Period of Mourning, Over

I racked my brain trying to find a way to get over the death of Choppy, and today I finally found the answer:


BUY A SWEETASS NEW CAR.





This isn't my car, technically, but it's dark and I can't take pictures. Also, my father-in-law had way too much fun forcing the Dodge dealership into a really sweet deal that we eventually turned down anyway. Have you ever had three salesman chase you to your car? I have!

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I love to cook.

Recently I've noticed that I have become a partner in domestic bliss. I cook, I clean, I knit; I generally enjoy being a housewife from the fifties, without the head kerchief and the heavy drinking.

I love discussing such things as well, but I realized - I have no audience to discuss such things, and most women are. . .well, they're boring discussing such things.

"Oh Internet," I lamented early this morning, "Whatever shall I do? How can I assist the women of the world in achieving their destiny of being a domestic goddess such as myself?!"

The Internet did not answer. Apparently the Internet is not a sentient being.

I feel it is the spirit of Choppy that has lead me to create The Crock Pot Army. Expect plenty of recipes, crafts, and the humorous rantings of a good wife, gone bad. Enlist in the Army, if you dare. I would suggest bringing a helmet.

It Happened!

Today Hadley and I were sitting in our chair when the unthinkable happened.

We had been watching 'The Little Mermaid' - Well, I was watching it. She was flailing around on the floor and looking confused. I picked her up to sit with me and bounced her around a little, joining in with Sebastian to sing 'Under the Sea'.

And then, she smiled at me. A big, goofy, light-up-her-whole-face grin. It was quick and over way too fast, but I freaked out. She smiled at me! My baby approves of my substandard parenting! She forgives me for all the garlic in my milk!

And now, I completely understand why people do this. The burpings, the diapers, the 4-am wake up calls, the terrifying grunts and snorts emanating from the bassinet. I totally get it now.

The reward for this parenting thing is better than a Twinkie trunk turning over in front of my house, spilling free snack cakes out into the street. That used to be the best thing I could think of, before I saw my baby smile at me.


Don't deny it, you'd be all over free Twinkies.

The Nanny

I asked Moxie to keep an eye on Hadley while she was watching TV so that I could start dinner, and when I came back around the corner, this is what I saw:


Say what you will about my choice in childcare, but she lets me pay her in ice cubes. Mary Poppins, eat your heart out.

Rest in Peace, My Love

Tragedy struck the Bartz household this weekend when a beloved family member succumbed to a prolonged illness while making mashed potatoes.

The food processor - or Choppy, as it liked to be called - was born in a KitchenAid factory and was given to the Bartzes for their wedding. Choppy and the wife quickly formed a bond that few women have with their kitchen appliances, and they were soon inseparable. Choppy was very good at his job, especially making guacamole and mashed potatoes.

Choppy loved life and, most of all, loved food. He often took on his position as favorite appliance as a role of mentor, often counseling the blender and the toaster on how to improve their position in the kitchen. He spent many hours sitting with the Crock Pot, sharing their delight at being used so often by the Wife.

The food processor is survived by the stove, the knife block, and the mini-food processor; the Wife, the Crockpot (Also known as second-wife) and the mixer. He is preceded in death by the Wok and numerous plates.

Some appliances come into our lives and gather dust.
Others stay for awhile, leaving footprints on our hearts
And our cooking is never, ever the same.

One Month

I've only been at home by myself with Hadley for three days and I'm already positive that stay-at-home moms are some secret form of God, and/or masochistic gluttons for punishment.

This is hard. I feel bad because sometimes I find myself dreading the next day. Nobody warns you about all the little stuff babies do; the fact that she sounds like a velociraptor trying to hump a very reluctant elephant, for example. Or that when she's home alone with me, I have to resist calling her Damien, but when Daddy gets home we're happy as a cute little clam. Or that I can't put her down at all during the day, or she immediately screams like there's no tomorrow.

How do you do it?! I don't even remember my last shower. I was going to have a 'bedtime routine' every night where she got a bath, nursed, and we read a book before she slipped blissfully into sleep. It was a really pretty fantasy that will NEVER HAPPEN. Routine?! Does that even exist?! What if I'm breaking her by not establishing a routine! She'll grow up and be a stripper or a serial killer, and it'll all go back to her telling Diane Sawyer, "Well, when I was an infant my mother didn't establish any routines. So I killed my English professor and wore his head like a hat."

I might be going a little crazy. Only in the fun way though, not in the scary, serious way. I typically forget how frustrated I am as soon as she looks at me, or coos her approval around my boobie. So I guess it's a fair trade.