Thursday, May 19, 2011

Tuesday, May 17, 2011


In a rare moment of calm, as I sit enjoying a hunka chips and salsa in my pajamas, it has come to my memory that the following excerpts of e-mails have been sent to Aaron, by me, within the last two weeks:

"Oh my gosh bud, I just bought this dress online for $51.99. I was waiting for it to get back in stock and then it did and I don't know what I was thinking I just bought it! Is that ok? Don't worry. They have a good return policy."

"Babe, help me! I really want to go to Zumba tonight but I promised Vanessa I'd chat with her on the phone after work and I want to have enough time to talk to her but I don't want to go to Zumba late but I want to work out today because I feel lazy. Serioulsy, what am I going to do?"

"OMG bud I just wrote on (someone's) facebook wall and I just know (they) are going to get mad about it. Why did I do that?! Are you mad at me?"

And this one's just glorious:


that is my whiney voice. Please take five moments of silence and hear it in your head. Here it is again:

(that was the entirety of that one.)

And here's the thing, people. With all that blathering, borderline-frightening crazy up there, I get responses like this:

"Babe, I'm so glad you got that dress! I can't wait to see it on you!"

"Hi love! Why don't you just talk to Vanessa in the car on the way to Zumba. The worst case scenario is that you miss the very beginning of class, and that won't be so bad."

"I'm not angry at all, little girl! Don't you worry about it! What you wrote was great."

And, well, to that last piece of literary perfection, he replied:

They can't all be winners.

But he certainly is. Give him a medal. And for me...maybe some ritalin?

Monday, May 9, 2011

Identity Crisis

Last night I stopped into Chipotle after church. As church ended (we go to an evening service here) I looked at Aar and said ..."Chinese food?" And he gave me this goofy look like...who are you kidding? We had missed our weekly Chipotle Night on Thursday because my throat was wanting soup that night. So I went to pick up our signature three-soft-tacos for Aar and burrito-bowl for me.

When I got up to the lovely lady that was going to make our yummy pseudo-Mexican feast, the first thing she said to me was, "are you a Mom?" I was nervously puzzled for a split second before I remembered that it was Mother's Day. Once I stopped double-checking that my single chin hadn't turned into a double chin, and once I stopped judging her for her over-enthusiasm, I said "nope, not yet." She was sweet though, and asked if I had a puppy. I said yes, and she wished me a Happy Mother's Day.

I could've told her that we have a strict no-referring-to-our-dog-as-our-son rule at the Baer house, but I'm trying to work know, my general sourness, so I left it alone.

But I threw a little fit in my head while I watched this bouncy woman put pico de gallo on my mountain of barbacoa. (Now I'm hungry.) No, I'm not a Mom. No, I don't eat only organic. No, I don't paint or sketch or, I don't know, do pencil drawings. I don't do graphic design, I don't have my own super hipster photography business with my own totally original website. I generally don't do Yoga on mountaintops on Saturday mornings and I don't create my own jewelry. I'm not visiting 11 countries in 12 months and I'm not in Africa holding orphan babies. I'm not in Nashville giving myself a go at being a starving musician or clothing designer or poetry writer or coffee barista with my lip pierced. I'm not thinking of starting my own church or painting a mural downtown. No, I'm not a Mom.

But that's ok, right? Don't I still have something worth saying?

You know, after the Last Supper, when Jesus was trying to be plain as day to his buds about all the crap that was about to rain down, they started this ridiculous argument about which of them was the greatest. (I feel embarrassed for them even typing it.) It's bewildering, though, ridiculous as that sentiment was, how forceful it can be.