Mommy Needs a Minute

So this thing happened yesterday that kind of derailed my day and bummed me out. It’s really stupid, and I’m more bothered that I’m bothered by it than bothered by the actual thing. Before my explanation turns any more circular, let me ‘splain:

Someone made fun of my bust (or, more pointedly, lack thereof) on Facebook.

This was some dude I don’t even know. Not a FB friend of mine, but a FB friend of a friend of a friend. Three degrees of separation but apparently close enough to point a finger at my chest and laugh. It felt like the virtual equivalent of someone yelling at me from across the street and announcing my most obvious deficiencies in front of passersby: “Hey lady. Laaady! Your tits are small!”

Let me further ‘splain: My sister-in-law, Jenna, makes beautiful, ornate handmade jewelry (which you should totally check out right here and here!). Since moving to Colorado earlier this year, she’s been churning out pieces and turning her talent into a business. She asked me to model (a generous word) her jewelry so she could post photos on Facebook. Now, it’s worth mentioning that I am deeply unphotogenic. I have a sixth sense, which I call “photo-prioception,” that allows me to feel the presence of a camera lens before actually seeing it. It’s like Spidey-sense, though it’s probably more closely related to George Michael Bluth’s instinctual cower/deflection when balls are thrown in his general direction (incidentally, I have that, too). When I sense a nearby camera, every muscle in my body tenses and I morph into the stick-person version of myself; my face becomes a death mask, tense with rigor mortis, my smile uncomfortable and Joker-esque. It’s pretty unattractive. But I didn’t want my camera-phobia or, frankly, my ego and vanity to keep me from helping out my sister-in-law, and most of the photos would be closeups of the jewelry anyway. So I was happy to lend my neck, awkward as it was, and the following image, among others, was posted on Facebook:

The Sprocket Necklace by Secret Side Project. Also: hubba hubba A-cup!

One of Jenna’s FB friends commented on the photo, something to the effect of “wow, this is awesome!” Then, one of this FB friend’s FB friends (stay with me) added this comment (names have been withheld to protect the identities of anonymous douchebags):

“What the hell is so awesome about this picture? All I see is an A-cup, at best.”

To which one of this dude’s FB friends, a woman, no less, added this: “That’s just what I was going to say, (insert name of Douchebag 1).”

To which Douchebag 1 replied to Douchebag 2: “And that’s why you are the COOLEST CHICK EVA, (insert name of Douchebag 2)!”

So now my boobs are being discussed openly, and this comment thread is attached to a photo I’ve been tagged in. I’m getting FB email notifications as this commentary is unfolding. A commentary on my boobs. Boobs that belong to me, who is intensely uncomfortable being photographed. A commentary by people I don’t know. And, as is probably glaringly obvious, a commentary on the boobs that I have hated all my life. If one of my 2012 New Year’s resolutions had been “Face your fears plus your feelings of boob inadequacy,” I could check that shit right off my list!

Once upon a time, I was thirteen, and I got my period. And I looked right past the cramps and discomfort and general feelings of grossness and had this bright, shining epiphany: This means I should get boobs soon! And so, I waited. And waited. And waited. And after my son was born, I finally got them! And though they did look awesome, they were engorged and sore and leaky and a source of sustenance for my baby, which officially made them The Most Unsexy Things Ever. After weaning Henry, I watched them shrink and deflate and turn sad and schmoopy. And at that moment, I felt sorry for not appreciating the boobs I once had. Though small, they were pink and plucky and happy and adorably resilient to my disapproval of them. I was unfair to my boobs, and now the life force had been sucked out of them. So I resolved to accept them as they were. Like Bubble, I too would love to fill a bra with big, pendulous breasts, but that’s not to be, and that’s okay. Because they have other talents! One: They’ve never attracted cat-calls by construction workers nor the attention of random men in bars. Two: They fed my child for a full 18 months (holla). Three: They provide an undistracting backdrop on which to display gorgeous jewelry (did I mention it’s available for purchase here!). Or so I thought.

I managed to fire off the following comment before Jenna rightly deleted the offending parts of the comment thread, lest her FB page become a catty tit-for-tat (zing!) quibble about my boobs:

“Dear (insert name of Douchebag 1 and Douchebag 2) — As owner of said A-cup, thanks for eclipsing the purpose of this proprietor sharing her wares on Facebook with the real showstopper: my tiny tits! Congrats on your astute powers of décolletage observation. It’s good to know that even though I’m helping my sister-in-law showcase her beautiful, handmade jewelry, shitheads will still be shitheads!”

To Douchebag 1′s credit, he swiftly deleted his comments. I doubt my comment shamed him, but rather forced him to consider that the disembodied chest he was poking fun at belonged to an actual person. A person with a Facebook profile, a person who posts photos of her family, a person who shares silly links and dumb videos. I’m sure he initially regarded my image as nothing more than any other Internet image — devoid of context, separated from any identity. Another female body part to judge and caption.

But this isn’t a treatise on douchebags; obviously the comment pricked at my own insecurity, my desire to be more curvy and womanly. But if I didn’t appreciate my young, nubile breasts with their life force intact, they won’t satisfy me now. And unless plastic surgery is a serious consideration (it’s not), I’ve got to get over myself already. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 31 years, it’s that self-loathing is fucking exhausting. This realization doesn’t mean I’m suddenly enlightened or over it, I’m just tired of it. I can’t kick it, but I can acknowledge that it’s there and move on. In other words, I sit with it. Self-loathing is the chatty neighbor who wants to suck up your time when you step outside to get the mail. You’ve got to wave a cheerful but dismissive “Hello!” and get back to your business.

So my A-cups and I will continue being invisible to construction workers and bar patrons, though (thankfully) they no longer feed my kid. And I may still unconsciously dart to the closet when changing my clothes in front of Adam. But fuck it. And fuck Douchebags 1 and 2.

My husband is a voracious, omnivorous consumer of online content. On a weekly basis, he emails me “must-read” links covering a variety of subjects: politics, film, tech news, science/health, why Scooby Doo is a treatise on secular humanism. I could go on. The man is a walking newsstand and fount of useful and useless-but-entertaining information alike. He shares this fantastic content with such regularity that I’ve begun to dread it. “Oh, great. Here’s another brilliant think piece I have to read that’s going to eat into my Pinterest-ing. And I just reached Inbox Zero. Fuck, life is hard.”

Luckily, Adam had the brilliant idea of formally culling, curating, and posting these must-reads via a Tumblr site called Brute Neighbors. So if you’re trying to kill that last hour(s) at the office, have to endure a daily commute on a bus that smells like burritos and feet, or want to feel “enlightened” or “informed” or whatever, then check it out!

Speaking of “brute neighbors” (I’M THE WINNER OF SEGUES), I’m bursting with Longmont crimes to report! Let’s see what’s been keeping the boys down at the crime lab working in shifts these days:

Breaking, Month-Old Headlines

Wallet Returned Three Years after It Was Stolen

Disorderly Man Cursed at Passersby

Three Geese Killed, One Injured When Hit by SUV

Man’s Trees T-P’d

It’s True: Rodents Will Chew on Your Car’s Wires

Mountain View Rescuer Freezing His Keester Off (a story about a rescuer saving a dog named Keester. Har har.)

‘Private Dancer’ Drug Supplier Sentenced to 16 Years (about an arrest that resulted from a Longmont police investigation called “Operation Private Dancer.” Are investigations typically named?)

The Scourge of Jaywalking

Police took a woman and a man into custody Wednesday night after the woman was stopped for failing to use a crosswalk while crossing the 300 block of Main Street and did not have identification. The man was arrested after also crossing Main Street mid-block and confronting officers physically and aggressively questioning them about why they were arresting his “wife.” However, the man could not tell officers what his wife’s name was, police said, and he also could not provide identification. Both the man and the woman were released after being temporarily taken to the Longmont Justice Center and given municipal summonses.

Longmont police arrested a 26-year-old pedestrian Thursday night who turned out to be wanted for failure to appear on a damage-to-property charge in Boulder, after an officer stopped the man and his companion for ignoring a red light while walking across Main Street at Second Avenue. Police said the pair had nearly caused a traffic accident.

(I’m going to change my Facebook and Twitter profile info to read ”30-something pedestrian.” Really, that about sums it up.)

Crack Reporting of Disturbing Burglaries

A Christmas wreath was stolen from outside a home on the 800 block of Windflower Drive, and an exterior carriage light damaged, according to a report police got on Friday.

A Twin Peaks Golf Course employee reported Friday that several water hoses had been stolen.

A resident on the 2600 block of Falcon Drive reported on Monday that a 4-foot lighted holiday reindeer was stolen from her yard.

Hel-lo, just get a warrant for all homes sporting hose wreaths, you turkeys. And coming this December: BEST 2012 HOLIDAY DISPLAY EVER.

French-Fry Wielding Gangsters

Police arrested an intoxicated man outside of the McDonald’s restaurant on the 1900 block of Main Street on Wednesday on suspicion of disturbing the peace after reports that he walked into the restaurant covered in vomit, cleaned himself up in the restroom, then sat at a table alone until becoming belligerent with employees and customers, according to reports. Officers saw him approach a car in the drive-through, prompting the driver to speed away. The man told police he was “almost jumped” by “gangsters” who threw french fries at him, so he challenged them loudly to a fight. Officers detained the man.

(This is being optioned for a movie starring Michelle Pfeiffer, with original music from Longmont favorite Coolio, recipient of the honorary Key to the Deli Zone on Ken Pratt Blvd.)

Drunk and Disorderly — Also, Probably Very, Very High

Police arrested a 30-year-old woman Sunday believed to have entered Walgreens, 1041 Main St., and yelled at employees, accusing them of stealing her Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, according to reports. Police said a search of the woman after arrest found a four-pack of 100-watt light bulbs beneath her coat and that she may have been on drugs. Possible charges include theft, disorderly conduct and violation of bond conditions.

A man was arrested on suspicion of obstructing a police officer on Monday after police investigated a report that he was trying to steal a chain from a pillar, according to reports. Officers found him holding a chain that was still attached to a pillar, but saw that he was not trying to take it and did not have the tools to do so. Officers reported he could not explain why he was holding the chain and seemed to be intoxicated and confused. However, he got angry with officers and became combative, so he was arrested.

Crimes of Passion

Hookah Falls Victim to Spat 
Police arrested a 19-year-old woman Wednesday on suspicion of domestic violence and smashing her boyfriend’s hookah, according to reports. She told police she broke the device because he had hidden her laptop.

Just, Woah

A 23-year-old woman who had recently been released from jail for auto theft went back to jail Saturday on suspicion of indecent exposure at a Main Street tattoo parlor, according to reports. Police said the woman is believed to have walked into the parlor with two bottles of lotion and begun touching herself intimately; a person inside the shop recorded the incident on a smart phone, police said. After shop employees asked her to leave, police said, she hid in a nearby car until police arrived and initially refused to come out when officers asked.

A Longmont man convicted in October of exposing himself in a Burger King drive-through and asking a restaurant employee whether she wanted to “touch his whopper” was sentenced Monday to a year of work release, four years of sex offender probation and 80 hours of community service.

Remember several years ago when Whitney Houston, back in her Bobby B days, had a much-publicized HBO concert (a la Barbara Streisand) during which she acted totally weird, cut off songs with long-winded, discombobulated storytelling, and mopped profuse amounts of crack-laced sweat from her forehead with a wad of toilet paper?

Good because that’s what this post is going to be like. (Also, if you can find any trace of that concert online, please send it my way tout suite.)

Part I. The 7 Plagues of Christmas

Our Christmas included the following: (1) a six-hour delay at Denver International Airport with a toddler who would only be entertained by moving sidewalks; (2) a middle-ear infection and extreme motion sickness (me); (3) a sinus infection-cum-asthma attack (Adam); (4) 10 days’ worth of nausea-inducing antibiotics (me); a post-grandparent-adulation crash coupled with a cold (Henry); (5) at least two instances of regurgitated Welch’s strawberry gummies (Henry); (6) one sprawling retirement compound at the tippy top of a motherfucking mountain that can only be traversed via meandering corkscrew roads (reference #2); (7) one lost infant car seat substituted with a stained, flimsy, and in no way Safety Enforcer-approved replacement (thanks, United); and a partridge in a goddamn cocksucking pear tree.

As such, my first reportage from the trenches of 2012 reflects the state of my fuzzy, foggy brain. My ear’s better, but my equilibrium is still off, and I’ve got a raging head cold. So far, I would describe the New Year as a listless boat on a choppy sea. Because I’m metaphorical like that. Also: mucousy. Apparently, the world turned 2012, and I turned into the husk of Dick Clark.

Part II. Copyediting with a Head Cold is a B

I returned from our holiday travels with lots of work, and I can confirm that hours of close reading in front of a computer is perhaps not the best remedy for incessant nausea. But this epiphany did help me get in the spirit and formulate an official New Year’s resolution:

2012 New Year’s Resolution: Stop feeling like I want to die!

This should be way easier than that no shopping thing.

Part III. 2012 Bitches

It’s not all gloom, despair, and agony over here. We managed to ring in the New Year by continuing a 2011 Nikolaidis tradition: the movie and food theme night. So far we’ve done Fight Club Sandwiches, Ghostbusters with Stay Puft S’mores, and The Ninth Gate with Mexican Food. (See, we were supposed to watch Once Upon a Time in Mexico, but we couldn’t get the movie at the last minute, so we decided that since Johnny Depp is also in The Ninth Gate, we should just watch that. Creative license, people.) So we rang in the New Year with Lord of the Onion Rings. Behold the Two Towers:

For your consideration: Trajan Pro

Despite dressing up like Baby New Year, Henry was unimpressed:

But the rest of us enjoyed dressing fancy. The Bros. Nikolaidis did all the cooking, in their wedding tuxes no less (read: the only formal attire they own).

Nikolaidis Mens

Jenna and I felt like we had personal butlers. How’s that for moving on up in the New Year?

Part IV: The Meaning of Life or Thank You for Being a Friend

If I were a hip hop star, I’d call myself E.Piphany (with the ph because that’s still phat, right?). This is because my name begins with “E” and my rhymes would be about all my dope, epiphanous musings. For example: I read this interview with Mitchell Hurwitz a while back in which he discussed how his Arrested Development characters were informed by the archetypes of Matriarch, Patriarch, Craftsman, and Clown. I recently saw a Golden Girls clip (another show Hurwitz worked on) and discovered another character trope: Lanky, Slutty, Baby, and Stupid

which instantly recalled another homosocial domestic sitcom:

This is blowing your mind, right? And wait for it . . .

Daaamn. That’s how E.Piphany rolls. Don’t ask me how the other kids fit into the equation. I can’t figure it all out for you.

Denouement: So This Is Happening

A neighbor has been pestering us to remove a tree from our yard that liters her backyard with leaves. She’s elderly and tapes passive aggressive notes to our door with contact information for tree services. She’s never offered to contribute to the expense. But the tree’s an irritation for us, too, and despite her notes and the patronizing way she says young man when she flags Adam down, we finally decided to have the tree removed. Perhaps I’m preserving my own right to be crotchety and meddlesome when I get older. Right now I’m listening to the crackling, popping, and thunking of tree chunks coming down.

Now we have this wide clearing that allows us to see directly into her yard. Perhaps we’ll plant a shrubbery or a gaudy stone fountain with a cherub peeing into her grass, or some lewd statuary. Like a good neighbor, Statue Porn is there.

Amid the whirring of the chipper, the tree guys are listening to Sugar Ray. Yes, Sugar Ray. And god help me, I somehow know the lyrics. Every morning there’s a halo hangin from the corner of my girlfriend’s four post bed. How the fuck do I know these words?? I’m either recalling some past life where I exhibited very poor taste in music, or my Sugar Ray knowledge can be attributed to three years of serving in a restaurant that played Top 40 satellite radio ad nauseam. Whatever the source, it is seriously undermining my New Year’s resolution.

Help me.

I forgot her. Every year I include Mom on my gift list, which now mostly consists of kids. Each year, I stress and hem and haw and grind my teeth trying to invent a thoughtful gift for her. At the earlier end of her dementia spectrum, I’d get her home decorating magazines and sketch books with markers and colored pencils. She used to enjoy drawing and writing and intensely loved interior design, so those gifts seemed to successfully balance her interests while toning her increasingly flabby brain, distracting her otherwise vacant, wandering stare. One year, I made her a photo book that chronologically followed her life in pictures. I curated the best early family photos I had, vintage, slightly blurred black and white images of shirtless tow-headed twins with matching pigtails and wide smiles pocked by missing front teeth. I added captions under the photos written in the first person. Photo above: Mom, Dad, me, Lynn, and Donna, circa 1962. I presented it to her and watched her peruse the pages, glassy-eyed, confronted with ghosts and immediately recalled loved ones alike. An Olan Mills portrait of my then two-year-old brother smiling sweetly, mouth full of baby teeth and a bowl of golden hair, stopped her. Was this the son everyone was referring to?

She was confronted with another reality, one vaguely remembered but not felt, and I watched singular tears draw tracks down each of her cheeks. I felt gross. Disgusted at the presumption that I could bestow upon her the magnanimous gift of memory, like Prometheus bringing fire to mortals. I was throwing in her face all these moments she’d worked doggedly to will out of her cache. I wasn’t a gift giver, I was a terrorist, wrapping bombs in a 99-cent drugstore bow. I no longer give her reminders.

With each year of worsening symptoms, I’ve moved away from gifts meant to stimulate brain activity and toward gifts of physical comfort. Sweets, the only thing she voluntarily eats. Slippers, for the shuffling. Relaxed-fit exercise pants that rest comfortably over adult undergarments. Soft pink sweater sets that keep her warm while reminding those around her of her stylish femininity, like old ladies in nursing homes who take the time to apply lipstick. But this year, none of my “holiday prep” lists, calendar notes, or phone reminders prodded me to get Mom a gift. I simply forgot her. Maybe unconsciously I was avoiding the angst of trying to come up with something new. I’m too proud to spin the dementia-patient gift wheel, lazily rehashing the same four ideas each year, but exhausted at the thought of unearthing something new. Worse than buying for the person who has everything is gifting to the person who just sits there, staring. I’ve long argued that Mom’s forgetting is a form of self-preservation. I assume mine is, too.

Mom loved the shit out of Christmas. She approached it with a childlike enthusiasm, so excited to share my presents that I often couldn’t keep her from ruining my surprises. One year I wanted a tent, and she created a scavenger hunt for me on Christmas morning with clues hidden around the house that led me to the guest bedroom where a glorious, fully assembled tent sat waiting for me smack in the middle of the room. Even my stepdad worked to make the day special, the two of them staying up late on Christmas Eve wrapping gifts, putting together bikes, and burying surprise gifts into my candy-heavy stocking. They would actually wake me up on Christmas morning, my stepdad softly shaking jingle bells at the bottom of the stairs and telling me later, “You must have just missed him!” During these times, I glimpsed them as the couple they’d hoped to be, the family unit they originally set out to create.

Mom and I often attended a midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Every year, I’d get sleepy a couple hours beforehand and start to cop out, but she’d whip me into the spirit with her Pollyanna perkiness, despite knowing she’d be staying up for hours after the service to wrap gifts and stuff my stocking. We were members of a nondenominational Christian church, which was beige and bland and woefully unadorned compared to the Catholic church that held the midnight mass. In the darkness, the stained-glass windows, full, fragrant wreaths along the altar, and pews flanked by candle light looked downright luxurious. Those midnight masses encapsulated everything Mom loved about the season and her faith. Her god was a benevolent parent figure smiling down on us, bathing us in light, uniting us in our common humanity. He (definitely a he) would deny no repentant soul (not even Jews or gays! she once told me) entrance to heaven. Though wholly aloft, apart, and above us, her god was utterly accessible, a direct contrast to my stepdad’s abandoning — and apparently denuding — god of the Left Behind series. The church had an excellent choir that shamed our own church’s unwieldy four-person chorale with that one singer who imagined herself in competition with the others, always eager to spice up a hymn with an egregious use of vibrato. Mom’s favorite hymn was “O Holy Night,” and she loved hearing it sung by vocalists with the range to meet the song’s aching crescendo. We’d listen to the midnight mass choir, me sneaking glances at her hair, soft and honey colored, and her skin, luminous in the candlelight, her eyes wet, moved by the music. The production filled her with something she needed, and we both left buoyed by her transcendence.

I managed to remember Mom in enough time to get her something. I found her a cream Ralph Lauren cardigan with gold buttons, nice and heavy despite the $20 Marshall’s price tag. She’d be glad I found a past-season piece at a knockoff price and didn’t spend too much on her. But what I wish for her this Christmas is that somewhere in the kaleidoscope of her memory, she can summon the feeling this holiday once gave her and be filled with whatever it is she needs, held in the soft but strong embrace of an all-loving and benevolent parent.

I admit, I wasn’t in love with Longmont when we bought our house here. I didn’t hate it, either, but our focus at the time was mainly to find an affordable home that wasn’t a cardboard box (aka, all we could afford in Boulder). We’re in a very suburban neighborhood full of builder box-style houses with little variation (sort of the “McMansions” of the 60s, I imagine). Longmont’s bustling downtown area spans maybe 10 city blocks and houses equal parts charming artsy boutiques/hipster(ish) thrift stores/great local pubs, diners, sandwich shops and strange, possibly abandoned buildings mysteriously named “Ralph Castle” (note the lack of a possessive, suggesting this is less likely to be a dude named Ralph’s castle than it is some kind of squalid, commercial mecca of barfing) and historic jail houses-cum-taquerías.

Despite this grandeur, I didn’t appreciate Longmont’s true magic until Adam turned me on to the Longmont Times Call crime reporting. This absurdist journalism rivals anything produced by the Onion, but it’s real. I now follow their RSS feed and enjoy daily, local nuggets of comedy gold. Not since Steinbeck has the American struggle for freedom (to don blankets and bang Dumpsters), prosperity (via IBM workers’ unattended backpacks), and independence (to piss in any bed you want) been so haphazardly wrought, so pulsing with utter banality. It’s a tragic, achingly beige, lovingly phoned-in portrait of the human condition writ small:

A 30-year-old Longmont woman was arrested at about 7:36 p.m. Saturday on the 2700 block of Falcon Drive on suspicion of third-degree assault and domestic violence, police said. The woman is accused of hitting her husband on the back, leaving a welt, because he wanted to watch pornography, police said.

Police Notes: IBM worker’s missing backpack found at mom’s house without iPad2

A Longmont man told police on Monday that a burglar broke into his home on the 900 block of Button Rock Road, stole an electronic music player, and urinated on his bed, according to reports. There are no suspects.

Police went to a reported assault on Wednesday. According to police, a 56-year-old woman said a 57-year-old man had grabbed her arm; the man told police that the woman poked him in the eye. The case is closed.

A suspicious person was reported Wednesday in an alley on the 1800 block of Emery Street, wearing a blanket and banging on Dumpsters, according to reports. Police said they found a 24-year-old man — not bearing a blanket — whom they arrested on prior warrants for failure to comply on a menacing charge and failure to appear on a charge of liquor possession. (Blogger note: Don’t you LOVE that “Dumpsters” is capitalized?)

Sometimes, even Boulder proper gets in on the action:

The man Boulder police say hid in a portable toilet at a yoga festival and then ran from security covered in feces last weekend has been arrested, according to the Boulder Police Department.

Personally, I’m reading these police notes in search of Longmont’s own Ronnie Dobbs. The blanket-wearing (excuse me, blanket-bearing) Dumpster banger seems promising.

Not a local? Fear not. I’ll share these gems regularly. Or you can subscribe to the RSS yourself here to receive your own daily Longmont affirmations.

When I was a kid, my understanding of money was that it was an easy, ubiquitous currency, like air or Jesus. If I wanted a new jean jacket and my mom said we couldn’t afford it, I would shrug and say, “Just write a check.” As if — duh — it was as difficult as grabbing a stool to reach an item on a high shelf. I came by this mindset naturally, that is, not through environment or circumstance but some inbred, daffy, almost hippie notion that money was, quite simply, accessible. If cash wasn’t on hand, grab another mode of exchange: card or paper. No biggie.

Given the recent housing crisis and ghastly foreclosure rate, I’m clearly not alone in my inability to grasp the concept of abstracted money. With the accrual of debt not only encouraged in our economy but required for upward mobility, buying things that you don’t have physical, immediate cash for is the norm. Over time, my understanding of how money works hasn’t improved much. I managed to avoid jumping on those predatory “CD of the Month Club” offers or signing up for a credit card when propositioned by companies at the tender age of 18. But when a switch in teaching assignments in grad school jeopardized my ability to pay the rent, I happily marched to the Magical Land of Financial Aid to secure a loan, a loan that ended up being far greater than what I needed or even asked for. A loan I’ll be repaying in monthly installments for approximately forever.

Upon getting my first job out of grad school, I distinctly remember drinking in celebration with my also newly hired friend and saying, without an ounce of sarcasm, “Can you imagine making more than $15K a year? We’re making that as teaching assistants and still affording rent and cell phones. Dude, we’re going to be rich.” So skewed was my understanding of money and it’s supposed elasticity that at the promise of more than $15K a year, I was ready to roll in a bed of cash like Demi Moore.

In 2006, I discovered a great passion and a hobbling addiction: design websites. I visited Boulder’s chichi furniture boutiques and a store with the auspicious name “Design Within Reach” (read: nowhere even remotely within my reach), and I stomped my feet like a petulant child and determined that life wasn’t fair. I worked hard. I appreciated well-made, beautiful things. I contributed to society. I voted. I flossed. But the finer things I coveted simply weren’t accessible to me.

Over time, I matured a bit beyond the mindset of a typical My Super Sweet Sixteen subject. I’ve learned the typical workarounds and DIY tricks and how to distinguish the things that are worth saving for from the unnecessarily expensive pack. But I’ve elevated the practice of spending every penny of “mad money” — i.e., personal money leftover after all bills and savings are accounted for — to an art form. Though I always paid the full balance on my credit card bills, nothing extra was saved or socked away. Every month, I told myself that I would spend little if any of that month’s mad money allowance. Then I’d dip a toe into that pool of money with a small purchase — a little treat for myself, I’d rationalize — and before I knew it, I was cannon-balling into the water, again, rolling naked a la Demi in a bed of fake, future cash.

Clearly, the problem wasn’t that I was living beyond my means; my means simply needed to adjust to my living. So when I was laid off from a not-so-great-paying job, I made it my mission to find a bona fide great-paying job. And I did! Never mind that I had to commute 100 miles round trip to the office. I had cash money! I made adult purchases, like sofas and updated lighting. I amassed an extensive collection of colorful, quirky throw pillows. And I bought enough Etsy art to furnish a Zooey Deschanel Hipster Dollhouse™. Though I like and use these things, I bought them on impulse, rarely considering whether local thrift stores offered items that served the same purpose at more affordable prices. Or, you know, if it was actually necessary to have another throw pillow. Despite my increased income, I was stuck in the same accruing/spending cycle as before, only with larger price tags. Little mad money was saved or thoughtfully spent.

I’m detailing my unseemly relationship with money because I’m in need of some perspective. On paper, I don’t read like the typical shopping addict. I have excellent credit, never miss a payment, and have avoided holing up in a dive motel room for a week snorting Anthropologie housewares off a hooker’s ass. My problem is more insidious. I spend needlessly, imprudently, and even joylessly, but I’m not drowning in debt. I’m like the drunk who sneaks nips in the workplace restroom but keeps Listerine on hand and never misses a deadline. I’m a functioning shopaholic, or as the Onion t-shirt puts it, “I’m like a chocoholic, but for bird art/screenprinted pillows/twee illustrated calendars/graphic shower curtains.”

I’ve attempted moderation, tried imposing strict yet realistic spending limits, but beyond all logic and Virgo practicality, it doesn’t work. I haven’t blown Henry’s college savings on doggie duvet covers — yet — but I’m acquiring more STUFF than I need. I’m not declaring my admittance into a 12-step program, but I do need a shock to my system that will force me to spend more thoughtfully and with more intention. Perhaps paradoxically, I think this begins with quitting spending. Full stop.

These ideas had been percolating in my head for some time when I encountered this project and this project. Here were two smart, funny blogger ladies wrestling with the same concerns. Since my other crippling addiction is the need for validation, I felt emboldened by their goals and the very adult label of “project.” So I’ve decided to confront my own issue by doing what anyone with money problems does: I’m gonna steal.* Specifically, I’m stealing Elizabeth Jayne Liu’s project to not buy anything for one year, starting January 1, 2012. In an attempt to set myself up for success, rather than making this so Draconian that I’m destined to fail, here are my ground rules:

1. Buying gifts is allowed.

2. Paying for a hair trim every six weeks is allowed (I will not impose my cockamamie schemes on my innocent ‘do).

3. Spending money on nights out with friends, cultural events, date nights (with my husband — I draw the line at any more romantic dinners with Ryan Gosling. Pay your own way, Gosling!), travel, monkeyshines, and roustabouts is allowed. The point is to stop accumulating STUFF and repurpose the money normally spent on said STUFF to fund quality time with friends, family, and beautiful celebrities who pay their own way. I’m prone to reclusiveness already — I’m only a few urine bottles short of Howard Hughes status — so I don’t want the spending hiatus to affect my anemic social skills.

4. Money spent on the business (needed equipment, professional development classes, professional association dues, etc.) is allowed.

Now for the don’ts:

1. No spending on clothes, jewelry, shoes, accessories.

2. No spending on unnecessary home decor (however, necessary home purchases, e.g., fixing a broken water heater, are allowed).

This may not seem very restrictive, but when this keeps me from clicking “Submit” on my next Etsy order hand made with soy-based inks by the hardworking indigenous people of Portland, Oregon, I will feel the strain. Even with the four allowances above, I think this project/challenge/dare should yield a decent money surplus and the realization that everything I really need, I already have. I’m talking about kumbaya, ob-la-di ob-la-da, the quan, chumbawamba. All that shit.

Or I’ll just spend more money on booze. Let’s hope that next year I’m not writing this same post about training my liver to process alcohol thoughtfully, with more intention.

*Not all people with money problems steal, despite what Republicans would have you believe.

Halloween has been well represented ’round these parts. We participated in the requisite pumpkin patching (not to be confused with cabbage patching), origami bat making, pantyhose wearing, and inebriated crafting, culminating in the ritual slathering of a toddler in a grease pencil beard.

With sticks, as always

We're fans of Garfield's Halloween Adventure

Clockwise from top: My toothy punkin’ creation; Jennifer’s Dead Lady Fingers; An abundance of panty hose inspire an impromptu Raising Arizona costume (we were supposed to use the tampons to make ghosts, but figured dangling them from our mouths was more practical); I channeled Rosemary with my tannis root necklace and muumuu (not shown: devil-child baby bump)

Babies + facial & chest hair = AWESOMENESS

We made Hank a lumberjack. Though according to him, he’s a “jack” or a “roller coaster” (?). I took umbrage when he was confused for a hobo, but these photos of him arguing and then reconciling with his reflection in our trashcan sort of validate that assumption.

At the Park . . . Duck Feeding/Stick Collecting

Be sure to pin this so you can probably unsuccessfully attempt to recreate this look on your own.

Sunglasses: Denver Zoo Gift Shop; Hoodie: Target; Shorts: Target; Extra-Long Shorts Length: Courtesy of Small Stature; Boots: Michael Kors for Target; Shirt: Celine Dion for Target; Stick: Courtesy of Nature by NARS

As revealed by the audio, Henry was blessedly disinterested in the show, focusing instead on acquiring a stick for his ever-growing collection (Current favorite toy = STICKS). Otherwise, the car ride home would be forever remembered for a talk like this:

When a male giraffe and a lady giraffe love each other very much and want to ensure the continuation of their species, the male giraffe will awkwardly sidle up behind the lady giraffe while she’s trying to relax and enjoy some alone time and attempt to poke her with his obscenely large and surprisingly fleshy member in front of a crowd of guffawing humans.

Isn’t life beautiful? 

My time had come. With the end of the year rapidly approaching (how the fuck did that happen?) and a Christmas trip to North Carolina planned, I needed to make one more Tampa trip this year. Now that Henry has surpassed the “two and under fly for free” airfare sweet spot, the thought of shelling out for three tickets seemed excessive. I knew — even before finding a good deal on a nonstop flight to Tampa that wouldn’t have us flying at some ungodly hour when only junkies and glistening vampires are about — that the universe had conspired to make this my moment to experience flying with Henry. Alone.

I’ve imagined this event for some time with utter dread. I would be that mom with the screaming, writhing kid kicking the seat back of a murderously irritated fellow passenger. How would I balance the stroller and our carryon bags with Henry’s airport wanderlust and fierce love of moving sidewalks pulling him from my protective grasp? I could already imagine the tantrums in front of an audience of my peers, the dour jury that is the appalled airline traveler. What is it about being squeezed into tight seats without sufficient leg room that makes everyone a judge of character and parental prowess in particular? The thought of all those disapproving, positively put-out stares concentrated on me instead of evenly distributed between Adam and myself unnerved me.

Though, let’s face it. Dad or no dad present, those stares are always directed at us moms. Case in point: Though we managed to avoid any epic meltdowns, several mini-meltdowns became pop-up performances, attracting scandalized attention. Granted, a good day at an airport is an uneventful one, so a spastic, potentially epileptic fit in the middle of a terminal would attract anyone’s attention. Nevertheless, I witnessed not one but two dads traveling solo with kids who were commended by elderly women for being such good daddies. While I discerned that their kids weren’t smearing shit on the walls or yelling “BOMB!” on the escalators, the dads were pretty much in my boat, struggling but getting by. I guess that old saw about a good dad just having to be there is confirmed.

That said, traveling with Henry sans Daddy made me appreciate Adam’s presence, even his just being there. The fact that the trip coincided with our sixth wedding anniversary perhaps needled my inevitable absence-and-managing-a-terrible-two-solo-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder sentiment. But this trip also represented a chance to prove to myself that I could make do without Adam. As a pessimistic, control-freak atheist, I often confront the fear of Adam dying with the decidedly unsentimental exercise of planning. This is how I manage scary things. I make lists, I think through scenarios, I mentally diagram my day as a single parent, figuring out how I would dance around or power through the chores Adam usually handles. Though meager, there’s a strange comfort in this activity. As if challenging myself to not only consider but also think through the worst possible situation imaginable will help me to manage, to endure.

Of course, this is bullshit.

Despite making a couple scenes and a Three Stooges-worthy incident in which our tipped over, abandoned stroller traveled down a moving sidewalk while I ran on it backwards to collect Henry, who suddenly became scared of his favorite mode of conveyance and refused to get on, we did manage. We endured. And I did gain some satisfaction in proving that I could handle an event more taxing than the regular daily grind without Adam. On each leg of the trip, we sat next to an elderly man, and upon landing, both remarked that they had never seen such a quiet, well-behaved youngster on a flight. (Why does everyone think Henry is mild-mannered? I write about all his abusive, tantrum-y exploits here, and then in public, he’s mostly mellow. I’m beginning to feel like the guy who discovered Michigan J. Frog. Really, I don’t mean to speak ill of him. If anything, I’m just trying to maintain his street cred.) (Also: The late, great Steve Jobs deserves the credit for Henry’s good airline behavior. The iPad is an amazing toddler wrangler.)

But parenting in Adam’s absence lacks more than convenience. The more entrenched we become in this parenthood racket, the more I see it as a dance. There are the tangible tenants — Consistency; Routine; Firmness; Stimulation; Engagement; Fun; Never Fuck with Naptime — that you can learn about from books. As someone who veers more often than I’d like to admit toward lazy parenting, Adam is excellent at keeping me in check and affirming my better instincts. But I’m growing more aware of our less tangible pas-de-deux, how one partner swoops in upon detecting an increasingly irritated tone in his/her counterpart’s voice or a waning resilience. Highly attuned to each other’s capacity for patience, and the limits at which our sanity can be taxed by multiple viewings of Disney’s Robin Hood, Adam and I constantly tag each other out or in. The single parent is on all the time, an exhausting feat. And though I’m glad to know it’s possible to manage, possible to endure, it’s the absence of this performance — this subtle duet punctuated by madcap misfires, artful redirection, spontaneous dance parties, and conspiratorial spelling — that Henry and I would be devastated without. Adam’s being there is enough.

An example of the special sauce that Adam brings to our home life.