girlfiend

I bought one of those cat scratching posts that comes with a little baggie of catnip. I put the catnip in my pocket so the Fiendling wouldn’t get his hands on it now that he’s figured out how to move furniture around so he can climb onto tables.

After dinner I took the Fiendling out for a walk to my brother-in-law’s house. We’d been invited for dinner, but since we’d already eaten I figured we’d just walk over and say hi. Before we even left our front yard we stopped to talk to my next door neighbor and his dog. The Fiendling was having a blast walking around holding the dog’s leash and I must have dropped the catnip because when I looked down I thought, “where the hell did that dime bag come from?” before picking it up and remembering it was just the catnip.

I finally wrestled the dog’s leash from the Fiendling’s hand and we began our walk. At the end of the block I ran into a friend, her husband and their two little girls on their way to get water ice. I decided water ice sounded like more fun than baked ziti, especially since we’d just eaten dinner and we walked back up the block towards my house so I could grab a couple of dollars. It turns out my friend’s the aunt of one of the girls who lives on my block and of course we ran into her on the way to my house. The little girl, her brother, their foster mom and their foster grandmom all stopped to chat so I left the Fiendling with them while I ran in to get the money.

When I came back all of the little kids were playing on the sidewalk with the bigger ones and the adults were all huddled together. They were all discussing a baggie they’d found on the sidewalk. It sounded like they were planning to smoke it to see if it was weed. It didn’t smell like weed, and if it was weed it was definitely low quality, but why not roll it up anyway, they’d decided. And of course I realized after about 30 seconds that it was my catnip and I told them that it was catnip and we all had a good laugh, but now I’m wondering if they think it really was a shitty bag of weed and I just didn’t want them to smoke my stash.

I spent a couple of hours with Tony in the morning then I had lunch with Gabbiana, Fraulein N, and Doodlebug at Honey’s Sit ‘n’ Eat. When I got home from Northern Liberties the Fiendling had just woken up from a nap. For some reason it was a bad wakeup. He was sad and clingy and fussy and he somehow fell and hit his head, leaving a scrape and bruise just under his eye. Wanting to cheer him up we took him for a walk to see the pig who lives around the corner. Visiting and petting the pig improved his mood drastically, so we walked up to the playground.

It was a little before six and the playground was packed. An obese woman wearing short shorts sat on a bench with her husband while their tow-headed little girl wearing a blue dress, ruffled ankle socks and sparkly pink shoes played with a dark skinned boy whose mom watched from the low wall encircling the playground. A mom with a girl who was about a year old pushed her in the baby swing while smoking a cigarette. A little boy a few months older than the Fiendling was running around with his dad, a guy about my age who had tattoos covering the majority of one leg (do they still call it a sleeve when it’s on a leg?) and a tattoo of a rose on the other leg.

The little boy went down the slide and his dad followed. An eighth of pot wrapped in a sandwich bag fell out of the dad’s pocket and landed underneath the slide. The dad hopped off of the slide, scooped up the bag and shoved it back in his pocket. I stared at him for a minute, wondering if he’d acknowledge that I’d just totally seen his bag of weed. He didn’t. Instead he reached in his pocket, pulled out a few more bags in addition to the first and put them in a different pocket on the leg of his shorts, a pocket that closed with velcro.

A family shuffled up the walkway to the playground. There were two mildly retarded looking adults, a man and a woman, with a boy who looked to be about six or seven years old and a small baby in a carriage. The boy took off playing and the woman and the man sat on the bench with the stroller in front of them. The woman was oddly obese. She wasn’t nearly as large as the woman with the little girl in tap shoes, but she had a lumpy pendulous belly and she was wearing a bizarre cotton tie dyed overall shorts thing. She wasn’t wearing a shirt. The ill-fitting overalls only partially covered her stretched out, shiny white bra and back fat. She and the guy settled onto the bench and immediately took out their cell phones. It looked like they were playing games with them, and every so often they’d show each other something on the phone. The woman smiled at the Fiendling and asked me his age. I told her he’s almost a year and a half and she responded that her baby would be five months old tomorrow. I smiled and winced while she exhaled cigarette smoke into her baby’s carriage. A few minutes later she asked, “How do you spell minutes?” I spelled it for her and she thanked me and went back to pressing buttons on her phone.

A normal looking guy wearing an orange polo shirt arrived with his son who appeared to be about four or five. The dad said to his kid, “You’re one of the big kids here today, watch out for the little ones.” A few minutes later I turned around and saw that the dad was on his back on the ground, legs up on the low wall, doing sit ups. Sit ups. At the playground. He and his son didn’t stay for too long.

The Fiendling was walking around the perimeter of the playground when a little girl of about two came into the playground with her mom and they sat on a bench together. The mom looked a bit crunchy and was wearing a shirt that said something about Darwin. The little girl wanted to play with the Fiendling and kept yelling, “Come here little boy. Come play.” Eventually the girl got up and she and the Fiendling began to play, climbing up the ladder and going down the slide.

A blonde woman smoking a cigarette and a white guy with a stocking on his head walked in to the play area and sat with the obese woman wearing the bra instead of a shirt. They talked for a couple of minutes then the obese woman and the guy she was with left, leaving the older boy and the baby with the blonde and the guy with the do rag.

The little girl wearing the ruffled socks and fancy shoes came over and seemed to want to play too. She stepped up onto the wall and yelled, “Look at me! Look! I can balance while I walk! WATCH ME!” I said, “I’m watching,” and she began to walk on it like a balance beam. Every few minutes she’d yell again for us to watch. She eventually got bored of the balance routine and started climbing up the slide while the Fiendling and the other little girl tried to go down. I kept telling her that she had to wait for the kids to come down before she climbed up. Her mother and father sat on the bench at the far side of the playground and didn’t seem to be paying any attention whatsoever. On her way up the slide she announced that her shoes had very high heels. When she reached the top she showed me just how high they were and slid back down. She sat at the foot of the slide and asked the Fiendling if he’d like to sit with her. He sat and she pointed out her shoes to him. He seemed to like the sparkles and touched them. He soon lost interest and began climbing the ladder again. Wanting more attention the girl stopped him at the bottom of the slide and asked if he wanted to sit and pet her shoes. I was relieved that he did not.

It was close to seven at this point and the Fiendling was exhausted. Not wanting to upset him by leaving the playground Boyfiend waited for the exact right moment and scooped him up and skipped down the hill singing a little song. We sang the song about the marching ants all the way to the supermarket where we bought a loaf of Le Bus bread before heading home to feed the Fiendling and put him to bed.

Boyfiend put the baby to sleep while I made a quick tomato sauce (over white beans for me and spaghetti for him) for dinner. I went outside to pick some basil and found this on the ground.

Stupid raccoons. I guess it’s time to break out more coyote urine.

It was bike race weekend which means after a graduation party on Saturday we came home, put the Fiendling to bed, mixed up a couple of margaritas and sat on the front porch to watch the drunken hordes. We live near “the wall” and every year the Saturday night before the race is the suicide run where drunks bring any vehicle on wheels to the top of the hill and race to the bottom. I’ve never witnessed the actual downhill race as the police presence has made it just about impossible for anyone to get down the hill, but it’s fun to watch the people head over and even more fun to watch them head back.

The most interesting person to pass our yard was an Irish boy. This poor kid was walking by the house and stopped to chat when he saw Boyfiend and I outside. In an Irish sounding brogue he asked what there was to do around here. Surprised that he didn’t notice all of the activity we mentioned the bike race. He admitted he knew about the race, but he didn’t see what was so exciting about a bunch of men in spandex. We conceded his point, but told him that the race was a good time not just for the actual biking, but because of the spectacle. It’s basically just an enormous block party and the people watching is just as much fun as the race watching. He still thought it sounded boring though and again asked what there was to in Philadelphia.

The kid was dressed in camouflage and army boots with long hair in a ponytail and a goofy little mustache that just kind of looked dirty. We asked where he was from (County Claire) and what he was doing here (visiting a friend for a while.) He said he was too young to drink and everything else was boring and no one will talk to him and there’s nothing to do. We asked where he’d been and he told us he was attending the local high school and he’d gone to a few diners and the McDon@ld’s at Broad and Arch. Well of course there was no one to talk to. Instead of going out and meeting people in the city he’s been slumming it in our practically suburban neighborhood where most of the boys (and girls) his age are too busy cursing in the streets, smoking cigarettes, harassing people and spraying the walls with crappy graffiti to make conversation.

We gave him the names of a couple of places to check out and sections of the city where he’d be more likely to meet people who like to talk and told him that he was wasting his time with us. He should be stopping in places where there were girls with red cups. Boyfiend stressed that girls with red cups, especially the really drunk looking ones would be much better company than a lame married couple and I added that chicks love guys with accents. He laughed and continued down the street. Boyfiend went back in the house to make another drink and I watched the boy walk off. Instead of heading towards the noise he stopped in the crappy corner store.

When Boyfiend came back out of the house I asked, “What was up with the fake Irish accent?” Boyfiend laughed and said he was wondering the same thing. The next day, bike race day proper,  I saw him again. He said hello and stopped at a party and chatted with a few people at least ten years older than he is. One of the girls turned to me after he left and asked, “Why was he faking an Irish accent?”

Sadly, I’m sure the kid is just out of place in the neighborhood and doesn’t know how to make friends. Rather than expand his social scene by leaving the neighborhood he fakes an Irish accent to make himself seem more interesting to adults. I feel sorry for him and wish there was something I could do, but I’m not his teacher and who knows if I’ll see him again.  I have the feeling I may see more of him.  It seems like he was grateful to have someone to talk to and might show up again. Or not. It’s just sad to see a misfit. I’m sure the kids around here mock him mercilessly, especially kids at the high school. It’s not a good place to be different.

The past few days the Fiendling’s been uncharacteristically cranky, throwing tantrums pretty regularly. He has a fit when I try to put him in his car seat, in the stroller, change his diaper or take him away from the door. He freaked out yesterday when we passed the playground on our way to WaWa even though I told him we’d stop and play on the way back. He sobbed and sobbed when two little girls wouldn’t let him push their baby doll stroller and he was inconsolable all day on Saturday when his dad was working on building a railing for the front porch and couldn’t play. He’s exhausting when he’s miserable but the rest of the time he’s just delightful. Especially now that all four of the first year molars are through and he’s sleeping through the night again.

At 14 months one of my favorite new Fiendling tricks is the way he puts things back where he found them. I know that’s incredibly OCD of me, but aside from the practical standpoint, it’s adorable. On a low shelf there’s a small square photo of the Fiendling in the tub. He loves this picture of himself. A few times  a day he’ll take the photo from the shelf and walk around with it, occasionally giving himself a kiss. Then he’ll put it back. He still loves the telephone. He’ll pick it up and press buttons, often resulting in the phone being on speaker, off the hook for several hours  a day. But other times when he’s through pressing buttons he’ll put the phone back on the receiver where he found it. I’ve also caught him putting things that he should not have back. From a shelf by the sofa he returned a heavy empty glass. From Boyfiend’s bedside table I saw him return a condom. I like that he knows where things go.

He’s recently discovered his belly. He’s no trained monkey, generally refusing to perform on command, but occasionally when asked where his belly is he’ll lift up his shirt and pat it. He also stamps his feet like he means it when you ask him where his feet are. No more tentative little taps for him.

Rather than freaking out about food I’ve taken to leaving snacks around the room for him. In the morning, when he’s often most hungry but least interested in eating, I’ll put Puffins or Cheerios in cups on shelves for him to find. He’ll wander around among his toys and snack, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake. He’s gotten a bit more adventurous as of late, enjoying a bit of veggie burger, risotto cakes and an entire mango. He refuses to wear a bib so it’s a good thing it’s warm enough to feed him shirtless. Yesterday’s rotini with peas and tomato sauce resulted in a very saucy baby. He’s still picky, often refusing foods for days that he loved before. For more than a week he’d only eat bananas, refusing grapes entirely. The he swapped and he was anti-banana, eating only grapes. There was an unfortunate phase where he’d only eat apples and pears if they were whole, seeds, stem and all, but he doesn’t like the skin so he’d scrape it out of his mouth and leave it lying around the house for me. He’s supposed to be drinking milk, but he hates it, throwing the cup on the floor like I’m trying to poison him. I’ve tried mixing it with sugary yogurt drinks with moderate success.

He’s finally gotten the hang of saying hi but he generally just waves. But the waving? It’s super cute. He waves to almost everyone, especially other kids. He also occasionally waves to people or animals on TV. At the playground last week a kid called his name, speaking to someone else with the same name. The Fiendling turned around and waved, grinning from ear to ear. He also waves goodbye which is equally adorable.

Aside from sporadically referring to us as Mom and Dad (occasionally mama or dada) he hasn’t acquired any more words  with one notable exception- key. I blame my mother for standing him on a stool in front of her door and letting him practice unlocking. Now when ever he sees keys or a door he says, “key! key!” and points. He throws tantrums when I take him away from the door as opening and closing is still one of his favorite pastimes along with the attemps to unlock. He’s also tried to unlock both car doors though not quite as successfully- he  seems to confuse the gas tank for the lock.

Oh, and I don’t know if this counts but he did just put his rubber duck in my lap and say “duck” quite clearly. But since he hasn’t said it before or since I won’t mark it as a word yet. He does understand almost everything. He has to be in the right frame of mind to listen, but he will complete simple tasks and he’ll look for things. “Go get the remote”will often result in a remote and “no, the other one” will often result in the correct remote. “Get in your chair” at mealtime will result in the Fiendling trying to climb up into his high chair. He continues to identify books by name and makes a brushing motion when the animals in the Going to Bed Book brush and brush and brush their teeth.

When I received an email from someone offering me two complimentary tickets to the show Altar Boyz because their boss liked my blog I ignored it thinking it must be either a scam or spam. But when I got a second email asking if I’d received the first I started to think it might actually be legitimate. I wrote the sender back with my name (which wasn’t actually my name because I was still suspicious) and the date we wanted to attend. A third email told me that tickets would be awaiting me at Will Call.

The night of the show (after I’d called the theater to make sure there were, in fact, two tickets waiting for us) we packed up the Fiendling, a bag of toys, and a bag of assorted non-breastmilk baby provisions and headed into the city. The parking gods were on our side and we scored a free spot around the corner from Boyfiend’s sister’s building. After leaving the baby with his adoring aunt we headed west towards the theater to pick up our tickets before dinner.

Before we got to Broad Street I was distracted by the rainbow lights of El Vez. We decided to check it out since we’d never been there. Unfortunately they weren’t interested in serving us. The hostess looked at her chart and said to a server, “We could put them there,” but the server, probably because we were only two and the table could’ve fit four said no. The hostess told us it would be a forty-five minute wait so we left. I was only slightly pissy about it. Fuck you, El Vez and the waitress who doesn’t want our tips.

We picked up our tickets at the window then walked to our old standard dive bar, Copa Too, for burgers and margaritas. We headed up to the bar which was surprisingly empty. We ordered a pitcher of margaritas and speculated for a while about the cause of its emptiness. Was it the smoking ban? When the margaritas arrived we decided it had to be because the margaritas, which once were among the best in the city, sucked ass. Then a mouse ran across the floor. Boyfiend said that the mouse was actually hanging out comfortably until my shriek of surprise that set him running. Talk about a dive bar. The waiter joked that the mice are brazen enough to ask for menus. We discussed leaving, but with only forty-five minutes until show time we decided to stick it out.

The waiter asked if we wanted another round of drinks. I told him yes, but only if there was tequila in them this time. He gave some stock answer about how the margaritas are made with a third of lime juice, a third of tequila and a third of triple sec but I wasn’t buying it so he said he’d make them himself. When he returned with our second pitcher he said he added more tequila and based on the buzz I had when we left the restaurant he wasn’t lying. Our food arrived. The Spanish Fries were hot and crisp and the onions and jalapeños were grilled to perfection. My burger was exactly what I was hoping for and even though I wanted to I wasn’t able to finish it, (probably due to stomach shrinking as a result of the great stomach virus). During our dinner the mouse made another appearance scaring the shit out of our waiter’s girlfriend. The margaritas helped soften the blow of that visit, and though I was pretty grossed out by the mouse on the second floor I still love Copa. After getting bartender to interrupt our waiter (who was too busy making out with his girlfriend to get us our check) we paid our tab and walked to the theater.

Boyfiend was still pretty suspicious about the origins of the tickets and surmised that we’d be either kidnapped or shot upon taking our seats. The usher directed us down to the orchestra pit and we took our seats down front and center. I was shocked the seats were so good. I didn’t think they’d be crappy, but I certainly wasn’t expecting them to be that good. We were seated next to two girls who appeared to be a few years younger than I am. Boyfiend asked the one seated next to me how she got her tickets. She said ticketmaster then asked how we got ours. We told her that someone had read my blog and offered me free tickets and got the attention of another blogger sitting in our row who’d gotten his tickets the same way. Boyfiend said he thought it was a new type of marketing. Even though they’d never specifically asked us to write about the show we probably would and the show would get attention. The Young Philly Politics blogger said they’d probably sent the same email to everyone on Philly Future and there were probably other bloggers in the audience. I looked around trying to spot the bloggers, but it was difficult. Most of the younger audience members were gay men so they could have been bloggers or they could have been guys in the mood for some musical theater. I was kind of buzzed so I didn’t over think it.

After we talked blog with the blogger for a bit the ticketmaster girl told us how lucky we were to get tickets for free. She’d seen the show the past few nights for free, but had to pay a reduced rate for her tickets that particular evening. She was an “altarholic” and she’d seen the show at least thirty times. She’d seen in in New York and Baltimore, and had driven for an hour and a half each way the past few nights to see it in Philadelphia. She was friends with the guys in the show and was there with her friend who was an Altar Boyz virgin. She asked if we knew what the show was about. I told her I just knew what I saw on the website- that the show was about a Christian Boy Band. She said she takes being saved very seriously. I wasn’t sure if she was joking, if it was some altarholic inside joke, or if she was actually some sort of freakshow Christian. A few minutes before the show began she moved to a different seat. I asked the other blogger why she moved and he said that she’d wanted an aisle seat. We both seemed to understand that her desire for an aisle seat was code for audience participation. I hate audience participation.

As for the show, the Altar Boyz are Matthew, Mark, Luke, Juan and Abraham (the Jew) a Catholic boy band trying to save the souls of the audience. Altar Boyz was likeable, but it was sort of like an SNL skit that lasts too long. The members of the band are pretty stereotypical- the hot leader, the tough guy, the Mexican, the flaming, yet closeted, homosexual and the Jew, and the songs, musically, are what you’d expect from a boy band. The lyrics are funny and well written and the banter is pretty amusing at times. The tough guy, Luke, had a bout with exhaustion and one night he was so exhausted he cracked up the van. The Jewish kid is asked how he’s allowed in the church and he responds that he sees a Jew hanging right up front on the cross. I was pleased that there wasn’t any real audience participation. The altarholic’s friend was chosen to go on stage when the heartthrob sang his big solo about waiting until marriage, so I guess that’s why she wanted the aisle seat. The boyz did go out into the audience to sing a few times, but no one was required to humiliate themselves which I appreciate. I liked the show, I’d say it even had moments of hilarity, but I just can’t imagine how someone would want to see it thirty times or more.

We had a great time that night. Boyfiend and I don’t get out nearly as much as we’d like, so a night out, even with mice and mediocre margaritas, was wonderful. I am glad I wasn’t overly suspicious and accepted the tickets. Silly as it was, the Altar Boyz was a pleasant way to spend an hour and a half and the boys in the band were fantastic. They danced and sang their cute little boy band asses off. One row closer and we probably would’ve been sprayed with their boy band sweat. So thanks Davenport theatrical enterprises. If free press was what you were after, here it is.