look at that elegant lady with that precious baby!  So well-behaved!  Such nice hair they both have!”  (Note: Nobody said these things in real life) I suppose I should have been more attuned to Niecus’ mood.  If I had been, I might have correctly interpreted her escalating squawking as an early warning system (of disaster), instead of assuming she was doing normal baby squawks.  As soon as we walked through the bathroom door, it was over.  Niecus had had it.  She wailed.  Too late, I realized that this was not the sort of establishment that installed baby changing tables on the walls.  Neither was it the sort of place with, um, counter space.  That left…the floor.  If I’d been thinking clearly, I probably would have been like “screw this” and gone back to the table.  There’s food at the table, and food makes Niecus happy.  A wet diaper never killed anyone, either.  Instead, I did the most logical thing I could think of at the time, which was to drag a supply cabinet out of the corner, wipe down the exposed floor with a baby wipe, remove Niecus’ wet diaper, sing her the Diaper Song (ask her parents), and struggle to fasten the new diaper, despite Niecus thrashing and kicking and doing basically everything in her power to thwart my fastening efforts.  I tugged her leggings back on, backwards.  I tossed the diaper in the trash without wrapping it nicely.  I did not put the supply cabinet back, and I didn’t wipe down the changing pad with any disinfectants.  I didn’t wash my hands, either.  I’m not sorry about that.  I just ran.  Out of the bathroom, up the stairs, past the hipsters at the bar, up the other stairs, and back to the table.  I grabbed Niecus’ bottle, which Niecus then grabbed from me and tilted alllllllll the way back, all by herself with her little hands.  Then I picked up my wine and tilted it alllllllll the way back with my elegant lady hands.  This is the photo ZB took of that very moment:

My best guess and greatest hope is that this photo personifies our relationship forever.

Day 3 photos:

<Sister trims my bangs.  Because I did it wrong.  Don't ever trim your own bangs>

<Men>

<Pizza?>

<Yes.  Pizza.>

<Uh oh>

<NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!>

<Plop the Niecus under an overlarge FAO Schwarz gorilla, because, why not?>

<Ranger smiles!!>

<Diplomatic Summit: Baby Edition.  Niecus plays with les enfants francais>

<Quiet, Lois, MEN are talking>

<Lois>

<She's a good restaurant baby.  Just don't change her diaper>

<Babysitting is easy>

<Except it isn't.  Babysitting is hard>

<Especially when the baby rolls off the bed>

<Babysitting is really only easy when the baby is sleeping>

<Actually, babysitting is easiest when Mom gets home and babysitting is over>

The End.  Niecus' first trip to New York was a great success, especially since the city is so loud that it doesn't matter if she's also being loud.  Which is often.  The good news is that my sister has seen for herself that Niecus is the fairest baby in all the land, even in the Big City with all of the international babies in their Dior slippers.  Next step: baby modeling.  Once she loses some of that pudge.  We don't call her Niecus Obesus for nothing.

A little family in a big city, part 2

Earlier this month, a contingent of my close family members boarded an Amtrak that was passing through a certain dangerously hipster town in central Virginia.  Destination:  New York City.  Sensitive cargo: NIECUS.  Here's what happened next.

Part 1 is here.

Episode 2: The Jacket

Virginia winters, which last a tolerable two-ish months from Christmas through Valentine’s Day, are like a variety show of weather.  It’s as likely, on any given day, to be 50 degrees and sunny as it is to snow.  You get nuggets of mild weather tossed into the winter drudgery.  To honor your humanity.  To spare your heating bill.  To help you decide that tonight is a good night for tequila, and not for suicide.

It’s different in the North.  By Halloween, the North becomes a sunless planet with winds that mock your understanding of “direction” by blowing always straight into your face, regardless of which way you’re headed.  You’re walking east?  Brutal wind in your face.  It’s too much, you’re turning around to walk west?  Wild, icy wind in your face.  And it’s wet.  It rains for weeks.  When it isn’t raining, there’s a sinister, seeping dampness in the air that freezes your nose and can plunge you into a depthless despair in the ten minutes it takes to drag the dog around the block.  Furthermore, your shoes are done for.  Yankee regulations call for three inches of salt to be spread on the ground for every half inch of anticipated snow.  You wake up in the morning, check the weather, and cry.  Every day, for five months.

That’s what the weather was like when my family was here.  My sister and brother-in-law arrived wearing winter clothes, carrying a Niecus bundled in winter clothes, because, you know.  Also, though, because it isn’t a family gathering without yelling and biting, my mother and Ranger arrived wearing t-shirts, basically.  ZB and I gently encouraged them to borrow some of our winter wrappings.  This generated a lot of squawking and teeth grinding (obviously).  Ranger clenched his jaw when I brandished several wooly items at him.  He rejected a heavy coat like it was a disease.  He eventually accepted a scarf, very dramatically, pinching it between his thumbs and index fingers and gingerly wrapping it around his neck like it was a rabid ferret.  Mother was no easier.

"I'll be warm enough!" she declared.

Me, handing her a North Face parka: "You can't wear only a cardigan.  It's March.  Put this on."

She did, then fiddled with the zipper for negative two seconds before dramatically flopping her hands to her side.  "It won't zip."

That's what she said.  Here's what she meant: "I don't want to wear this.  I want to freeze to death in the bitter gales of late winter Yankee wind in my thin sweater and gauzy 'scarf'.  I don't want to say that and sound petulant, though, so I'm just going to say the jacket won't zip, even though I didn't actually try to zip it."

I looked up at Mother from whatever I was doing (picking pickle chunks out of the sofa) and said to ZB, "watch this honey: this is our future."  Then I grabbed the unzipped sections of the parka and zipped up Mother's coat for her.

I've always wondered what age Mom would start reverting to infancy.  Now I know.  56.

Day 2 photos:

<Niecus was not impressed with Uniqlo at first...>

<...but she perked up when she discovered the floor-length mirrors>

<Such a lady>

<Then she ate her socks...>

<...so we popped some gloves on her feet, instead>

<ZB Outfit Watch.  Child Accessory>

<She liked her dim sum at first...>

<...but then she didn't>

As a final note, while the rest of us were buying disposable, planet-ruining polyester fashion pieces at Uniqlo in Soho, my brother-in-law embarked on a fantastic voyage to the little town of Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  I told him not to go ("It's too far," I said.  "You'll get lost," I said, "Nobody even knows what 'Greenpoint' is."), but he didn't listen.  I was mentally arranging for his funeral all day, because trekking out to Greenpoint today is most like driving a covered wagon westwards 200 years ago.  He's a scrappy adventurer, though, and when we arrived back at my sister's hotel, he was waiting there for us.  WITH WINE!  And these lovely things, which live with us now:

<Fancy fancy>

<It's true>

 

Part 3 (and 4?  I don't know) will follow, through Sunday Thursday.

UPDATE: Part 3 is here.

A little family in a big city, part 1

Earlier this month, a contingent of my close family members boarded an Amtrak that was passing through a certain dangerously hipster town in central Virginia.  Destination:  New York City.  Sensitive cargo: NIECUS.  Here's what happened next.

Episode 1: The Pickle

Last time Zookeeper B saw Niecus, she hardly counted as a human baby.  She was very young, very sleepy, and easily controlled by the simple tucking of blankets around her appendages.  Crying wasn't really in her repertoire.  In other words, she wasn't providing the most truthful representation of herself.  Niecus at six weeks old was sort of like online dating profiles: a charming lie.  But, a lie.

At eight months old, Niecus has two settings: screaming, and stuffing her face.  Girl is fat and pretty.  Girl is a mess.

Before they arrived, my sister advised me to get a jar of pickles, which are Niecus' new favorite snack.  She doesn't have teeth yet, so there's no chewing of the pickle.  It's more like a pickle popsicle.  She just sucks on it, occasionally pulling loose pickle bits from her mouth and flinging them...nowhere, really.  Just, you know, wherever that pickle bit needed to be at the moment.

I didn't always know all of what I just told you.  It was acquired knowledge.

What happened was, ZB was bouncing Niecus on his lap.  My sister suggested that I administer a pickle to the Niecus, which I did.  The first problem is that I'm not a parent.  I have only a fuzzy grasp of the chaos unleashed when an infant gets their hands on food.  This makes me ill-equipped for disaster mitigation.  As soon as I handed the pickle to Niecus (after, you understand: not before), I realized two things:

1) Pickles can be messy, and

2) ZB was wearing velvet pants.  New velvet pants. Fancy velvet pants.

"Wait!" I yelled, although I'm not exactly sure what I meant for anyone to do.  Certainly not to relieve Niecus of her pickle.  That would be doom for us all.  I grabbed a clean towel and rushed back to ZB's side.  In less than a minute, Niecus had virtually deconstructed the pickle down to individual atoms.  Pickle juice was everywhere.  Pickle chunks were slathered all over her face, hair, entire body.  Miraculously, ZB remained un-pickled.  I spread the towel on his lap, and started to pull a corner of it onto my lap, because, silly me, I was also wearing new pants.  Don't ask me why we were both wearing new pants on a day that centered around full-contact baby wrangling.  I told you, we're not parents.  We don't have those survival instincts.  One half second before I finished pulling the towel over to cover my lap, something wet bounced off of my hand and plopped onto my thigh...and my new pants.

"Shit," I declared, but there was no emotion behind it.  With one toss of a mangled half-pickle, Niecus destroyed any expectation on my part that new clothes shall remain presentable, or that clean clothes are a thing that exist.  As both my sister and brother-in-law noted, while I stared in disbelief at the new pickle stain on my pants, "There's no containing...anything."

Life with Babies, Lesson 1: Do you value an object?  Fool!  There's your valued object, in a slobbery, destroyed pile in the corner.  Throw that mess away.  No crying!

Day 1 of the visit, in pictures:

<Niecus on a train.  Reading (OBVIOUSLY)>

<Niecus on a train: Manhandled>

<Collecting the rabble>

<Penn Station.  ZB greets the Niecus.  Uncertain Niecus is uncertain>

<In one hour, these pants will be Pickle Pants>

<Niecus Documentation 101: Give her something to chew on.  Sit her on the floor to roll around.  Take one hundred photos.  Hope that two of them are not blurry>

<Niecus' first dive bar!>

<Trouble>

<Yolkyolkyolkyolkyolkyolkyolkyolkyolk> <Momofuku Noodle Bar.  More on this in a second>

<She slept nearly the entire time.  Except when she screamed.  But mostly she was good>

<Subway.  I thought Niecus would be scared of the trains, but girl was nonplussed>

<A little family in a big city>

We Don't Have Manners in This Family, Exhibits 1-5 (Momofuku Noodle Bar):

Parts 2-?? will follow tomorrow through Saturday Sunday.

UPDATE: Part 2 is here.

Flu

You know what my favorite ever Christmas present was?  The flu.  Which is what I got this year.  A mutant flu bug had a Christmas party with my immune system and got it drunk, basically.  Then, my hungover immune system was like, "oooh.  On vacation over here.  You just keep sweating and hacking your lungs up.  Until I feel like saving you."  Which was NEVER.  I'm still coughing.

Obviously, the moment I woke up feeling like an extra in Contagion, I hopped into a car, locked the doors and windows, and spent seven hours breathing on my parents and brother while we made our way to my sister's hunting lodge  yurt  house in the woods of central Virginia.  I spent the next six days curled up on the only couch in the place, coughing and sweating and drooling into her couch cushions.  The holidays are a time for sharing.

Nobody caught my Mayan Apocalypse flu bug, miraculously (except possibly my brother in law.  But he's only been married into this family for a year.  He's still in the hazing period, so it's okay to get him sick).  I was especially worried that the fat and tiny Niecus Obesus (say it: KNEE-SUSS O-BEE-SUSS) would get her first flu from me, but she did not.  Let me tell you what she got, instead.

The thing about infant babies is that they aren't real humans yet.  They can't talk.  They can't text.  They can't get their own Cheetos from the kitchen, dammit, and leave mine alone.  And their intestines are, um, testy (haha!).

It's true.  Babies don't poop on a normal schedule, and this can make their parents hyper stressed.  During the first three days that I lay dying on my sister's couch, 90% of the conversation happening around me went like this:

"Did she poop yet?  No?  Is she farting a lot?  How does her tummy feel?  Does it feel bloated?  Oh, she just grunted!  Check her diaper!  Any poop?  Not even a skid mark?  Huh.  Here, give her some organic pumped Mom milk which I've mixed with prune juice.  Give her some mushed peas.  Give her a pizza crust.  Anything!  Give her a warm bath.  Rub her belly.  Squeeze her belly.  DON'T SQUEEZE HER SO HARD!  You'll give her brain damage!  She farted again.  Did that sound different from normal?  Is her skin a healthy color?  Let me call the nurse.  The nurse said she's probably fine.  What does "probably" mean???  Did she poop yet?"

Meanwhile, Niecus Obesus was being treated like a veritable WMD.  At any moment, there were approximately seven adults present to take control of a squirrely Niecus warhead.  Between Christmas and the new year, she didn't touch the ground.

Niecus persisted in her strike.  I guess she likes having a clean diaper.  This was unfortunate for her parents firstly, because they had to worry.  It was unfortunate for the rest of the family second, because we had to feel nervous about whether or not Niecus had pooped, even though we had a small inkling in our brains that it was very likely okay that the Niecus had not pooped.  If you've ever spent time with new parents, you quickly learn that "logic" and "probability" and "range of normal [insert noun here]" lose all meaning.  Everything is an emergency, ESPECIALLY A BAD BABY WHO WON'T POOP.

Thirdly, it was very bad for the unfortunate Niecus Obesus, whose mother very suddenly had had enough.

First, some Flu Facts and Context:  there are a lot of things about having the flu that make you feel like taking ALL of the Nyquil and being done with it: Cold sweats.  Cactus throat.  The odd feeling of imminent spontaneous atomic dispersal you feel every time you dare to rise up and stand on your feet.  Honestly, though, the absolute worst thing is that your sleep schedule is no longer a "schedule".  You sleep until 2 p.m. because if you get up any earlier, the ache inside your ear will make you smash your head through the bathroom mirror.  But then you can't get to sleep until 4 a.m.

It was in the midst of this sort of upside-down sleep cycle that I found myself slouched on the sofa, Zombiefied from dextromethorphan at 12:30 a.m. on a Saturday, robotically scrolling through the internet and wondering how hard you have to cough to burst a blood vessel in your brain and die.

I heard a door open.  My sister marched into the living room and literally tossed the Niecus into my nest of blankets and plague.  I caught her and started to explain why some websites are funny and others are not.  She was quickly seized from my grasp again and placed onto a makeshift changing station on the floor.  I watched, woozy, as the Niecus was de-diapered.  Then, before I could process what was happening, the Niecus' mother, my small sister who has always been much shorter than me and who I had always deemed non-threatening, administered to my Niecus...A SUPPOSITORY!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I couldn't even react to this treachery before my sister gathered up the suppositoried Niecus and handed her back to me.  Then left the room.

There we were.  Me and Niecus, on the couch of doom and mucous.  I was holding the Niecus aloft and staring at her, and she was staring, placidly, right back at me.  She squawked a tiny squawk.  I took this for a volley of battle and replied, "don't you dare!"  She kicked her little feet in the air.  She drew her nubby little knees up to her chest.

Me: "Niecus O-BEE-sus!  Do not!"

Niecus: [kick kick]

Me: "....don't."

Niecus: [TTTHHHHHHHHBBBBBPPPPPPPPPTTTTHHHHHHHHtttthhhbbbppppbbtttthhhh!!!!]

PANIC!  My arms shot out as I locked my elbows and moved Niecus as far away from my person as possible.  I had heard stories of Niecus' previous bowel movements, which included details like "poop seeped up her back, it was so explosive."  I was sick, so sick that I felt like someone had dug my dead body up out of the ground, and Niecus was just hanging out in mid-air, diaper full of baby poop, looking at me like, "what's wrong, Auntie?  I think it's time for a cuddle."

No, baby, it was not time for a cuddle.

If it had been left to me, Niecus and I would have remained in our respective positions until the rest of the house woke up at 7 a.m.  I was almost literally paralyzed with illness and fear of what would come out the sides of Niecus' diaper if I even twitched.  Fortunately, my sister eventually remembered that she'd left her child dangling from the clutch of someone who can barely be bothered to buy toilet paper.  She returned, collected Niecus, and changed what turned out to be an only slightly dirty diaper.

So much for explosive baby diarrhea.  Moral of the story: whatever new parents tell you about the business of tending to infants, just divide that by a Truth Factor of half.  New parents are very dramatic sorts of people.  They spout wild tales, and all you can do is pat them on the head and tell them to go take a nap.

Second moral of the story: some of the best gifts are memories, and I am very grateful for this particularly warm and squishy Christmas memory.

Some of you haven't seen the Niecus in a while.  Here are a few photos of her, fronting major attitude:

<Girl is fat>

<Has opinions.  Has pizza crust crumbs on her face>

And here's  a video of me trying to feed her peas, and her being unimpressed, and her dad trying to teach me The Rules about when and how a Niecus Obesus may be fed:

 

My dog ages me and I think I offended the Pope

If you have a dog, you know what happens when you and your hound encounter another hound on the street:

You:  [to yourself: "Dammit, here comes another dog.  I hope it isn't friendly.  I don't have time for this"]  [what you actually say]:  "Hello!"

Other Dog Parent (ODP):  [silently: "Dammit, I have to pick up the drycleaning before they close.  Why can't she just cross the street??  JUST CROSS THE STREET."]  [what they actually say]:  "Hello!"

Your dog: Do-I-like-you-Let's-find-out-sniffsniffsniffsniffSNNNNIIIIIFFFFF

Other dog: I-accept-your-sniffing-and-I-will-also-sniff-you!  Best-day-ever-SSSSSNNNIIIIFFFF

ODP  [high pitched voice, sounds unnatural]:  "What a cutie you have here!"

You  [strangled squawk]:  "Aw, yours too; SO CUTE!!"

ODP:  "How old is yours!"

You:  "Oh, eight!"

ODP:  "Wow, he's in great shape!  What an amazing dog, I've never seen such a glorious creature!  Mine's seven months!"

You:  "OMG, a PUPPY!!!  Such an aDORable baby puppy, omigosh!  Lookatthosepawsthey'resobigIbetshe'sgoingtobesuchabiggirlaren'tyougirl???"

[Both humans, to themselves: "This is taking way too long.  Why did I get a dog?  I hate people.  Dogs make me interact socially.  How stupid am I?  WALK AWAY, OTHER PERSON!"]

Eventually, one dog gets tired of sniffing the other dog and becomes aloof, or (my favorite), suddenly bites the other dog (often for no discernible reason; dogs are dogs - they nip sometimes, and you don't always get to know why), providing the perfect excuse for the tormented dog parents to disentangle their "children" and continue on their walk.

I deal with this every day, often several times.  I'm an expert in dog parent conversations, and they rarely surprise me.  My dog's almost thirteen now, and I've had him his entire life.  When he was five or eight, people didn't think twice when they heard that.  Now, though, when people find out not only that he's an aging old queen, but also that I've had him since the beginning, I actually see them taking a second look at me and mentally calculating my age.  Like, "oh, man.  I'm talking to an adult.  Do I smell like weed as bad as I think I smell like weed?  Don't run.  Might be a cop.  Might be a serial killer.  MIGHT WANT TO EAT MY DOG.  Be calm."

Last night, I ran into a friendly, inebriated guy who was "walking" his dog.  And by "walking", I mean he had allowed his hound to jump one of those little fences that protects freshly planted trees from pedestrians and peeing dogs, so that the peeing could be done on the small tree, and not farther away, like other responsible dog owners.  But I am not judging.  Of course, my dog sticks his faces over the fence to greet the other dog, who was doing its best to kill the infant tree by urinating endlessly.  Since they didn't immediately start fighting, I had to do the obligatory Dog Parents Conversation (see above).  And I swear to you, as soon as the guy heard how old my dog was, and that I'd had him forever, he looked up at me sharply.  And studied my face.  Counting wrinkles, counting forwards, counting to at least thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two (n.b.: thirty-two is too far.  For now).  I was infuriated.  I wanted to throw the bag of dog poop I was holding at his face and scream, "I may have wrinkles, but YOU HAVE POOP FACE."

I didn't.

It's possible that I'm imagining at least some of this.  Maybe I'm ageist against myself.  But I don't think so.  My dog ages me.  People can tell I'm over thirty, even though I still feel twelve.  I should just start lying and say he's still a puppy.

Which brings me to Christmas.  This is New York, and Christmas is a big deal around here.  A big, fat deal, with extra servings of flashing Christmas tree lights, Christmas tree ornaments, Christmas trees and PEOPLE!  People everywhere, shopping and drooling over decorations and stuffing their faces with delicious Christmas colored donuts.  Not that ZB would know.  He started his new job a few weeks ago, and hasn't left his office since.  I'm not sure he even realized that Halloween and Thanksgiving were already over before tonight.  The situation was sort of critical.  So I took action.

Early this evening, I marched into ZB's office (yes, at 5 p.m. on a Saturday night) and demanded that he leave for a few hours, to decompress and de-stress.  Obviously, the very first thing we did was walk north up 5th Avenue.  Towards the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree.  Where every tourist and New Yorker with young children had converged to stare at the lights for one second before being pushed farther along the avenue by the mass of people behind them.  It was like accidentally joining a herd of penguins and realizing too late that, once inside the herd, you cannot get back out.  You can only move with the herd, until you flow towards the edge of it again, at which point you can safely hurtle away and start making personal decisions about your forward momentum again.  Haha.  Actually, it was not funny at all.  It was horrible, like walking into one of those contraptions people have in their kitchens that squishes soda cans to the width of a coaster.  It's my first Christmas in New York.  I didn't know.

To escape the humanity, I yanked ZB down a cross street, which happened to run right by St. Paul's cathedral.  A church, a pretty church!  Perfect way to calm ourselves after the 5th Avenue Christmas tree mania.  Helpfully, a sign over the door assured us "St. Paul's Cathedral is Open".  Oh, good.  It's open.  Of course we'll pop in.  So we did pop in, through a side door and SMACK INTO THE MIDDLE OF THREE THOUSAND CATHOLICS ATTENDING SIX O'CLOCK MASS.  We were issued some, um, looks by the congregants.  Looks which were clearly meant to communicate, "WTF, Sinners?  How dare you interrupt our Mass and let the cold air in?  No communion for you."

You know what, it is not even my fault.  First of all, who goes to church on Saturday night?  Second, if you're in church, ESPECIALLY if you're in church wearing leopard print wedge heels on your fat little feet, don't you frown at me, lady.  I didn't know there was Mass.  The sign said "Open", not "Open, With Possible Mass Conditions Afoot".  There's a limit to the amount of blame I will accept for stumbling into what appeared to be a very serious ritual, involving incense and several priests moving about the stage at once.  Maybe it was actually a play.  I don't know.  What I do know is that my reaction was completely natural, and that was to:

1) realize we'd interrupted a Mass,

2) scowl at Leopard Wedge Woman,

3) announce in a strangled/loud whisper to ZB, "oh. It's Mass", and

4) throw open the doors we'd just come in through and flee.

I hope Leopard Wedge Woman got a blast of cold air in her face.  I hope it ruffled her hair.

I thought ZB might be a little traumatized by the one-two punch of Christmas Penguin Mania and Catholic Death Stare, but he's a lawyer now.  Nothing bothers him.  He just wants to know when we're taking over sole custody of the Niecus from her real parents.  Soon, I keep telling him.  Really, quite soon.

Niecus Immersion Program

This week is Niecus week.  Last Sunday, Zookeeper B and I loaded up the Zoo animals into a shiny red rental car and blazed a trail out of Yankee headquarters.  Destination:  The Greatest State.  Primary objective:  Niecus Patrol.  Status update:  It is not easy to post with a blob of Niecus on my lap, but I'm doing it, anyway:

 

At three in the afternoon, Niecus is supposed to be napping.  As you might have noticed, she is not napping, and she refuses to be placed anywhere that is not in direct contact with an adult human being.  Her mother is napping and has outsourced Niecus duty to me and the Pirate (Zookeeper B, known to Niecus as "the Pirate" and only "the Pirate").  The Pirate has a chocolate peanut butter milkshake, though, and so has relegated all Niecus care and maintenance to me.  It is a lot of responsibility.  Here is what I have to do:

1.  Maintain the green blanket in a burrito style wrap around the whole Niecus

2.  Keep the binky in the Niecus' mouth

These are the Niecus' favorite activities at the moment:

1.  Kick her feet out of the blanket

2.  Spit her binky out of her mouth

This has become a battle between us.  I am currently winning, I think, except that I've resorted to typing with one hand.  With the other hand, I am holding the blanket corners tight around the Niecus with my thumb and smallest finger, and using all the force of my index finger to counteract the baby spit motion velocity of the binky.  It is exhausting.  Wine helps:

<Yes, it is 3 pm and I am babysitting under the influence.  Want to fight about it?> 

As I've been predicting for years, the Niecus is a step up the human evolutionary chain.  She has advanced rhythm and eye tracking abilities, and she can almost hold her head up all by herself.  This is very unusual for a six week old infant.  Her father is convinced that she can control the speed of her baby swing with her mind, and has taken to calling her "TelekiNiecus".  Get it?

Even her hair follicles are advanced, as evidenced by her full head of hair, which she has had from Day One.  How many babies do you know with a full head of hair?  Niecus is an X-Man.  Deal with it.

Aside from Niecus Patrol, ZB and I have been eating.  ZB has been driving all over town, sampling milkshakes (chocolate!  But also, chocolate-peanut butter!).  I've been eating whatever the Niecus' mother demands that I eat, which has included fried chicken (southern style), fried chicken (Sichuan style) and fried chicken (county fair style)  Actually, the county fair isn't until tomorrow.  But I have been assured that there is fried chicken available.  I am so fat right now.

<Oink oink>

<Quack quack>

<Bock bock>

<Baked Alaska and a Fat Niecus.  Unrelated>

The most important thing I've learned about the Niecus is that she has powers of Distraction and Hypnosis.  I believe I meant to come down here for a week and help my sister clean her house.  Instead, I've spent twenty hours a day sprawled on the couch, staring at the Niecus.  Is she sleepy?  How do we know?  Diaper needs changing?  Says who?  How much drool is too much drool?  How many snaps can one baby outfit have?  Her eyes are gray.  No, blue.  No...ANGRY!  GET HER TO THE MILK DISPENSER!!!  Suddenly, it is Thursday, and I have nothing to show for it except several skipped showers.  I heart this Niecus:

<Major.  Attitude.  Issues>

<Drunk>

<I hate getting clean, too>

<Her brain is always working stuff out>

<Niecus and the Pirate>

<Nuzzle the Niecus>

Imminent Departure, part 2

Apartment search, continued:

6. 236 E. 36th St, Apt 6F

Pros: Nice kitchen.  Too bad cooking is against the law in our household (Too messy.  Causes conniptions and counter-conniptions on all sides).

Cons:  Studio apartment.  Only closet located in the bathroom.  Permanently musty clothing, anyone?

<Studio alert!>

<There is but one closet.  And that closet is in...>

<...the bathroom!!!  Yay, studio apartment layouts!>

<Excellent kitchen>

7. 209 E. 25th St, Apt 2E

Pros: Appliance Superhero.  Dishwasher, microwave, full-size fridge AND A WASHER-DRYER.  New York is not the place to be if you need a washer-dryer in your home.  Washer-dryers are thin on the ground.  This unit had one.  Magic.

Cons:  Listed as a one bedroom.  Very obviously a studio with a pressurized wall stuck in the middle of it.  Incredibly tiny.

<Stone, ooOOOoohhh!>

<Living room, ZB, Broker, and bedroom yonder>

<Appliance rating: 100%.  Counter space concession: nominal>

<WHAT?!!!  This is the unicorn of the New York rental market.  A washer-dryer.  IN-UNIT!!!!!!!!!  I'm still not convinced I actually saw it>

<Bedroom>

<Another narrow closet/top cubby situation> 

8. 137 E. 29th St, Apt 3A

Pros: We actually saw three units in this building.  They all had unbelievably ample closet space.  With linen closets, and everything.

Cons:  All three units were rather on the "shabby" side.  Very "First College Apartment" vibe.  Did I mention I'm thirty-one?

9. 137 E. 29th St, Apt 6D

10. 137 E. 29th St, Apt 4D

There.  There's your crash course in Manhattan apartment hunting.

Okay, guess which one we chose.  You have two seconds.

We chose place #7.  Did you guess correctly?  Here's your prize:  you were right.

This is what all of the other places had (mostly): decent amount of space.  #7 is decidedly short on closets and general walking-about space, but it is updated and polished and clean.  I'm getting old now.  My metabolism is no longer spectacular, and I've been falling asleep at 10:30 p.m. lately.  My days of "making do" with crap apartments are over.  I can't swing it anymore.  Place #7 just knocked every other apartment we saw off the map.  We agonized for about ten minutes over how tiny it was, then put in an application.

It's $100 more expensive per month than our strict, upward-adjustments-prohibited budget.  However, since we'll have an in-unit washer-dryer, we won't have to send out laundry.  There's your $100/month.

In anticipation of our reduced square footage, we gave away and sold as much as we could bear to part with.  Then, I reconsidered, and packed about twenty additional boxes of items that will be carted down to Richmond and distributed to family members and the Salvation Army (shortly).  My sister will have new clothes.  My brother will have a new goose down comforter.  We will have fewer of said items.  Everybody wins.

This is the current state of the Zoo:

<Ready to relocate to his retirement community.  In Gramercy.  As befits the most special, beautiful, fabulous hound in the history of hounds>

<Cares 0% about the move.  Cares 100% about how much food is in his bowl>

The movers pull up at 8 a.m. sharp (meaning noon) tomorrow.  With any luck, we'll be in New York by lunch time.  I don't even have the energy to be funny about this right now.  I'm exhausted and I hate this town and I am relieved and elated to finally be leaving.

On a happier note, I have discovered that there is a diner in my new neighborhood that sells something called a Grilled Cheese Tasty Super Sandwich, and it costs $5, and it can be delivered directly to my doorstep.  This is my reward for enduring two years of war and misery.  Good things come to those who wait.  Word.

Imminent Departure

Two years ago to this very day, Zookeeper B and I pulled up stakes in the Greatest State and made a harrowing eight hour drive deep into the heart of Yankee territory.  To live.  FOREVER.

Actually, for two years.  We had great hopes of picket fences and Victorian cottages and lobster rolls.  If we'd known we were actually walking into a cesspit of rampant crime, an exorbitant cost of living and zero quality brunch venues...we would have made the move, anyway.  I hate this city down to my bones, and that's a truth.  The other truth, though, is that our lives changed forever when Zookeeper B was accepted at his school.  All highly favorable changes.  Changes worth spending two years wondering things like:

• "Why are there fifty public schools in this town?"
• "Why are there three cop cars blocking off my street this afternoon?"
• "Will a vagrant yell at my cat through the window today?"
• "Gunshots, or fireworks?"
• "If I beep my horn at a bad driver, will he jump out of his vehicle to threaten me?"

 All that's over now.  Our escape route is drawn.  Boxes are taped up.  We've craigslisted the majority of our furniture (and it made me hate humanity.  Prerequisites for shopping on craigslist appear to be:  No brain.  Wildy erratic schedule from hour to hour.  Inability to choose a transportation option appropriate for the item purchased).  Departure is imminent.  Party hats: On.  In five days, we board a train to the scary city and we never f***ing look back.

I'm thrilled about this now.  Two weeks ago, it was a different story.  The last weekend of July, on a maddeningly humid day, I swear to you I wore clear through the soles of my shoes trying to find an apartment in that scary city.  Zookeeper B was there, too.  He wore better shoes.

We spent seven hours viewing ten apartments.  Given our wish list (pet friendly, close to ZB's job in Midtown East, no mold on the ceiling, scarce cockroaches), I knew we'd be cleaning out our savings to secure a place.  I think my greatest shock was that, we could absolutely clean out our savings account, and still be stuck with an unbelievably crap apartment.  Realities of the Manhattan Rental Market: 1, Me: Crying Inside.

I'm not going to give you the rundown on every harrowing detail of the day.  All you need to know is that I am permanently traumatized.  Let's play a guessing game, instead.  I'll give you a list of addresses, some key facts and corresponding pictures, and you can guess which place we settled on.  I will not offend you with the prices on these places.  When I told my sister, she didn't chat me back for nearly two minutes.  When she finally did, it was to inform me that our apartment rental budget was her entire monthly budget.  That's including her recent "I have an expensive new baby" (NIECUS!!!) cost of living adjustments.  It's obscene and I feel a bit dirty about it.  There's also, literally, nothing I can do.  Manhattan rental prices are outrageous, but ZB has a job there and we're going to have an enormous amount of fun in the next few years.  Who needs retirement savings?

The candidates (these are in no particular order) (this has to be a two part post.  You get five today and five later):

1. 250 E. 39th St, Apt 11B

Pros: super close to ZB's work.  Doorman.  Elevator.  Lots of closets.

Cons:  No apparent interior updates since 1975.

<Lobby>

<Too narrow for photos of the tiny stove.  No dishwasher>

<AN AIR CONDITIONER!!!!  But, parquet floors.  Barf>

<Closet!  Ack!>

<Another closet.  A yucky closet>

<Bedroom>

<Bedroom closet.  Bonus>

<The vanity doesn't like the potty.  He wants to be with the tub>

 

2. 49 Park Avenue, Apt 4A

Pros: Fabulous flooring.  Good closet space.  Snob factor ("Oh, I live on Park Avenue, myawh.  Where do YOU live?")

Cons: No A/C.  Yappy dog next door.  Manky bathroom.

<Half fridge only!  That is normal in New York.  Apparently>

<Living room>

<Skylight over the shower!>

<...closet>

<Bedroom>

<Another closet!>

<OMG ANOTHER CLOSET AGAIN!!!!>

 

3. 241 E. 38th St, Apt 4B

Pros: Entry way and stairwell reminded me of the old fashioned hospitals you see in movies.  Usually horror movies.  Like 1940s tiled walls and black stone stair cases.  I sheepishly admitted my taste for this aesthetic to ZB, only to discover that he was charmed by it, as well.  Clearly soul mates.

Cons: Fourth floor walk-up, which is exactly what it sounds like.  I almost died just getting to the unit.

<Narrowest entry way ever.  Can it fit a sofa?  Can it fit a cat?>

<Dishwasher!>

<Bedroom.  And a closet!>

<Narrow closet is naaaarrrooowwww>

<Living room.  And ZB.  And our broker>

<Blood stain...(?)....(!)...(!!!)>

<Adequate>

 

4. 208 E. 25th St, Apt 2x

Pros: Nicely finished bathroom.  Great neighborhood.

Cons: Two metro stops from ZB's work (we aimed for walking distance).  Displeasing kitchen scheme.

<Lego theme, anyone?>

<Tiny bedroom>

<What am I supposed to do with a closet this narrow?  Is it a necktie closet?  And what's with the inaccessible cubby?  Is that for the rats?  To watch us while we sleep, from a safe vantage point?  I don't understand this situation>

<Living room>

 

5. 330 E. 39th St, Apt 6R

Pros: Amazing lobby.  Beautiful, lush, made me feel like a movie star walking in.

Cons: The lobby was A DIRTY FAT LIE.  Gross, Soviet-esque apartment and views.  Completely depressing.  I almost flung myself off the balcony in despair over the surroundings, and I was only inside for five minutes.

<It's like walking into a hotel...>

<...until you get inside the actual apartment.  Then it is like walking into a tenement.  Do you see those floors?  Baaaaarrrrfffff>

<Eggghhhh, the floors>

<Lots of closet space.  Lots of yucky floors>

<Largest bathroom of the day.  Impressive>

<Bedroom>

<Salivated over this bedroom closet.  Truth>

<Oh.  We're in Russia now, I guess.  Too far from ZB's work>

By the time we walked out of the fifth viewing, I had descended into a dazed state.  Walking down the street, stuffing potato chips in my face, and trying very hard not to hyperventilate.  I'll leave you in that frame of mind for now.  The next five places will be up tomorrow (update: here).

Niecus in three...two....

First thought when I found out my sister was gestating a fetus for my entertainment:  "FINALLY.  I have been WAITING."

Second thought: "There is no room in there.  She will fall directly over every time she stands up."

And I haven't been completely wrong.  The fetus is now 38.5 weeks old, and that kid is LARGE.  She was considered full term by her 37th week, which must be a world record.  Obviously, I am not surprised.  I've known from the start that she would be the most advanced life form ever to be born since the advent of modern humans.  The unfortunate thing about being an advanced life form of unusual size is that, if your incubator (i.e. "mother") is small, then your superiority puts sort of a crimp on her ability to engage in healthy activities, like "eating" and "getting up off the couch".  Which is to say, my sister currently feels like she's pregnant with seventy water balloons.  Breathing is difficult.  Drinking is difficult.  There's nausea.  Frenectic hormonal spikes are generating some truly epic mood swings.  And, in perhaps the most bizarre twist in the history of pregnancy cravings, my sister woke up one day demanding a can of soda called Cactus Cooler.  Here are some relevant facts about Cactus Cooler:

1.  It is an orange-pineapple carbonated beverage manufactured for distribution only in select southwestern states.

2.  My sister lives on the eastern seaboard.

3.  Cactus Cooler consumption last occured for her approximately TWENTY YEARS AGO, when we lived briefly in California.

4.  The cheapest price to have a twelve pack of Cactus Cooler shipped to Virginia is $31.87.

The reasonable thing, then, would be to forget about the Cactus Cooler.  Forever.  Here's what happened, instead:

1.  Sister's husband hightailed it to the grocery to pick up orange soda and pineapple soda, for mixing, to approximate Cactus Cooler as a temporary patch.

2.  I relayed instructions to my mother, a current California resident, to a) find the Cactus Cooler, and b) stow it in our aunt's suitcase for immediate transport and delivery to the great state of Virginia, and subsequently to the dangerously hipster city in which my sister resides.

Moral of the story?  Pregnancy hormones: just give them what they want.*

The bad news is that this fetus has overthrown my sister's mind and turned her into a raging alien hormone bomb, spherical in form.  The good news is that it will all be over soon.  Delivery is imminent (it has to be, right?  RIGHT???).  She has officially "dropped", and if you don't know what that means, I am not telling you.  It is unsettling.  Go learn some biology from the internet.  That's what it is there for.

Here is evidence that the fetus creature is both overlarge and "dropped":

And here is my brother-in-law, pretending that he is actually the one carrying a fetus creature (he is not) (that's biology, again.  Wikipedia it, if you don't believe me):

To say that Zookeeper B and I are excited for the Niecus to break out of her temporary incubator is an understatement.  Nobody has ever looked forward to the arrival of a fetus creature more than we are looking forward to the arrival of the Niecus.  We have a mantra these days.  It goes like this:

Zookeeper B: "Niecus."

Zookeeper A (me): "NIECUS!!"

Zookeeper B: "She is coming."

Zookeeper A: "We have been waiting."

We are waiting still.  But not for long.  Next week's entry: FETUS CREATURE: ESCAPE FROM THE WOMB! [Update: Happened faster than we thought, my pretties.]

 

*Full text of the relevant Cactus Cooler conversation can be found below, for historical documentation purposes:

Sister: Did you find cactus cooler

me: um

sort of

Sister: Where

me: you can get it delivered from BevMo in california

  but it costs $31 for a 12 pack

Sister: What?!

me: shipping is the killer

  it's coming all the way from california

  it isn't distributed east of the rockies

Sister: Why

me: it's probably manufactured w/the west in mind

  hence "cactus" in "cactus cooler"

  you'll just have to wait until you're in california again

Sister: Why is my life so difficult

  What if we ship it to mom

me: then there's still the matter of getting it to virginia

  anyway, she doesn't need it shipped to her

  she can go out and buy it

  you just have to wait

  no cactus cooler for you

Sister: She can send it back with aunt [redacted]

  Where can she find it

me: BevMo

  but

 won't the cans explode in teh plane's cargo space

Sister: No

  Please send mom to bevmo

me: ok

Sister: Where is it located

me: mom knows where it is

Sister: She does

me: yes

  she's agreed to your outrageous demand

Sister: How

me: apparently, it is "down the hill"

  whatever that means

Sister: Down the cajon pass duh

  When is she going

me: well that is where it is, and mom is familiar with its location

  next week

Sister: Life will be hard until then

me: feel free to order a 12pack in the meantime

Sister: I think [spouse] would say that was unreasonable

me: i mean, if you really need them, and have $31 laying around

Sister: This unsupportive attitude is being noted

me: this unreasonable craving is being noted

Sister: Well if I want it, it's really the niecus that wants it

  And you're depriving her

  Now she resents you

me: it is beyond my power to provide cactus cooler to the niecus on this day

  she must wait

  i hope this stuff actually tastes as good as you remember

Sister: I know

Virginia

We visited my massively pregnant sister, and her decidedly unpregnant husband, a few weekends ago.  They live in the capitol (and dangerously hipster) city of the Greatest State, and if you don't know what that state is, I'm not going to tell you (hint: it is Virginia).

Here's something that I had forgotten about Virginia: it smells sweet.  As in, the foliage, which is luxurious and thick and prefers to climb upon and obstruct such unimportant things as telephone poles,  has a distinct and pleasantly sweet smell.  It's different from anywhere else.  It's also a welcome break from the air in Connecticut, which smells alternately like 1) festering skunk carcasses, and 2) the thick, rotten fart your dog rips after he devours a week-old burrito from the trash.  VA: 1, CT: -5,000.

Something else that's different about Virginia: mosquitoes exist.  In Connecticut, I've gone two years without a mosquito bite.  Within fifteen seconds of stepping outside at my sister's house, I was feasted upon by three massive culicid escapees from the Chernobyl containment perimeter.  That's the price of living in a red, southern state.  Taxes are very low, but you literally part with your own flesh and blood at the whim of expatriate Soviet insectoids.  VA: still 1, CT: -4,999.  I make the score-keeping rules.  Don't you worry about that.

I took a few pictures of my sister's hillbilly living situation:

<Hillbilly yard>

<Hillbilly cat>

<Hillbilly dog & a hillbilly shed>

<Hillbilly Niecus Transportation Device>

<Hillbilly...kitchen?>

<Hillbilly dog poop removal services!  YAAAASSSSS!!!!!>

<Hillbilly boy dogs in love>

I miss Virginia all the time.  Those are a few reasons why.

Enough sissy nonsense.  We were in town to celebrate my sister's shotgun wedding.  Yes.  In January, my entire family was alerted to what appeared to be a quickie wedding held in my sister's living room.  It was attended by my sister, her new husband, and a sorceress, who performed the ceremony.  I think she's called a "doula".

Everyone was a little perplexed about the timing (January?), but Zookeeper B and I eloped on a Tuesday morning in August, so we weren't the ones casting side-eyes at anyone.

Shortly after, we received word that the Great Fetus creature was incubating, which explained the elopement.  Instead of waiting for my father to fly 3,000 miles across the country, pick up a shotgun from our uncle's, and march my sister's hapless boyfriend at gunpoint to city hall, the panicked parents-to-be decided to circumvent the Route of High Drama and impose a shotgun wedding on themselves.  Then they would have a low-key dinner party in the early summer, where the bride's and groom's immediate family members could circle each other and sniff butts, and hopefully not snarl and fight.

What they didn't understand was that my dad was going to play his traditional role in this shotgun wedding, whether he was invited to do so or not.  It's not like he has a pile of weapons sitting around the house for his health.

The first sign of trouble didn't surface until the night of the wedding celebration.  As I was walking into the venue, I glanced up and spotted a One Man Mobile War barreling straight for the party:

<Brandishing>

I think anyone else would have said something along the lines of "Sorry, this is civilization, and if you continue waving that shotgun around on the street, someone's going to call the Law."  That is the opposite of my inclination.  I love a fight.  I like to start them and I like to watch them.  In fact, this is now my favorite photo of my father.  I'm going to Photoshop an image of myself into that picture, waving my own weapon.  Which will be a vacuum cleaner hose.  Then I'll Photoshop in a dragon and flames and make it look like a battle.  In fact, seeing him approaching what was ostensibly going to be a peaceful meeting of the families was like getting the best wedding present ever, and it wasn't even my wedding.

Ready, Aim, Party.

After all the family members found their seats, they lulled themselves into a false sense of security with idle chatter.  My sister's new husband has quite a few teenaged nieces and nephews, so we got some refreshing gossip about all the naughty antics that teenagers get up to these days.  Spoiler:  it's the same sort of stuff as always.  Which is good news.  At least you know you're not missing out on anything.

Dad waited until approximately ten bottles of wine had been emptied down everyone's gullets.  Then he stood up, and, commanding the party's attention, proceeded to very slowly and deliberately unzip the gun from its pouch, staring down various people sitting around the table with a flinty, Dirty Harry type stare.  Keep in mind that he was doing all of this in the middle of the venue, which was a restaurant where other people were also eating.  No matter.  Freeing the gun from its pouch, he proceeded to give a concise speech about marriage and guns and impending grandchildren.  I do not remember the speech so well (wine!).  What I remember quite clearly is the sort of collective gasp from the groom's side of the family.  I believe they're all a little bit liberal, so they probably think that guns only exist in Alabama and Neverland.  And yet, here stood a man in front of their very eyes, in the middle of a civilized restaurant setting, waving a shotgun!  They all pressed their backs up against their chairs and proceeded to look highly concerned.  Honestly, I thought some of them might require the vapors.  Of course, you know everyone from my side of the family was just dying.  Tears down the cheek, belly-laughing.  To be fair, we told my sister's husband to inform his family about our family.  I'm not sure he listened.

<What gun?  This is art>

Eventually, Dad decided that he had sufficiently terrorized our new in-laws, and handed the firearm over to my new brother-in-law.  As a gift.  And a reminder.  As in, "I got eight more of these babies tucked under my pillow at night.  One wrong move, Son."  Which is proper.  That is a dad's job.

<Gifted>

Despite the groom's family being somewhat uncomfortable with the waving about of weapons at the dinner table, nobody considered calling in reinforcements to ruin the party.  After the speech was over and the gun was gifted, everyone slipped back into friendly conversation, as if Dad had not just issued an implicit death threat to my sister's newish husband.  That is Southern gentility at its finest.

And, after dinner, our new in-laws invited us all over to their grand matriarch's home to continue drinking and getting to know each other.  A serious miracle.  They really are excellent sports.   I think we're going to get along just fine.

<Happy>