Where's the village?

Monday, August 21, 2006

I really do heart Pittsburgh

Those wacky Yinzers dahn at I Heart Pittsburgh have really done growed up. There are more posters than ever, and the writing is really rather good. I'll overlook the fact that they didn't post my entry a couple weeks ago (I probably screwed up the process anyway) and just sing glory to their names today. The weekly "Git Aht" postings (a recent sample here) are my new favorites; they're a hoot just to read, and an inspiration for those who need (and are able to make use of) a weekend activity. And the lovely ladies who started it all are still quite active posters too, throwing out all kinds of gems: little out-of-the way places that beautifully capture the flavor of da Burgh; off-the-wall events for those who are trying to escape the multiplex movie theaters; fun facts and tidbits and news n'at.

I heart I Heart Pittsburgh. Yinz check it aht.

(Apologies for the crude approximation of Yinzer-speak; I'm still learning. Be gentle with me.)


There are times I look at the dajamou and I am almost crippled by my love for her. How am I ever to deserve that blazing star of a child?

Thursday, August 10, 2006

damn damn damn

Remember my new hero? Liz, over at Granny Gets a Vibrator? Well, I'm almost too angry to type this. But turns out she has cancer. Possibly inoperable lung cancer. But then again, it might be lymphoma. Which would be a bit better, because it's more treatable. So I find myself hoping she has lymphoma.

Let me just rant here for a sec.


OK. That's out in the open. Anyway. Over at her blog, Liz has encouraged everyone to go out and enjoy the hell out of life. I'm due to be running errands all day in preparation for our trip to Canada, so it's not a terribly enjoyable day. But I'm going to do my damnedest. Starting with ice cream. And possibly some new red toenail polish. (That's for you, my hero.)

Y'all do the same, k?

Monday, August 07, 2006

It's my blog and I'll whine if I want to

OK, here's the deal. I need to vent about all the things that are bugging me at the moment. If I don't, I'm going to S.N.A.P. and start running around the house crying and throwing everything in a garbage bag. Or possibly out the window.

My house is a wreck and I don't know where to start. My daughter is a TV junkie. I have one bra and it's falling apart and I'm afraid to go bra shopping, even after being inspired by Mrs. Kennedy. I'm getting fat but I'm too discouraged to exercise. My contacts don't work anymore and I keep forgetting to find a new eye doctor. Ants keep coming in my house and crawling around on my counters, which is even more gross to me than the evidence that the mice left behind. I miss my sister. I keep letting people down.

Almost all of these problems are easily rectified. But I'm in the grips of a pretty mean depression right now so I have almost no forward momentum. It's about all I can do to feed the dajamou and take a shower each day.

On the bright side, I have birthday gift certificates from big Burrito, Red Robin, and Eat 'n Park. Which means very little cooking this week. Which means less dishes, which means a slight reduction in the sense of being overwhelmed.

The extra sad part? I can't even drown my sorrows in chocolate anymore.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Supper Time at Chez Daja

I happened to already be at the laptop when the dajamou started "reading" a cookbook I had on my desk. And this is the recipe she dictated to me. (She really got into it once she noticed I was paying attention and even writing it down.)

"The first ingredients for Robber Soup is broccoli and celery. And the next step is the eating leaves, and the next step is salt and pepper. And um now lemme see...OK. So. The first one is...how to make soup that's not carriage by everyone you know."

"Carriage by everyone you know?"

"Yeah. Carriage. So. First you start with a little salt into a big pan. And a little blueberries into the big pan. And stir it all up, and then put some pepper in it, and then onions and tomatoes, and a little bit of parsley, and a little bit of green beans and crushed beans, and a little bit of not crushed beans that are cold. And a little bit of blueberries, and parsley, and a little bit of eating leaves, and a little bit of apples and celery, and tomatoes, and onions, and some salt, and blueberries, and salt and pepper, and a little bit of parsley and a little bit of dessert breakfast. And a little bit of those fruity things?"

"What fruity things?"

"Those fruity things that are all different kinds. And they're fruit. And they're not plain fruit, they're straight up things with the wrappers."

"Fruit Leather?"

"Yeah. And we need fruit leathers too."

Thursday, August 03, 2006


I've spent the past 2 days reading about BlogHer from so many of my favorite blogs, and some new ones too. It's been inspiring and intimidating at the same time. And the more I read, the more I feel as if I'll never be able to catch up, fit in, or be heard.

Then I read this post. And I remembered that I started a blog NOT to achieve blog goddess-hood (or at least not ONLY for that) but more because I needed a place to vent. And to work the writing muscles. And to chronicle the life of the dajamou and the rest of the daja-family. Because I'm SO not one of those moms who remembers the date, time and location of every milestone.

So here's a big "Thank You" to the lovely (in so many ways...I mean, LOOK at that picture!) Kristen over at Motherhood Uncensored. You rawk.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

The Daj-O-Matic

The bigwigs at Microsoft and Apple, and various other technogeek lifestyle pundits, have been harping for a while about the next generation of home integration devices, some kind of central computer that will answer your phone, adjust your thermostat, make your coffee, download your mail, play your movies, and possibly even wipe your butt. However, to Bill and Steve et al, I say, pff. I've already got one in the works. I call her dajamou.

She already loves to answer my phone. So far I've usually been able to at least check the Caller ID, and tell her who's calling, so she can greet them by name. I feel it's more professional, and at the same time, adds a personal touch to the customer's calling experience. Anyway, I've got the home receptionist aspect down pat. Plus she likes to press the start buttons on all kinds of home appliances, so I'm sure that will integrate its way into the Central Task Database somehow too. And today, she started training (unbeknownst to me) on being my alarm clock.

Sometime between Painfully and Disgustingly Early, I awoke with a jolt, my Mother Instinct in high gear after hearing what sounded like a shriek from my baby. Now, I often have rather intense, Surround Sound dreams, so I lay still for a second, thinking that if it didn't happen again, I must have imagined it. But lo! From the dimness that was the predawn, again it came drifting through my closed bedroom door: The Shriek.

I was now in full Rescue Mode. Naked but for underwear (it's hot lately, remember?), I leapt from the bed (no easy feat since the bed is a mattress on the floor), dashed out of my room and into dajamou's. Where she wasn't. This was odd enough, since her typical waking up ritual for the past 18 months includes pitter-patting into my room to snuggle and/or nurse back to sleep (or to wakefulness, depending). But remember, I was in Rescue Mode so the only thought in my mind was, "Child. Mine. Trouble. Must. Find. NOW."

Next place to check, downstairs. I tore down the stairs, calling her name, and whipped around the corner into the living room/play room area. No dajamou. Still calling her name. Still thinking my girl needs to be rescued. Finally I dashed into the dining room. And there she was, sitting on the settee. Giggling.

Mother Instinct shut down, she's fine, no problem. Then, a long-dormant instinct reared its ugly head: the College Student Murder-Anyone-Who-Dares-Disrupt-My-Precious-Sleep Instinct. Fortunately I was too tired to do anything about it, so I just collapsed next to her on the settee, and asked her what in the world she was doing down here before dawn. And her answer struck me to the core in so many ways, both good and bad:

"Well, I went to your room, and I didn't hear any snoring, so I thought you weren't there. So I came downstairs and I couldn't find you so I started calling your name, but you didn't answer, so I started shrieking!" (You must imagine the proud little grin to accompany the conclusion of this impeccably toddlerish train of logic.)

Oh, and by the way? I don't snore.