Catch 22.

It would seem to in all ways defeat the purpose of being home with my child that it now seems I need full time help to watch him while I look for a job. Which, of course, is further complicated by the fact that we are sans 2 salaries and can't seem to afford hired help to watch the Captain while I look for a job. And naturally, this is the price that one pays for moving 200+ miles away from home. Sure you avoid the random Sunday morning drop-in from the in-laws and who doesn't love that? But I do find myself envying friends and family who have grandma up the road. Not that that isn't it's own catch 22.

It does seem that by moving away we have all but secured our privacy and we aren't as beholden to the grandparents as many of our friends find themselves. One such friend, I'll call her Dori, who's mother watches her wee-one whilst she and the dad are at work seems totally at the mercy of grandma. There is no question she and her husband get an invaluable service from her. But such is the way that grandzillas are born.

And then there is the position that Deviant Dad and I find ourselves in. All grandparents are safely tucked away in NY, lying in wait and enjoying those few weekends that we let them out of jail to visit with the Captain. But the conversation goes something like this...

They - We'd love to come down for a weekend.

Us - We'll have to see. Things are pretty busy.

They - You could go out for an evening and we'll watch the Captain.

Us - Well...hmm...that's mighty tempting.

And so it's baited. They throw the finest piece of sushi on the end of a fishhook and reel us in. They know our weakness. They count on it. And this is how grandparents play their game. The trouble is we love it. Free, dummy. But there are those irritating strings they attach. I know I'll do it to the Captain one day, and thus the vicious cycle continues. But given the many career appointments I need to attend to next week and the constant distractions the Captain is providing me with during my job search...it kills me. Can you taste the sushi? Mmmm. Wasabi.

And so, I leave you with the immortal words of the late great Sam Levenson, a humorist circa 1960's and actual distant relative of mine, who once wrote the following:

The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy.

Sadly for me, I lost my remaining grandparents this last year. So now it's 5 against 2. The odds are stacked against us.

Job blows.

It dawned on me the other day that though I have Internet up and running and though I could probably squeeze in a few precious moments to blog it out most days that I am just not feeling the love. Perhaps it is the 700 channels of television that has distracted me. Maybe it's the vast number of English speakers surrounding me. Who am I kidding? It's the job search.

It's a funny sort of thing, but being a lawyer not only sucks the life out of you but searching for a job as a lawyer has a similar effect. I think in part that I've just been out of the game too long and, let's face it, a year of talking about shit and doorknobs hasn't made it any easier. No, I don't believe that parenting makes you inherently stupid. But I find myself reaching up my legal ass (as lawyers often do) and pulling such crap out for these cover letters and interviews; it seems like a lie.

But I think it's more than that. I've had more of my share of job missteps and mediocre career moves; I'm not eager to screw it up again. And then the real truth sets in: how do you find that career move that fills your purse, fulfills your soul and doesn't leave Captain Kid sans mediocre mama. When every decent job you look at is more than an hour's commute away, how can you contemplate a job with 50 hour work weeks?

So you will have to forgive this lapse of silence over the last month. It's not you, it's me.

But for the record, I can report that the Captain is doing just great in his new environs and that Dog is back in town, once again being harassed daily by her tormentor. His latest hobby is attempting to run her down with his little riding car and stabbing her with a fork; both incidents resulted in arrests for reckless driving and assault with a deadly weapon - possible possession of a controlled substance as well - his cheerios were confiscated at the scene and are being tested as we speak.

I'm about 10 cm's.

There's nothing like trying to check your e-mail/blogging when you've been fully dilated. In my case, I had to drive a good hour in this state, fully cognizant of the road signs yet not so certain about what my dashboard was displaying. This all after driving a full hour to my doctor's appointment in, I kid you not, a hail storm. No, I'm not so mediocre as to have done this with the Captain in the car. But I did leave him with an unassuming girlfriend who has a toddler of her own and managed one of the most dumb ass displays of my life in her presence. For the record, this did not occur while my pupils were dilated, which makes me feel like an even bigger dork for doing it. But long story short, I kicked the rocking horse, totally by accident, with the possible consequence of a broken toe. I don't know for sure yet, mostly because I need to wait for the throbbing to stop and, more importantly, tonight I guzzled down a bottle of this stuff to kill the pain:




.
There was a purpose to this story? Other than an utterly irresistible opportunity to squeeze a line in about being blinded with science. Oh wait, I remember. First, I think I owe my readers an apology:

1. I hope I haven't given any false expectations about my ability to blog. We have Internet, but no computer (still en route to the State's). Technically this is my husband's office computer. Which is also deeply cutting into my porn hobby, but such is life.
2. My blogging is going to be severely hindered by my job search, because any five seconds I get with a computer and an Internet connection must belong to my prospective income or lack thereof (naturally this ad seems tempting - ADULT NIGHTCLUB #1 Club in Maryland seeks Dancers up to $1000.00 Nightly. Flexible hrs, must be 18 yrs or older. Also need Announcers & Floor Staff. McDoogals 410-437-2834 - but honestly I am not that good a dancer).
3. Finally, I just want to state for the record that my ability to double shift should in no way be misconstrued as something you should rely on. My computer will be here shortly...please expect additional misplaced exclamation points soon.

So, the point of it is this...when one is so drunk, in pain, and so blind that a job search is not an option, blogging suddenly becomes feasible. I would suggest to all my loyal readers that you not try this at home, but hobbies and creativity can flourish in the most dire of circumstances. More blogging to come, I promise, but it may require a lost finger or partial-brain lobotomy to keep up my former pace. And I resent any insinuations that I've already had one; admit it, you were thinking it.

Holy internet, Batman.

Son of a bitch, I love the Internet. Who knew in this day and age that it would be so friggin' impossible to have access. As it would happen, the south of Spain hates the Internet even more than the French and Italians do, and at 1 euro for 12 minutes to access the hotel lobby Internet, I decided that I could not put that kind of premium on my Muse (she's a crazy little bitch).



Which all would have been fine, but for the fact that we moved back into our house on Monday and Verizon didn't install the FIOS until this afternoon. Not to mention the fact that my computer is currently sitting somewhere in a box in DC, awaiting customs clearance (I assure you, they have top men looking into it).



So here I sit, with a list of blog topics about 20 items long just not knowing where to start. I can offer a few previews, just to wet your appetite, but I do need to wrap my brain around it all in a more calm and less humid fashion. It might take me a couple of weeks to catch my breath. But as promised, a preview:

1. The Captain loses his best friend, the television;


2. Headbanging - it's not just for teenagers anymore;


3. Luggage carts - they're not just for luggage anymore;


4. From Germany to NY - Sprechen Sie Noisy Toddler?;


5. Like a bull in a china shop - aka, like a Captain in a cheesy tourist shop;


6. A day at the water park, or, the Captain's 18 euro trip to stand in a puddle;


7. Sevilla - "To drive the undrivable streets;"


8. On returning home - house woes, daycare woes, job woes...welcome back Kotter;


9. More fabulous places where strollers suck; and


10. A Spaniard in America...the Captain meets the fast food nation.

Alright, chew on that for a night. Must go watch 700 channels of television, all broadcast in English! My head is spinning. Nighty.

Packing heat.

Yes, we're packing and yes, it's hot, hence the title of an otherwise incoherent post. It's 1:15 am, the Captain's snoozing away in his travel crib, the Dad is packing like a fiend (last minute, naturally), and yours truly is backing up computers...do you know where your children are? So since I lose my Internet connection tomorrow and will likely only have sporadic coverage at best over the next 3 weeks, I want to get in some last licks as a just in case.

On moving. CK came to the realization that "something's up" today when he saw his crib disassembled and most of his toys packed up. In our defense, we have been doing this slowly...a couple more toys each day. But he's been as oblivious to the missing toys as he is to the missing Dog. So it was a bit of a shock when he had a "wait a moment" moment earlier this evening. I took him downstairs to shield him from the trauma, but he pretty much was flipping out and attempted to jump into the pool. He chilled out eventually and seemed amused by the flying nuts and bolts.

On Father's Day. I really should do a much bigger tribute here, but I'm tired and punchy, and have boxes all over the place. So I leave you with this amusing article sent by a half-crazed friend who is studying for the bar exam. It probably helps with your enjoyment to have this bit of information. .

On lead paint. Is it wrong that I find this whole Thomas Train recall so darn amusing? Probably because I don't own any. And don't get me wrong, I have many less than mediocre friends and relatives furiously going through their collections as I type this. But what I find to be such a kicker is that for such an insanely expensive item like Thomas trains they are (a) being produced in China and (b) covered in lead paint. I would kill to know the markup on this junk.

On other crap. I am sure that I will find a minute or two to ramble on some more tomorrow, but it's looking a bit grim. I'm not sure how all my readers will survive without my mediocrity (or at least sporadic slices of it) for the coming weeks, but if it helps you fill the time, I recommend taking up some mediocre activities of your own. Here are some suggestions, but this is by no means an exhaustive list. Feel free to post if you can think of some more, but please keep it absolutely half-assed:

1. Needlepoint;


2. Paint by numbers;


3. Watch seasons 1-8 of Charmed (pretty much what I did my first 6 months here);


4. Read The Bridges of Madison County;


5. Go see an Andrew Lloyd Webber tribute concert;


6. Eat at an Applebees;


7. Attend a Natalie Merchant concert;


8. Sort through, and watch, your VHS tapes;


9. Watch the Higglytown Heroes; or, if you're really feeling saucy


10. Start a crappy blog of your own.

Hopefully, one more blog tomorrow. But if not, have a mediocre Father's Day.

"Mediocre Mama"

In search of the great out side.

It was once really cute.

Captain, you want to get your shoes and socks? Answer: out side.

Captain, where do helicopters fly? Answer: out side.

Where do you want to go, sweetie? Answer: out side.

See? Adorable, huh? It's seemingly the answer to most questions and fits just fine. Yet, somewhere in the south of France it stopped being adorable.

In the Captain's mind, "out side" has taken on a grander meaning. It's in the car. It's out of the car. It's up a staircase. It's in the pool. It's in a closet. In fact, "out side" now means whatever it is he wishes to be doing. Which is why the Dad and I were utterly confused as he had a tantrum around dinner time the other night whilst we were chillin in southern France. Normally we wouldn't have been so indulgent to discover the true hidden meaning, but when he started pounding his fists and having yet another tantrum in the middle of a dinner party, we became determined to shut him up. Defeated and feeling completely mediocre, yet aware that the only way he would settle down would be with food in his tummy, we followed him all over the 9th century domaine to find out where the fuck out side was.

First it was by the pool. Then it was inside. Then it was out in front of the domaine. Then it was in the car, sitting in his car seat. Then it was out of the car for a brief moment, only to be quickly followed by it being inside the car. Then we went back into the house, climbed stairs. At times out side was at the top of the staircase. Then it was at the bottom. It was under a table. It was in Dad's arms. On and on and on, all the while chasing him with hamburger on a fork, praying for him to take one bite and stop crying.

Perhaps in a toddlers mind, out side is about what can be. I mean, we really do make it sound so great. It's the place where young dreams are made. It's where playgrounds live and fresh air is free. It's where you find bottle caps and other trash just lying on the ground like a prize to be claimed. But like Dorothy over the rainbow, the Captain always seems to be chasing his heart's desire, which is always moving, always someplace where he is not, always something out of reach, and never in the comfort of Mama and Dad's arms. Oh, I know that he won't spend every second of every day running to find out side and that eventually there will be days where he even enjoys the comfort of sitting still.

Then again, maybe toddlers aren't so different from grownups. I mean, who amongst us isn't still searching for out side?