The Devil in Blue and Yellow

This past weekend we went to Ikea. I was really, really determined to get to Ikea. Since my precious baby will soon be ousted from his crib by Li'l Wanya, we need some big boy furniture, and quick. And because toddlers are super destructive little beasts, we don't want to spend a lot of cash.

Enter Ikea. My whole weekend: built upon getting to Ikea. Did I mention I really was completely batshit crazy about getting to Ikea this weekend? In addition to bargain, minimalist furniture, I romanticized that Hendrik could connect with his Swedish roots. Look, baby! Lingonberries!

(I spoke a lot about lingonberries as we got closer to Ikea. They remind me of being a child at my Far-Mor and Far-Far's house. After I mentioned them for the fifth time, J said: "You know they're just like cranberries, right?" God, he is so not Scandinavian.)

We finally arrived at Ikea late Saturday afternoon. We are still at the mercy of the child's afternoon nap, which is approximately 12 - 3 on any day we wish to go somewhere at a certain time. So we entered Ikea's massive parking lot around 4 PM, and I was taken aback by all of the cars.

"God, don't these people have anything better to do than be at Ikea on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon?" I remarked to J, without irony.

Oh my God, guys. Ikea. It is a fucking soul-sucking, hellish pit of soul-suckiness. There were 8008709 people there. They were everywhere. And the signage! There are like, secret passages to get where you are going. And we couldn't find them! And we were walking in circles! And H was running away! Our stress-levels escalated quickly. We grabbed a $10 wooden train set for H and decided to high-tail it out of there. Only, in Ikealand, they don't let you high-tail ANYWHERE. They make you work for it and walk past the miscellaneous stuff. You know, all the crap you don't really need but they somehow seep into your fragile psyche at this point and you find yourself loading up on wooden salad bowls and trays.

We followed signs for the checkout. We walked for miles, and Hendrik was agitated by now, and every mile marker I would spot an idle employee in yellow, and beg, "Please? Where is the checkout?" And they would smile malevolently and tell us we were headed in the right direction.

And then we arrived - at the SELF checkout. The lines were hideously long, and these animals had more than 15 items in their carts! We had two things. My gallant husband put these things down and said: "We can order this online - we need to get out."

But wait! They seriously had the exits blocked and locked and fixed with ALARMS. The only way out was through the checkout line. Evil Swedes!

We made it out alive. My pregnant feet were aching. We had survived.

When we arrived home, J got to preparing the turkey burgers (and hard drinking) and I told him I needed to lay down for a moment. Hendrik followed me into the living room imploring: "Choo choo? Want choo-choo train? Wanna play choo choo train!"

J and I glanced at each other, panicked, and I grabbed my son's hands and said, as calmly as possible: "Honey, I'm so sorry; Mommy and Daddy didn't get the choo choo. We'll have to wait a little bit longer, but we will get you the choo choo."

The boy collapsed in a swell of tears and naked emotion. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" He writhed on the floor. "WANT CHOO CHOO!" He sobbed.

I couldn't help it: I started sobbing too.

For the first time in his 22 months, we had let him down. We had been so irritated, we hadn't bothered to tell him we weren't going to buy him the choo choo. We hadn't done it to avoid a tantrum; we had acted impulsively and hadn't considered our son's expectations and feelings.

He was just so: hurt. I saw the future: there will be other hurts, and they will be heart-crushing for his parents to witness. I love him so fiercely; perhaps I should just keep him inside the house for the rest of his life? I will make him a whole room full of choo choos.

He calmed down. It took me much longer to stop crying. We sat on the couch watching airplane videos on YouTube while I hugged him and apologized and told him how much we love him. I vowed in my mind to never blindside him again. I suppose, in the end, it was a worthy lesson.

This post brought to you by Ikea: Where Dreams are Dashed and Families Are Torn Apart.

Fin.

%&$*#@@(!)

Arrrrgggghhhhh.

I'm having one of my days today, which is particularly trying, as I had one of these days yesterday. Hungover and sore from sleeping on The Real JC's air mattress, J and I sat on the couch all day, only removing ourselves from the gripping life of John Adams long enough to take a delirious trip to Wawa for chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (The need!)

And so I pulled out my planner last night, resolutely, and wrote down all of the things I needed to accomplish today.

And then I woke early, ready to start the day. But instead, I groggily plopped down on the couch at 6:30 to watch DVRed episodes of Chelsea Lately.

And then... nothing.

I walked the mile to the track, but found myself stifled by the heat and humidity. The run did not go well. So I walked home. I decided I needed to get out of the house today, so I showered and dressed and headed to my favorite coffee shop on Main.

But I couldn't pay attention to my conference calls; and after I composed and sent a few rambling emails, I packed up my laptop and planner and headed home by way of Machismo Burritos. (Damn you and your addictive power!)

I'm in my office now. I am trying to work, but I'm not present. I'm not sure where my mind is. This isn't working, I said to myself a few moments ago. This isn't what you're supposed to do with your life. The thought honestly occurred to me out of nowhere, as most days, I like my job a lot.

But I wonder if maybe there isn't a little kernel of truth to that last part. If this is my passion, wouldn't I be more, er, passionate? I wake everyday with the best intentions, but suddenly at 7 AM I feel... drained.

I blame E! True Hollywood Story.

When you watch that fucking show, you get the feeling that though everything doesn't come easily per se, these celebs know what they want and they work tirelessly - ruthlessly - to get it.

And then I'm suddenly inspired and embarrassed, because I have all of this potential, that I waste on the frivolity... Like E! True Hollywood Story!

It's a damn shame.

I don't know what's next. J and I talk about it all the time. We'll move, we say, once J is finished with grad school. Then I'll quit my job, and I'll go to grad school. While I'm at it, I'll write and have babies and be perfect and healthy and rich. The end.

I'm not sure where I am, or what I want, but I know I am at a crossroads.

To be continued.

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D'oh!

Believe it or not, I started this amazingly well-written and structured post to give a little fitness update. So here you go:

Meh.

That is my update, y'all. I have been running, but not so well the last two weeks. I am okay with that, as my half-marathon training needs to start twelve weeks before the event; so after J and I return from vacation (August 15th) I'll begin the program in earnest.

P90X is on hold, as I have a lot of difficulty keeping to a routine with my constant travel. But I am determined to complete P90X at some point this year. I'll just have to develop a tighter schedule, as I am just now beginning to take back the reigns on time-management.

And the diet? Well, my Far-Mor told my sister Cat that I was "too skinny" after the Colorado trip. So, good on me! Alas, I'm not too skinny. I'm slim. I wa able to sustain the no-carb diet for 2 weeks, and I felt great, though completely bored. Then J and I went to a family party in which I ate a cheeseburger sans bun, and the paparazzi got wind of it and asked me what kind of crazy diet I was on, and when I said South Beach my cousin Lauren told me I was going to desTROY my kidneys, and then my mom called me the next day to say of course everyone was talking about this CRAZY diet you are on, and I'm all, hello, if any of you MFers read my blog you would already know about this diet! And also: South Beach! NOT crazy.

I guess the moral of the story is my family doesn't support me, and also thinks I'm crazy.

I lost three - four pounds on Phase 1 of South Beach, then I let my amazing weight loss skillz get to my head and started eating everything under the sun. This weekend I drank 85004 Hoegaardens at the Beer Garden in Queens, and so today? Fare thee well, carbs. I'm not sure how we are ever truly going to make this work, but right now, I just need some time by myself. I really need to focus on my career - obvs! - and what I want out of this life. And what I want involves passion, and most certainly does not involve a giant ass. (Sorry, babe.)

Love, HV

The One With All The Groundhogs

Remember when I sent out those damn holiday cards late last year, and I detailed all of the colored responses I received? No? Well, review here.

Please note that these cards are sent to my rather large database automatically. That's why before I knew what was happening, I had sent out a Groundhog's Day card to thousands. Mortified, I immediately shut down all of my "automatic mailers." Because fucking groundhogs dancing around on an e-card? Does not exactly scream professional to me.

Incredulously, the masses seemed to appreciate my Groundhog Day greetings! Well, five or so responded, "Um, same to you."

Except Crazy McParanoid, unfortunate wife of a card-recipient, who emailed me this:

I'm not sure as to why you would be sending my husband e-cards. Some how this was sent to me.I let the Christmas card go thinking not much of it , but now I would like to be told if there's anything I should be aware of. I realize he is my husband and hold no acountablility on your part. (just want some answers women to women)

Awesome, right?

Hypervigilant, suspicious wife: 1
Institution of marriage: 0