Moving On Up/Out/In

So, that's done. After -- MY GOD -- 10 years of living in NYC (and its boroughs), I have returned to my ancestral home, the great (?) state of New Jersey. The move itself was bittersweet, but I didn't have too much time to dwell at the time, because the act of moving itself made me want to set myself aflame.

I don't know why we rehired the terrible movers we used last ti--oh, wait; yes I do: they were cheap as all get out. You get what you pay for, though, and what we paid for, then, I suppose, were deodorant-eschewing movers who lovingly wrapping PLASTIC CHILDREN'S IKEA BOWLS in numerous layers of bubble wrap, but tossed light bulbs in with jugs of anvil-sized dish soap. Yayyyy! Glass glitter for all! Also, they excitedly brought this to me, as though it were the Hope Diamond.

Thank you, movers, for finding -- somewhere -- my wizard mood ring from 1993! Now, at long last, I know how to feel again. And what color those feelings are.

One of the feelings I had during the move was the feeling of wanting to cry, upon seeing how the movers opted to label our shorts. Mood Ring Feeling: BLACK

SUMMER FAT SHORTS, YOU GUYS. I CAN'T EVEN.

Those feelings of boundless tears soon turned to laughter, as I saw how they labeled some of our menorahs and whatnot:

At this point, we are pretty much done unpacking -- although coated in a fine layer of dust -- but instead of completing the unpacking, or banishing the dust from the premises, I have been doing very important things, like this.

It's honestly been a bit crazy this past week trying to get it all unpacked/clean/organized, work full-time, and still, you know, see our children, but it's been worth it, especially when we get to hang out with the kids in the backyard, or as they call it, ""our playground."

Definitely worth it.

Three.

"Make me a braidy braid, Mama! Please?!" she shrieks, and I oblige, because let's be honest, from the minute they tell you it's a girl, you dream about doing stuff like that.

 

Pigtails, too. 

Make no mistake, though-- despite her clearly-communicated hair preferences, she goes from "coiffed" to "naked, disheveled, and frankly indistinguishable from a street urchin" in the blink of an eye, and wears her food as much as she eats it. She also sometimes sets the ol' makeup gun on "whore."

 

 
She's my goofball.

  

 

She loves blocks, coloring, singing with her brother, running (away), and playing with her dolls, all of which she has named after our downstairs neighbor, and tumbling and swimming.

  

She loves to act like a big girl, but when she goes to sleep at night, she tells me to "tuck [her] in like a born baby," (A "BORN BABY.") which is reminiscent of a cocoon. She adores playing dress-up and "Let's Go to Work," which, from what I can tell, basically entails putting on sparkly Lip Smackers, scarves, and jewelry. (Look, I know it's SOMEone's job, but I promise, it's not mine.) Then we have to scribble on paper with a deeply furrowed brow and pretend to talk on the phone, which, okay, may be something she picked up from me.

She makes me tell her stories about my wedding, and also about Princess Kate Who Is Really a Princess, and yes, Princess Kate totally has that Target swim cover-up, I swear, so you should wear it today, too, baby girl, okay?

She balances her brother; she brings him out of his shell, and he calms her inherent nuttiness. They're a perfect pair.

 

She has a fearless confidence that I frankly wish I had now, and hope she always retains, and even though her expressions occasionally scare the crap out of me...

 

...I'm happy she's no wallflower.

Happy third birthday, baby girl.

(Ice cream cake picnic on the floor, as we are MOVING TOMORROW, OH MY HELL.)

Elsewhere...

~ Forever 21 is at it again, and by "at it," I mean "putting out cute stuff that looks more expensive than it is, specifically, this dress and this necklace."

~ Olay has knocked off Yves Saint Laurent's Touche Eclat for half the price, and it's not too shabby.

Have a great weekend!

Things I am Doing Right Now Instead of Packing

We move a week from tomorrow. My husband is in Vegas for the week on business. I have a barfing child in the heezy. "This is a really important time for you to buckle down and pack," you are probably thinking. And you'd be right, thinking that, but if you actually SAID it to me right now, I'd probably start flailing all up in your grill, re: the aforementioned traveling husband (HOW CONVENIENT, J), and the barfchild, and the sheer volume of Stuff to Do, and then you'd run away. So, here's what I've been doing instead of packing:

1. Getting misty every time I walk around the neighborhood.

2. Humming "Memories" to myself, frequently.

3. Frequently to the point that I become distracted, trying to remember if, when Tom Hanks sings to his mom in Big, it was Barbra Streisand's  "The Way We Were," or  "Memory" from Cats.

4. Oh, whatever, you sit there all haughty because the titles are different, but "misty watercolor memories of the way we were" and "memories of my days in the sun" are CONCEPTUALLY SIMILAR.

5. Don't even get me started on my issues with Cats. Or that a cat is, in that song anyway, telling us that if we touch her, we'll understand what happiness is. And seriously, that is the least of my problems with Cats.

6. Googling to find the answer regarding my song question, and then discovering this gem.

7. Watching many episodes of My Drunk Kitchen. ("So, the worst part about baking is everything about baking.")

8. Trying on basically all of my shoes for no apparent reason.

9. Same with my Princess Kate Hat.

10. Admit it, you want to invite me over for tea now, don't you?

11. It's okay! Don't fight it! Such is the hat's power! Can you, please? So I don't have to pack? I like tea!

12. Eating sesame sticks like it's my job.

13. Hovering over the "checkout" button on account of this dress, but -- upon further consideration of white linen in August in New York -- letting sanity prevail.

14. Buying this instead.

15. Making packing LISTS. (That totally counts for something, I don't care what you say.)

16. Reading my old journals under the guise of Organizing, but really, so I can read my poetic gems, such as "Angst," which, no, will never, ever get old.

Elsewhere...

~~ Spin Pins: I...am on the fence.

~~ Beachy Summer Hair: My favorite products.

~~ Great Summer Moisturizer Aert!

 

"A Whole Hand"

He's obsessed with keys and locks right now, and garage doors that open with remotes. I'm fairly certain he would happily dwell IN a garage, provided it opened with a key and/or clicker.

 

He loves Cars and Star Wars, Scooby Doo, and Megamind, and dinosaurs. Always dinosaurs. He can't get enough of Grand Central Terminal, the Mets, crap that glows in the dark, magnet blocks, spelling, somersaulting, and this one gray hoodie that I can NEVER LOSE.

He visits my office just once a year, but that doesn't stop us from forever talking about the NEXT time he's going to come, and what will happen then, and will we get donuts again, and can he get ice from the special machine, and can he see the helicopters again? What about the Statue-a Limerty?

He came out of his shell a lot this year, and while I would never APPLAUD rebellion, inside, I secretly cheer when I see him testing limits, and taking risks, even in his own cautious way.

He knows more about the solar system than I do, and laughs when I desperately try to explain how Pluto was, like, seriously a planet at one point. He used to be a diehard fan of the color yellow (whatever that may actually BE to him, seeing as he's colorblind with a few colors), but he's switched allegiances to blue, since "yellow is for the babies, actually." The "actually" kills me dead, yes.

He loves his sister to pieces, and in his "All About Me" book at school, his "What Makes Me Sad" line was, "When my sister doesn't hold my hand." (COULD YOU DIE.)

He's all lean and lanky, and his wrists look like real-people wrists, not like the giant sumo baby ones they once were. Just when I worry he's getting too big, too fast, he tells me he wants to go "cractice" his song for his "gradulation," and I breathe a sigh of relief, because he's still -- a little bit -- my baby. (Even if gradulation is rapidly approaching.)

Happy 5th Birthday, buddy.