Frozen is a fact of life.
I'm sick of men's holiday gift lists that include: BBQ'ing tools, cologne, whiskey and other hard alcohol-related items, beard shit, flannel shirts, hot sauce, and things made of leather.
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It happened. My newborn became an infant became a toddler became a kid.
LIKE TIME THROUGH AN HOURGLASS THESE ARE THE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS OF OUR EVER-SHORTENING LIVES.
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This is the list I made for myself titled "Shit I've Been Dealing With" to give myself perspective on why I might have had a panic attack on Feb. 22 …
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Destructibaby is 17 months old. When he cries, his sweet mouth widens to a warbling rectangle and tears leak down his cheeks, and he stands with his arms at his sides, chin up, crying out, “Hon-eeeee! Hon-eeeee!”
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A few weeks ago, Gordo, my son, my baby, turned 1. Which, as the pediatrician informed us, means he's no longer an infant JESUS YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT OUT LOUD. He's a toddler now, and his main activities are 1). speaking in tongues, and 2). falling off the back porch.
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Two weeks ago I moved in with SJ. Hired three guys to load all my stuff, including my coffee table (SJ does not believe in coffee tables -- he calls them "shinbangers" -- so when we want to watch 30 Rock instead of talking to each other, we eat dinner on a piano bench, like highly educated vagrants …
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I am running on fumes. FUMES, I TELL YOU. In addition to having a full-time job, a part-time job, and a daily commute, this is what I've been doing instead of blogging about millennials, bonding with the heirloom tomato in my uterus, and getting my head around the fact that IN TWENTY-ONE WEEKS I WILL HAVE A SON.
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I've decided to have a baby with a stranger.
In 53 days, I turn 40. Which means I have 53 days until my ovaries turn to each other across the vast pink expanse of my uterus, wink at each other, and commence crushing my remaining eggs Kids in the Hall-style.
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So I got fucking snookered into another three months on Match.com because I forgot it automatically resubscribes you and charges your credit card. So I signed in ... with the wrong email address and discovered my OLD MATCH.COM ACCOUNT FROM THREE YEARS AGO WHAT.
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NOTES TO SELF WHILE TRAVELING ALONE IN OAXACA, MEXICO
The good thing about not speaking the language: You can't talk me into anything because I have no idea what you're saying.
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Something I never would have anticipated: At this age, "Do you want to have kids?" and "Do you want to get married?" are first-date questions. Well, they're MY first-date questions
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First, if your name is Draper, don't put it in your profile name. If you want to make a reference to Don Draper from Mad Men, also don't put it in your profile name. Because then the word "raper" is in your profile name. I don't make the rules.
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Oh, the exchange of stuff! When I got divorced, I had to make a list of everything we owned and file it with San Francisco Superior Court.
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