inner voices and the meter man outside my window

Okay, so I'm going to let you in on a little secret: sometimes I think I hear voices. You know, like Haley Joel Osment saw dead people. I'll call these voices the goddamn inner voices (because I like originality). And yes, I know I just took the Lord's name in vain. I think She understands creative expression -- really, I do. And does it actually count if you don't capitalize the g? Anyhow, forgive me my vanity. So, as I was saying, the GDIVs are constantly chattering away in my cerebral parts, nagging me to expound upon all the little idiosyncratic things that go on in our daily life. Because I don't want to forget them when, years from now, these cerebral parts start to deteriote and I no longer can recall that I ate a breakfast of microwaved turkey bacon on toast with spreadable cheese consecutively for a month (not gourmet but easy). Or that Eli has recently discovered his tongue and now can be found smacking his lips together just to feel the strange sensation of it undulating in his tiny mouth. Or that my husband cracks the same monkey joke every morning as he is leaving for work, and I laugh like it is for the first time everytime because to me it really is still that funny and because I love him. Ordinary can be extraordinary, they say. And because of this, I can't help but feel a loss at the end of each day of details that slip away and with each week and month fall deeper and deeper into that part of my memory that one day might not be accessible. So, I write when I can and remind myself that some moments are just meant to be taken in, drunk with love and reverence, and not necessarily intended to be transcribed, photographed, or videorecorded.

And then there are those moments, those morsels of idiocy and folly and sentiment, and get-it-off-your-chest bitchin', that simply need to be shared with the handful of people who read your blog. So here are the nominees in no particular (well, maybe) order:

• It has recently occurred to me that he who checks the meter might not just be doing it for the fabulous wage and great vacation time. No, I've begun to think there may be other motives, like the off-chance he'll catch a suburban housewife or two in her PJs (or less) when he slips, unbeknownst, through the back gate and shuffles ever-so-innocently, clipboard in hand, to the, uh, meter, which happens to be near the large (uncurtained) kitchen window. I'm sure there are meter women, too, but not in these here parts. Next time I'm poking my head out and asking for license and registration. And I'm getting a curtain. An opaque one. Perhaps something in the burlap family.
• I'm on strike -- politically opposed to indoor exercise at our gym. I just can't bring myself to do it lately. Besides the fan-freakin'-tastic weather we've been having, our neighborhood has some great hike/bike paths and tot parks and Eli is still at a strollable age AND so the neighbors tell me, we'll only have a couple of months before IT comes: the smothering, why-do-you-even-bother-showering-but-please wear deodorant HEAT. However, the Y does have a pool, so I guess we will continue to pay our dues even while using it minimally until the summer. Hmph. Dilemma-schlema.
• And while we're on the subject of exercise, let me just say that the Girl Scouts should be ashamed of themselves, going from doorstep to doorstep peddling their crumbs of sabotage. Thin mints! What's thin about them? Nothing. They are the surest way to kill a diet because they are irresistible and beckon me to just have another when I've already had twenty. And because of this, even though none of them will probably read this, I now feel I should express my deepest appreciation (and apologies) to all of those neighbors, teachers, friends, family members who, being fully aware that they were just a few shakes, rattles, and rolls away from that new pair of jeans, bought cookies from me, a squirrel-cheeked Brownie Girl Scout, so that I could reach my goal of 450 boxes and win a ride down the Mississippi on the Creole Queen riverboat. I am n0t kidding.
• And still speaking of exercise (god, it is just the bane of our existence lately), SD has finally reached some resolution on his chronic knee troubles. He saw an orthopedist and apparently is suffering from "an oblique tear of the posterior horn of the medial meniscus extending through the periphery and the inferior surface with a small meniscal cyst dissecting proximally along the posteromedial femoral condyle." And all of this will be fixed with a miraculous 45-minute outpatient procedure, which should result in near-erasure of the pain in about a week's time. I'm skeptimistic in a really hopeful way. He needs some relief.
• Eli is just recovering from a pretty fierce diaper rash. All I have to say is, "Desitin is the BOMB." I swear that stuff has magical, weegeeboard, voodoo, shaman-like powers of healing. I'm thinking of trying it as an acne cream. I'll get back to you on that one.
• And here's a fun one: irony in a bottle, our latest vino selection. I guess there's enough of it floating around us, someone figured they should try to contain it for us to then re-imbibe. Ironic.

bottled irony

Oh, and how could I forget, happy 13 months to Eli, the tiny king of our domain. That is, until we decide to bring forth a pesky sibling to rob him of all his shining glory, which by the way, is not, I repeat, not in the works, so, grandmas, cool your cornbread. Heh. Maybe next year.

Finally, I am declaring next week Fashion Week at my blog. Why? (a) Because it's my blog, (b) Because warm weather always makes me want to look like I flew off the cover of Vanity Fair or Vogue, (c) Because our house is the house of the fashionably depraved and (d) because what else will I fill a week's worth of posts with? I don't know exactly what I'll do yet, but I'm sure it will involve flip-flops (ahhh, my shoe, my love), shirts that don't make my arms look fat (what every mother wants), cool stuff for my hot hubby, cool stuff for my hot baby (don't take that the wrong way), and, dare I say it, swimsuits (gasp). It's going to be hot, so you won't want to miss it. And now, as I type this I'm getting very very nervous because now I have to produce something having to do with fashion, which clearly, as I have already stated, is a challenge for me. Shit.

And now for the promised jaw-dropping portion of this post: I have a dentist appointment at the end of the month, and I'm convinced they are going to have to heavily sedate me while they scratch, scrape, and attempt to eradicate all the plaquish matter that has accumulated since I last visited the dentist about two years ago, which instantly reminds me of a hygeine video we were shown in elementary school about taking care of your teeth. The plaque and other undesirables that collect in your mouth were personified and marched into this poor boy's mouth like the North Korean army. Oh wait, come to think of it, I don't think the video was about teeth at all -- I think it was about getting vaccinated for rabies. The things you learn in Catholic school.

That's all for now. Happy weekend. Anybody got big plans they wanna share?