Shit and Shat

Jack loves to look at pictures of himself. Often times, when I need him to be occupied, I will play a slideshow of pictures of him and he loves it. In fact, he goes ape shit. He thinks it's hilarious. He points at the computer screen and says, "Is Shat! Shat!" Oh, and he calls himself Shat. Which I love.

Shat and I were in my bathroom today doing the usual try-to-get-dressed-
and-put-on-makeup-before-Jack-gets-bored-and-totally-unravels tango when I hear him say it. "Oh, shit." Now, I've heard him say it before but it's never been very clear. In the past when I've heard him say it, I just assumed that I was imagining things. I mean, Jack's entire catalogue of spoken words is only four words strong. No way there's a four-letter word in there. However, this time there was no denying that Shat was saying shit. He had dropped the bag of Q-tips (again, by the way. I've picked these mother fuckers up so many times that I am beginning to recognize them individually) and then let the words fly, like a pro. No horseying around. No baby talk. Just a good, solid, "Oh shit."

And since I don't have him swearing on video yet, you'll have to settle for this video of him "chatting" on the toy cell phone. My favorite part: the random bursts of laughter throughout his "conversation." God, he's so cute.

For more Jack videos, go here.

Just Joey

As some of you know, several months ago I went on a little adventure called online dating. Broke as I was, I decided to go the fee-less route and post an ad on Craig's List. This proved to be incredibly entertaining, if not addicting. I entitled my post, "Seeking a man who is under forty but not emotionally retarded." Needless to say, I got a lot of GREAT responses, and by great I mean a bunch of photos of penises. Why, oh why, would you send me a photo of your penis? Just because you want to see my stuff does NOT mean that I want to see yours. Immediate delete.

There were several other things that could show up in an email that would get an immediate delete. Bad spellling. Poor grammar.. Not capitalizing the word i. Any mention of Nascar or of a probation officer. If certain criteria were met, I wrote back and a banter would ensue. Eventually, I went on three dates. One was with a history professor at UCSD who took me to a jazz concert. I hate jazz. Another was with a really, really funny Engineer from India who I couldn't get enough of on the phone but who I was not at all attracted to in person. I liked him so much, though, that I decided that maybe I could become attracted to him and so I asked him out on a second date. He declined. Awesome. My third Craig's Lister was a DA for San Diego county, a really nice guy that I accidentally on purpose lost his phone number because he couldn't make fun of people with me.

Then there's Just Joey. Just Joey emailed me in response to my post asking if we could speak on the phone because he prefers the "intimacy of conversation over writing." I thought, why the hell not, called the guy and spoke with him for over two hours. He was fascinating and had lived what felt like 14 lives in just this lifetime. He was sweet and funny and courteous and intelligent. He had two kids who lived with him full time and was hoping to have more children someday. He asked a lot of questions, said really nice things to me like, "God, you are just so much fun to talk to," and "I've never met a woman like you," and "I live on the beach in Coronado." Whoa, what?

Turns out Just Joey is a millionaire. Yup, a real estate millionaire. I found this out after talking to him almost every day for two weeks. Several weeks after that, I asked him how he got involved in that kind of business (given that he's a helicopter pilot, by day) and he told me when he ran away from home when he was 16 years old, lived on the streets of Queens, and worked as a bookie for the mafia before he joined the navy that he had learned a great deal about business and making money. Um, yeah. Wait, did you say the mafia?

He kept dropping these bombs on me. BOOM, I'm a millionaire, BOOM I'm in the mafia, BOOM, I was a Navy SEAL (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that one to you. For twelve years, a Navy SEAL.). Every conversation, I would wait to learn something new about him, and not just something sorta interesting like the kind of wine he prefers, but that he was a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soliel before he was recruited by NASA for the space program (Okay, no he wasn't, but I wouldn't have been surprised).

Here's the best part of it all. At some point into our conversation, he sends me his photo. Are you ready for this? Brace yourselves....

















So, this sort of freaked me out. I mean, it appears as though he bends playground equipment in his spare time. But, as my friend Carrie said, "Amber, he could toss you around like a doll in bed." Right-o, Carrie. Point well taken.

He was calling me every night, this Navy SEAL millionaire daddy, and I was intrigued but not convinced. There were a lot of red flags. He drove a Hummer. He told me that his ex-wife would get mad at him for making jokes while she was angry with him. He was afraid to let others affect him. I knew from what he told me about his childhood that he was out to prove that no one would ever, ever hurt him again. He also told me that he believed that everyone was out to get him, even inanimate objects.

Big. Red. Flags. But, what Carrie said, like a doll...

I was excited to meet him, if anything just to see this guy in person. And I figured it would be fun to date a rich guy for a minute or two. Hey, maybe we would fall in love, have a huge, Italian wedding, move to the penthouse suite of some Vegas Casino that his mafia buddies own, and vacation on the Jersey shore. Ya never know.

And then, after many weeks, Just Joey stopped calling. I left him a message. Sent him a text. Left one more message and then left it at that, bummed that I wouldn't have a better story to tell. A friend of mine is convinced that Just Joey is actually Just Steve, some middle-aged tax accountant who lives in his mother's basement and beats the loneliness posing as a millionaire former SEAL. He's probably right.

Except that he called me three months later. Apologized for not being in touch, said that work had "taken him out of the country" for a while and that he would like to get together. What? What does that mean?

Anywho, that's my story of Just Joey. I wish it had a more interesting ending, and I wish I could tell you whether or not he's real. Nothing would surprise me with this guy. Oh, and if your life ever gets boring, post a personal ad on Craig's List and let the fun begin!

My Own American Pie Moment

If you are one of my two brothers, my mom or my dad, or anybody else who has a vested interest in never, ever thinking of me as a sexual person, I strongly urge you to stop reading. Immediately. Because I'm about to tell a story about being walked in on while, well, you know.

I'm not even sure why I feel so compelled to write this story. What happened today is now in my Top Ten Most Awkward and Uncomfortable Moments List, along with #2) missing a very dramatic key change during a solo in front of the entire student body of my college, and #6) talking shit about my ex's new girlfriend who, I later found out, happened to be sitting right behind me catching every word. I suppose I am hoping that telling you my gutwrenchingly shameful story will get me to the point where it is funny instead of painful, because right now it's just painful. Really, really painful.

Okay. So here goes. (Deep breath). My friends (who will remain anonymous for reasons you will soon understand) offered to watch Jack for me overnight, a gift that is so overwhelmingly kind that I feel like I should turn my life over to them with the same kind of devotion that Christians turn their lives over to Jesus. In fact, I think I could be a devotee to a guru/teacher/prophet who provided free childcare and occasionally bought me coke slurpees. But I digress.

So, on this childless day after a childless night, I experienced two things that I have not had since before I became a mom. One of these was a full night's sleep followed by a morning of sleeping in. Glorious. The other was an orgasm. Also, although I shouldn't have to say it, glorious.

Now let me preface all of this by letting you know that, since Jack was conceived, I have had as much interest in having sex as I have had in learning about cold fusion. That is to say, I have none. I'm just not interested. Let's put it this way: Sex used to be like NBC or some other major network channel on my internal TV. Since pregnancy, it's been relegated to some channel in the high seventies, like the Home Shopping Network or CSPAN, channels I just flip right through while surfing. I didn't even experience the crazy sex dreams and heightened sex drive that all of the pregnancy books talk about and post-partum mothers literally get dizzy over while recalling them ("And there was this one with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie..."). And when I say that I have not had any interest in sex, I'm not just talking about having sex with someone else. I have not had sex - any sex - in over two years.

When I tell people this, they usually seem very shocked (note: What? Do you think I'm a hussy?) and worried, like I've just told them I've been diagnosed with cancer. They try to cover their concern, saying things like, "Oh, that's normal. My sex drive took ages to come back, too." While surrounded by her children who are 11 months apart. Or I love it when my non-parent friends chime in on the make-Amber-feel-okay-campaign. It usually goes like this:

Me: I haven't had sex since Jack was conceived.

Them, trying to minimize their surprise, which is hard when one sprays soda out of one's mouth: Really? But isn't that, like, normal? I mean, you just had a baby.

Me: A year and a half ago.

Them: Oh, right. But you're single. It's not like you have a boyfriend or a husband to have sex with...

Me: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?

So, today, when I suddenly and out of nowhere felt, well..., interested, I abandoned all other plans for organizing my kitchen cupboards and quickly drew a bath. I glanced at the clock and realized that I didn't know when my nameless friends would be coming by to drop Jack off (umm, no pun intended). Wanting to time things correctly, I game them a call and learned that I had about 45 minutes before they would come over - plenty of time! I told them that I was hopping in the shower and would see them when they got here.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that it was what you might imagine it would be like if you had not had sex for over two years. And let's just say that I let my feelings out about how great this all was quite vocally. Loudly, actually. Like, think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Several times.

Okay, so I get out of the shower and am drying off when-

"Uh, Amber, we're in your house." It's my nameless friend. She pops her head inside my bedroom door, which is now closed but wasn't before I took my shower. Which means that she closed it. "We just didn't want you to freak out."

It's too late. I am freaking out. I felt like I had been caught with my hand inside the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was, well... never mind. "Oh, hey. How did you guys get in here?" I didn't ask the obvious question: Did you just hear me fucking myself?

My friend is not making eye contact with me. She is trying very hard to act interested in the carpet. Thoughts are racing through my mind as I try to assess the situation. Maybe they didn't hear me. Maybe they stayed out in the kitchen area, far away from the bathroom. Maybe they just got here. But all is shattered when she says,"Oh, I had to break in. Through your bedroom window."

Which, my beloved internet friends, is right next to my bathroom. I mean, we're talking the same room. She had been, at the most, five feet away from me.

"I'm sorry I had to break in. I really had to use your bathroom or we would have just waited outside until you were done..., er, with your shower."

There is no way to recover from this. Trust me, I have thought and thought and thought about this all day, and the only response to what was happening at that moment was to simply pretend that everything was normal. Except that I couldn't. I felt like there was no air in the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a coherent sentence, couldn't say something interesting or witty or clever to camouflage what was really going on. I felt like I had just been..., well, caught having sex with myself. I mean, that pretty much explains it.

"Alright, well..., I'll be out in a minute," I said. As I got dressed, every sound, every moan and groan (seriously, I really hope my brothers aren't reading this) came flooding back into my memory, each one nearly sending my out my bedroom window and down the street, never to speak to my friends again. I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room to find my nameless friend's husband, sitting at my table with his head down on his arms. As if to stifle the pain.

I felt naked. "Hi," I attempted.

"Hey Amber," he said, lifting his head but not looking at me. His wife was outside, smoking a cigarette. I wanted to have one, too, but knew I couldn't enjoy it. I stood there, not sure what to do or say or where to go and then- savior of all saviors, Jack came bounding into the room, providing a burst of fresh, non-sexualized air into the room. Man, was it good to see him.

"Jack!" I cried. My friend came inside and the conversation shifted around Jack... the time of his last poopy, how well he did at the grocery store, how much he ate at breakfast. It was a nice diversion.

My nameless friends left quickly, and without much ado. It was as if we all just wanted to get out of my house, get out of the awkwardness and get on with the business of forgetting all about this horrible afternoon. I'm not sure I will ever know if they were privy to the end of my dry spell, and quite frankly I don't think I want to know. I'm quite content with keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Hell, I've been doing it my entire life.

And if you're reading this, my nameless friend, please pretend that you didn't. Just say something like, "Well, I haven't had a chance to read your blog in a really long time." We can just keep pretending that nothing happened. Really.

The Church That Hates Babies

Finding a good church to go to is very similar to dating. You might be set up by a friend ("It's a great church, good music, fabulous children's program...") or you might find it online, or simply decide to check out the one that you've driven by every day for the past two years. You may have avoided church for some time because the last church relationship you were in left a bitter taste in your mouth. Or you might just be experimenting with it all, unsure of what your religious preference is. But at some point in your life you might find yourself thinking, "I'm going to get out there."

I'm at this point right now, and I have found that visiting a new church on a Sunday morning feels very similar to going on a date. Making a good first impression is important to me, and so there's the whole figuring-out-what-to-wear issue. I spend an extra amount of time doing my hair and make up and fantasize about clever and interesting things to say as I meet people. While driving there I check my teeth and my breath, and I pluck any stray chin hairs that I might have missed in my dim bathroom light. I circle the block several times if I get there too early, not wanting to sit alone reading and re-reading the church bulliten.

I am usually very hopeful about whatever church I am visiting very possibly being "the one." I do this to a fault, however, in that I often make the mistake of seeing totally bizarre and unacceptable behavior as "charming" or "quirky." This, of course, is totally disastrous and it's what keeps me involved in bad, bad relationships for much longer than was ever needed. I'm beginning to learn my lesson.

I had a date this morning with a church that will remain unnamed and I was optimistic about it when Jack and I arrived. I chatted with a nice couple in the parking lot about the beautiful San Diego weather, and I could hear good music as we approached the main doors. A woman at the welcome center greeted us and gave us literature and asked me if I wanted a name tag to which I answered, "Sure!"

I placed my name tag on my sweater set and asked her where I should take Jack. She looked at me as if I had asked her where the aliens park their saucers and so I rephrased the question.

"Does your church have a nursery where I can take the baby?"

Still confused, she tilted her head to the side and said "I don't know."

I thought this was strange considering she was the welcome lady and it would seem appropriate that she know these types of things about the church that she's introducing visitors to. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt, thinking that she might be new to the welcome center or maybe just a little bit retarded.

I said, "Oh, okay. Well, hmm..."

"Most people just keep their children on their laps with them in the service," she finally said.

"Okay. That's great. He'll love that. Is it okay that he'll make little baby noises during the service?"

"I think it will be fine," she said, waving a bulliten in the air.

"Great! Thanks."

I was glad to know that there were churches out there that were kid-friendly like the one I had grown up in where kids weren't expected to keep still or quiet. I was getting excited again about the possibility of this church and I becoming a family that I was willing to overlook the crazy welcome lady, its one little flaw. After all, isn't it the crazies that the church is supposed to embrace?

Jack and I entered the church which I suddenly realized was actually a freemason's lodge. Now, you have to understand that the whole freemasonry thing totally creeps me out. I mean, I get a weird vibe about it all. And this started long before The DaVinci Code. It's mysterious, but in a creepy, eyes-wide-shut kind of way. I felt myself go cold as I walked beneath the compass and square emblem was hung above the door and past the walls that were lined with portraits of old men. Painted on one wall was an eye in the top of a pyramid with beams of light emanating from it, much like the one that's on the back of a U.S. dollar. On the other wall were glass cases filled with antiqued freemasonry aprons preserved in frames, sculptures of hands with bizarre things attached to the fingers, and other equally creepy items.

We walked past this freaky shit into the main sanctuary where a choir was singing and we found a seat in the back of the room. This room was quite a bit more inviting with beautiful flowers near the alter and silk fabrics draped behind the choir. Images of The Brotherhood began to fade away as the music lifted me, and new images of future church potlucks with my fellow choir members and Christmas pageants where Jack would be dressed as a shepherd played in my head.

Not long after we sat down the baby became restless, and so we stepped back out into the creepy Satan room where Jack played on the floor. A latecomer came in and said to me, "You should take him upstairs to the nursery! My daughter's there!"

"The nursery?" said I.

"Yeah, it's right upstairs. It's great. Hugh's up there today. He's a good guy. My 18- month old loves him."

"Thanks!"

Crazy welcome lady.

So we headed up the stairs and walked into the nursery where I found about 15 children engaged in a rousing rendition of the hokey pokey with Hugh, I presume, who happens to be at least 6 foot 11 and just about the lankiest, goofiest looking guy I've ever seen. He's leading the song, updating the words to fit a more spiritual agenda. "You put your love in, you take your anger out, you put your love in, and you shake it all about. You do the spirit pokey and you turn yourself about..."

Spirit pokey?

The 18-month old that belonged to the latecomer downstairs was toddling around up here by herself, not old enough to do the spirit pokey and turn herself about with Gumby and the rest of the kids. I stood there for a full minute or two, somewhere between mystified and annoyed, and left unnoticed by anyone but the 18-month old. No way was I leaving Jack there.

This date was not going well.

But I wasn't ready to give up on the church, yet. We headed back downstairs and into the mason room where I decided we would spend the rest of the service. From this room I could see the pastor through the door, and Jack could play on the floor and not disturb anybody. There were also some really comfortable, throne-like, velvet chairs that I could sit on that I imagined only the head mason guy was privileged to during their meetings where they did God only knows what.

The pastor spoke on the process of releasing one's attachment to the outcome of whatever situation it is that one might be in and trusting that God is good and will manifest what is for the highest and best. He was funny at times and the congregation would laugh, and he was serious at others and the congregation would take notes. The morning started to look better and fantasies of working together with the pastor on projects and creating a youth ministry program here began to bounce around in my head. My hope for this church and I having a future together was looking up.

However, this was quickly interrupted.

"Ma'am?" An usher popper her head out from behind the door, just inside the sanctuary.

"Yes?" I answered.

She looked at Jack. "He's a bit distracting," she said, wrinkling her nose in an effort to make her comment seem cute.

I looked at her, dumbstruck. Where did she want him to go? Gumby had his hands full upstairs and we were outside the door, in a separate room, at least 75 feet away from the last row of people. And besides all of this, Jack really wasn't being that loud.

I was over it. This was the final straw. Fuck this place. I suddenly hated everything about this church. I hated the crazy welcome lady and I couldn't believe I had allowed Jack to be anywhere near this crazy masonry stuff. I hated this usher and wanted to scream at her that this church was stupid and so was she. I thought about getting even with them by going upstairs and sneaking away with the 18-month old, just to prove that Hugh is an idiot.

Instead I scooped up Jack and his toys and said to him, "Let's go home." We walked back out the parking lot, he cooing at the sky and I laughing as I dial my girlfriends to tell them all about the crazy church I just met.