The Neighbors Have Eyes

Introducing the lovely and multi-talented KLZ from Taming Insanity. Read her. Love her. Follow her. I would follow her to the ends of the earth, but then, maybe that's just me....

We recently moved out of a one bedroom condo.

By "we" I mean, my husband, myself and our 11 month old.

Out of a 700 square foot, one-bedroom condo in a high rise in downtown Chicago.

Yeah, good times.

But now that we're doing this suburban thing, I realize that there were certain luxuries about living downtown. For one? We were anonymous.

Sure, certain people might know us as those people who are stupid enough to live in a one bedroom with a baby but they lived on other floors. They had other schedules. They had other lives. In the condo, I could happily do whatever the hell I wanted and continue to be encapsulated in our suffocatingly small little place. The people living around us largely ignored us.

The neighbors were not the issue. Because in that condo, we had all the tension we could take already inside the walls.

So, now that we've moved to the suburbs, I'm slowly realizing that things are not so casual now. My neighbors know where I live. I'm no longer one of hundreds of people crammed into a four building complex. I'm one of three people living in a house.

This was never more evident than when I decided to clean out our fridge before garbage day. We had some Italian beef that needed to get trashed. I dump it into the garbage bag where it promptly begins to ooze out. Fantastic.

So, my new-homeowner self begins to freak. I crouch low to the ground and scurry with the bag so the mess will be kept in a confined space. I rush around the side of the house and hurl the bag into our garbage can. I fly back into the house to get paper towels to cleanse the beef juice from my garage floor.

As I do this I realize: the garage door is open. People are driving by. And I have enacted this insane garbage tossing ballet for the whole neighborhood to see.

While wearing plaid pajama pants. And turquoise knee-high socks. And an orange shirt that says "Don't need no credit card to ride this train".

So, yeah. Casual Friday is over. As is casual anytime they can see me. Because I have already established myself as the nutso of the neighborhood.

Or, I could just roll with it and prepare to host my own White Trash Bash.

KLZ

Purely to Announce Someone Else

You will have to excuse me in my brevity today. Apparently my laptop and my pinkie finger are conspiring against me in an attempt to end all blogging activities. I just typed an entire post, full of wit, wisdom, and sarcasm, only to have it deleted when my computer unexpectedly shut down to install updates. Normally, this not an issue as Blogger saves about every 2.7 seconds. Not today. It didn't save squat. Ever. And then, as I was mid-way into retyping everything that was no longer "off the top of my head," my pinkie reached over and deleted the. whole. thing. Clearly, it's time for a V8 or another cup of coffee or warmer socks. So, let me just say that tomorrow, I'm featuring a guest blogger who is going to discuss the very opposite of the predicament we find ourselves in. While we have gone from suburbia to the middle of everything, she has gone from the middle of everything to suburbia. And just the first couple sentences made me giggle with absolute understanding.

This guest post was going to be extra-perfect because I am supposed to be in suburban Chicago rightthisveryminute, were it not for the complete come-apart of a certain JennAir product in our kitchen. An important product...that keeps my wine and chocolate cool and my Weight Watchers ice cream bars frozen...and is currently being replaced by something other than JennAir.

Dear Maytag,
In case you missed my FaceBook post, JennAir sucks.
Love,
Disappointed in Da Townhouse

Thus, I am cleaning the previous owner's short and curlies out of my bathroom vents and not drinking Bloody Marys for breakfast with Queen Elizabeth. Sometimes life is ruthless. As I continue to clean, unpack boxes, and buy out Target's entire selection of lamps, please enjoy my guest blogger tomorrow and make her feel welcome! After all, she is one of us!

Cheers and Bottoms Up...just 48 more hours...

Saturday is the New Friday

Because...whoopsie...I forgot I wrote a little sumpin'-sumpin' for my girl, Masala Chica, while she jet sets on "work" trips (yeah, whatevs, Kiran. We know you're fist-pumping at London's hottest underground spot and writing it all off at the end of the year. But we love you anyway. Just bring us back something tall, dark, and looking a lot like Colin Firth).

Anyway, Happy Champagne Friday...go visit me over there. Because two posts from me in one day is enough to make a person blind. And I have birthday shopping to do for Hubster's big day next week. I would tell you what anniversary of 21 he's celebrating but, technically, he still has a blog and retaliation stings like a wet handtowel snapped on the inner thigh.

Also? While you're over there, go ahead and follow her because she's hysterical, with an H. I mean how many beautiful mommies do you know who find themselves getting kicked out of the American Legion? If your answer is "zero" that's reason enough to stalk her. Even if you somehow know somebody, stalk her anyway. And if you're lucky, you may just stumble across the post where she discusses how she made the most gorgeous pictures with a squirting-poo-baby.

Life as We Know It - Brought to You by Kiera @ Imperfect Daisies

Dear Readers,

Give Kiera some love. She's bustin up this joint with tales of early 20's gone astray. Also? She just compared me to the little baby Jesus. Neal has proclaimed that I'm already impossible to live with...this will only escalate the situation. I can dig it, though. So, check out Kiera's post and then run straight over to Imperfect Daisies and follow her. She sometimes blogs about the *joys* of P90X AND she posts everything she eats on Binge Thursdays. What could be butter?....er...better? And I'm over there today, beating some sense into her hubs, Mr. Incredible. Apparently, he needs to be coerced to read her blog. Bleh! Men! (Oh wait, I don't real Neal's blog...hmm...but really....too many Mhz and KB for me. If he wrote about pink Uggs and cardamom cupcakes, I'd be all over that...like a shark on an open wound.) Enjoy!!

~A

To preface: I do not want to be that person who starts his or her ‘speech’ saying, “while sitting down, thinking of what to say...” or, “commencement: the act (pause, look up) or instance (pause, look around) of commencing (purse lips, nod head); (clench fist) beginning.”

......

So here I am, up against (no, I know, blogging with) Allyson. Allyson of Magnolias and Mimosas. Seriously? Seriously. Imperfect Daisies. Think about these two titles. Imperfect- not perfect. Daisies- that flower that everyone knows and there about one million varieties of. Now think of this one: Magnolias (honestly when I think of Magnolias I think of Steel Magnolias) are those beautiful, wonderful, anxiety ridding flowers. And we all know what Mimosas are, hmm? aka wake.up.and.drink. (lemme hear a helllllls yea...)

In a nutshell I’m like the drummer boy with no gifts to bear to baby Jesus. Allyson= baby Jesus.

However, I do see a speck of light in the tunnel. Since, as you, Dear Readers of M&M do not know, this week is Incredible Week over at my virtual place. Which means this week is dedicated solely to football, sports, beer, and football. And beer. Incredible? I think not! The truly Incredible part? I get to blog all of my imperfections on M&M today! (Rundown: trying to get my husband (Mr. Incredible) to read my blog. He only reads things that contain the aforementioned. His number one reason for not reading my blog: “it’s not funny because I live it.” ...I thought that’s why it is funny.)

The imperfection that I’ll be shamelessly happy to share with you today is my unpredictability. I am about as unpredictable as a tv with antennas. “It’s raining? It’s RAINING?” shut down. nap. “oh no you didn’t step in that corner of the room.” static.

And so the story goes.

In college, I partied. I partied like it was Nineteen Ninety Nine, baby. There are so many stories and so much blog space, but I won’t be that shameless ... Okay yes I will. Stats: I held a record at a frat for the longest keg stand; I’ve never been beaten in a chugging contest, including a football teams worth of chug; more than once I’ve fallen asleep in a bar to wake up and go to class in the morning; I may or may not have punched a few of my friends’ boyfriends; and Allyson, to answer your non existent question, I did wear a (pink mini) skirt to my 21st birthday party (fattest years of my life)(actually I think it was my 19th birthday, but I sure did act like it was my 21st). Oh, the glory days. So party hop 2 years ahead:

i’m pregnant. I’m Pregnant. I’M PREGNANT. !! I’m Pregnant! I’M TWENTY! I’m Twenty. i’m twenty. But I fell crazy. in. love. with this baby. (And was already in love with Mr. Incredible.) When I mean crazy, I mean crazy. I went crazy. I stopped talking to all my friends, suddenly went uncharacteristically holy, and stopped listening to music. No correlation. There was one time (20 times) I became fuming mad that Mr Incredible went out for drinks. I think I turned Amish for 10-18 months. I was equally as nuts after the baby was born. When she was approximately five days old I was sure she was crying because she was scared. I called her a newborn until she was ten months. True story.

Thank God Mr Incredible is more like Verizon Fios. Stuck with me through the storm. The flood.

Two more babies in and a few peaks on the graph, I’m finally evening out. I’m learning to deal with what’s thrown at me much better. I’m now more like the Weather Channel as opposed to licking your thumb and sticking it in the air.

Thank you to Allyson for having me on your blog today! What an honor.