Somebody’s ready for Willytown.

We bleed purple. Period. End of sentence.

Bye bye California.

It’s all too appropriate that the Bug has learned how to wave hello and goodbye. We’ve got lots of hellos and goodbyes in our near future, and it’s a damn good party trick. Today at the doctor’s office, as we had our last appointment with our pediatrician, Addison waved to every person who would give her the time of day. It was adorable. And made me even more misty, if that were possible. Check out this video for a glimpse of the wave (and her new cozy snow hat, a necessity for where we’re headed. James and I made an important trip to the mall and bought up lots of sweatery, warm, winter clothes for a babe that has never needed such a thing. And since such ensembles CLEARLY do not sell so well out in these parts, the world was our oyster, our oyster of apparel for the fools headed east.)

ANYWAY!

This weekend we were down in San Diego, my favorite city on planet earth, for a final So’Cal weekend (and ya know, for me to start my job, as it turns out there was a meeting of the minds outside of the icy tundra of Billsville and it just so happened to be in the Whale’s Vagina). I got my first taste of my new gig, and let me just say, I am filled with ooey gooey inspiration and those warm, fuzzy feelings you get from engaging with people that are incredibly thoughtful, articulate, and kind. I could not be more jazzed. And in addition to getting acclimated, James, Addison, Ursa and I got a lovely long weekend together (read lots of restless, sleepless nights sharing a hotel room while Ursa barked at every passing noise (how uncommon in a HOTEL!) and Addison rolled fitfully around teething in two new chompers while James sawed wood.) Let me remind you that there is no such thing as fun for the whole family. And, yes, we brought the dog. And yes we rolled into our hotel at 1am with the whole Cart clan while Timbaland and his entourage simultaneously checked it. Then we wore animal print bathrobes all weekend. I kid you not. Best. Hotel. E-V-E-R. I ate myself silly with burritos, an unrealistic attempt to savor this yummy (read: we live in Northern Mexico) Mexican food. And I soaked up as much of the Pacific and the California sun as I possibly could.

And I ugly-cried the whole drive home.

People kept mentioning that it was 5 degrees in Williamstown. It’s like they don’t want me to take this job or something.

Now back to packing. And by packing, I mean weeping into a pile of clothes and filling my belly full of glorious, cheap, fresh avocado. I am the epitome of productivity.

P.m.S. James and I made it into Daily Candy! They just launched their wedding section, and we’re one of the featured couples. Life goals? COMPLETE!

AND, most importantly. Subscribe to MONSTER BITES! We launched this week, and have so many AMAZING artists/designers that we’re featuring complete with awesome giveaways. It’s free. No strings. No weird caveats. We just want folks to pay attention to these independent businesses during this tough economy. And you could win some pretty amazing things. So please, make my day, and SIGN YOUR FACE UP! Did I mention that it’s totally FREE?! Mkay, word. Plug made.

A healthy dose of PUT SHIT IN PERSPECTIVE!

I was having one of those moments where I was filled with self-doubt and loathing about this decision to leave California thanks to some less-than-supportive words from the director of my graduate program, and just when I was about to have my usual pity-fest, an email pinged into my phone from a dear friend (a friend, who I might add, is currently a Fulbright scholar living in Norway). The email was a response to the news of my new job and our move to the Purple Valley. His words were:

You live such a magical life.

Holy shit.

Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover  it.

This phrase could not have come at a more crucial, pivotal moment. Talk about throwing things back into perspective and reminding me to not be such an over-dramatic HO! And, more importantly, for reminding me that the opinions of an individual with whom I’ve had an antagonistic relationship ever since I informed him I was pregnant are most definitely NOT the opinions that matter.

How could I not remember that my life is magical when I get to look at this everyday:

At a cross ro-ads. And so damn overwhelmed that an intravenous sedative might not be out of the question.

In six weeks our lives are going to look a little something like this:

Yeah, that’s right. That there in the background is snow. Frosty, cold-like-death snow. That we’re moving to.

WHAT?! WHY?!? I take it back! I don’t wanna! Make the bad man go away!

Okay, whew, that’s been occurring ever since I committed to this drastic life decision at the end of last week. I may have ugly cried for two days straight at the thought of leaving 70 degrees of perfect perfectness and the most delectable Mexican food this country has to offer for the wintery hibernation of Massachusetts. AND WE ALL KNOW HOW I’M FEELING ABOUT MASSACHUSETTS! Ah, the irony of receiving a job offer in my-former-favorite-state literally a DAY after its fall from grace.

But they still have Dunkin Donuts. So that’s worth something.

In all seriousness, I am overall thrilled that I’ve been offered a marvelous job opportunity in my collegiate motherland- that’s right, a return to Billsville, the Berkshires. Just 5 years after my graduation, I’m returning to that very institution, with my family in tow. Williamstown is a magical place for me and James. The place where we fell in love. The place where we were married. And a place we’ve dreamed about raising a family. We didn’t intend that dream to happen quite so soon (did I mention that I’M NOT READY TO LEAVE CALIFORNIA?!), but when the opportunity presented itself, we just couldn’t resist.

It’s all totally overwhelming to think about packing up and moving 3,000 miles, while finishing my Master’s thesis, while James works full-time, with an 8-month old… IN LESS THAN SIX WEEKS. But we’re young, and resilient, and will come out the other side. AM I RIGHT?!?!

Don’t ask me how. Just check back in six weeks and see for yourselves.

In the meantime, I gots to get packing. And yes, I will be sharing with you all in the coming weeks my pro and con list for life in MA versus CA, because I heart lists. Like a lot. And man, does a move sure allow for a hell-of-a-lot of list writing.

See, there’s a pro!

Covered in black, which is kind of like being covered in lies. Only worse. Because we Weeks women are nothing short of dramatic.

Fired up doesn’t even to begin to describe how I’m feeling since the Massachusetts election results yesterday evening. So, know that going into this.

You see, when the 2004 Presidential Election results rolled into the Ulmer household all those years ago, my mother adorned herself in black. And remained in such a state of grief  for the entire month of November. She was in mourning. And folks, it has happened yet again. Allison, a lady in black. While I grew up in Massachusetts, a historically BLUE state (until YESTERDAY!), my parents settled into a town that was a hub of Catholic, Republican conservatism. Essentially, we were the crazy, Atheist, hippies on the hill. And wearing black for an entire month in response to a political election probably did nothing to dissuade such classification.

And trust me when we say, we are damn proud of it.

I’ve always been proud to be from Massachusetts, a state that I’ve heard referred to as a liberal, socialist nuthouse. A statement that warms my heart because it reminds me of all the progressive, forward-thinking policies that I so admire about the state’s politics. Politics that while they may frighten or threaten those more conservative in our country, pave the way for reform and social change and what I believe to be a more egalitarian way of life for all. It was the first U.S. state to legalize gay marriage. And the first U.S. state to reform health care to provide universal coverage to its residents.

That’s why, in light of all this, what I have to say is, “WTF MASSACHUSETTS?!?!”

I am filled with disappointment and a raging sense of fury at not only the Massachusetts residents but America as a whole. As always, we are two baby steps forward and ten GIANT steps backward. We refuse to think in terms of long term solutions and sustainability, and are out for ourselves, to make a quick buck. I am sick and tired of our selfish, short-sighted impulses.  The demand for instant gratification when reform and change are anything but instant,  and demand patience, endurance, and forward, progressive, out-of-the-box thinking is asinine and makes my blood boil. (I warned you that I was fired up. And dramatic.)

*Grumble*

And what irritates me the most, what shakes my core and fills me with utter rage is the blatant misogyny and sexism still so very prevalent in this nation. A country that claims equality for all, when women are still held to a double-standard and treated as second-class citizens. Listening to the news this morning, anchors were commenting on Scott Brown’s good looks and condoning his nude spread in Cosmopolitan. If a female political candidate EVER posed nude in say, Playboy, the backlash and criticism would be ASTRONOMICAL! It would never be acceptable, nor would that woman ever be taken seriously in a political arena. A woman must masculate herself to enter positions of power, because women are so codified as objects that in order to break free from the restraints of their gender, they must emulate the dominate sex. And even when they do this, they are criticized for their unfeminine ways. Yet if they cry, they are unstable. If a man cries, he is compassionate.

DOUBLE STANDARD. DOUBLE STANDARD. DOUBLE STANDARD.

I looked at my baby girl today and was filled with sadness that I had brought her into a world where even now her biological sex and consequently constructed gender identity would forever be a ball-and-chain on her agency in society. Needless to say, the house has been filled with a lot of Ani DiFranco today. A feminist musical lesson for the wee one: I have something to prove, as long as I know there’s something that needs improvement, and you know that everytime I move, I make a woman’s movement.

And all this happened during the week that we celebrate MLK’s legacy. The irony is astounding.

I have a dream that my daughter will one day live in a nation where she will not be judged by her biological sex but by the content of her character.

And for now, all the Weeks women are in black.

Lady Macbeth is 8 months old.

Baby girl,

Let me begin by saying that you made this holiday season memorable- in both a magical but also bodily fluid-filled capacity. You continue to push mommy and daddy to grow in ways we didn’t know were possible. Thank you for bringing us such joy and for teaching us the true meaning of selflessness.

Since the first week of your life “on the outside” your Momar has had a mild (okay, major) obsession with your hands. While most babies are complimented for their beautiful eyes, or perfectly spherical heads, or button noses, your Momar has gone on and on (and on and on) about your stunning, long fingers and delicate hands. Yeah, I know. Why couldn’t I have bestowed upon you a more prominent best feature? Ask your Doda, he’s the geneticist. This hand obsession has become a rather universal point of affection, as your babysitter has also mentioned on several occasions the beauty of those hands. And then this month you’ve taken to worrying them together, and I must admit, it is the dang cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but whisper, Out out dang spot, as you harness your inner Lady Macbeth.

Perhaps not the best literary character to emulate, but who’s judging. Everyone.

Anyway, I’m now on the hand-obsession train. My budding hand model. What more could a mother want.

You also are the most fun, ever. While I’ve enjoyed each month of your wee baby life, this month has been by far the most gloriously entertaining. We just have fun. So very much fun together. Now that you can kind of crawl (i.e. awk around like a drunk cat), we play all sorts of games and you squeal and laugh with delight. You understand how to play beek-a-bo, how to feed and pet Ursa, how to look at books while Mommy reads to you, how to try to escape from Daddy when he tickles you. It is the best. And I’m told it only gets MORE FUN! Holy hell, I don’t know if I can take it.

Because, well, with the fun, comes the flipside. You are now more opinionated and capable of acting on those opinions than ever before. Which means you are a pain. A pill! A baby who flips all over the changing table because you’re too bored to have your diaper changed and then you consequently pee all over the place. A baby who knows what she likes when it comes to her palette and will spit and raspberry and scream when fed anything that is not in the fruit family (i.e. anything non-sweet and sugary). In a former life, you were a fruit bat. We can coax you to eat yams and squash by coating them in cinnamon, but then you get a ridiculous red heat rash all around your month, and then you’re reminiscent of the Joker, as in Heath Ledger’s Joker, and it freaks me out.

Except, even when you freak me out, you are the cutest of cute. Seriously, there are  no cuter babies on the history of the planet, nor shall there be in the future. Of course, I realize that this is my blatant parental bias speaking, but I just can’t get over how truly awesome it is that daddy and I are so very in love with you and truly believe in our hearts that you are the most adorable baby ever born. What makes this feeling so amazing is to think that every parent (or one hopes every parent) feels comparably about their own child. And that our parents felt that way about us. The amount of love in the world is astounding.

Daddy and I are the happiest just lying around, watching you, and congratulating each other on creating and raising the sweetest baby on Earth. And to think we were all so loved and admired by our own parents. It’s awe-inspiring.

Happy 8 months, punkin pie.

143 Mama

Wintertime, and the living’s easy.

Winter in So’Cal. Tough. Life.

On the brink of the Apocalypse.

And by on the brink of the Apocalypse, I mean our lives as we know it chez Cart are almost over. Just take a look.

And yes, we coax our baby to crawling with beer bottles. Awesome parenting 101.

Another rite of passage into parenthood.

Well, it’s been some time since I last posted. I am fully, digitally cleansed (whatever the hell that means) and while I wish I had something profound to say about this 10 day de-tox, let’s be honest, life went on as usual. I still had work and school related duties that kept me tied to the virtual world, and on the home front, I was still left up to my eyeballs in baby bodily fluids and surrounded by the stresses of parenthood. That shit doesn’t go away just because I stop writing about it.

So at least my outlet is back. And I am in the final stages of my thesis 1st draft, so I can totally justify a return to the blogosphere.

Perhaps the most memorable occurrence since my blog hiatus was the Cart household’s bout with a gastro-intensinal virus otherwise known as swimming in baby vomit (and James and Ashley vomit).

As a preface, I must say that I am the worst, and I mean THE worst puker in the history of E-V-E-R. Like the Tonya Harding of vomit. I weep, and protest, and moan, and cry some more, and demand that people hold my hair back, and tell me I’m beautiful, and cradle me in their arms while I expel my day’s lunch into the porcelain throne. Yet another reason why James is the luckiest man of earth. I know you WISH you could snuggle a sweaty, smelly, shower-deprived, virus ridden person in your arms. Apparently, we can’t all be so blessed.

Fortunately, I got the sickness last. So both James and Sunny were on the mend when all attention had to be turned to tending to my needy ass.

As I lay moaning, and whining, and generally cursing the world in bed, James just looked at me and said, “You do realize that your 7-month old baby handled this with more grace than you?”

What can I say, I am a weak, pathetic soul when sick. Or my child is abnormally stoic. While I’d like to believe that I’m raising one truly strong-willed little person, history shows that it is probably the former.

Addison, however, was a champ when she was sick. An Olympic gastro-intestinal sufferer.  She was such a happy, smiley, sweet little babe despite the evil, intestinal buggies attacking her bitty tummy. But baby puke. That shit is NO JOKE. Talk about projectile vomit, with literally no warning. We had mounds of dog towels balled up around the house due to the various land mines she’d planted, and we just had to rush to the closest sink/toilet/trash can when the expulsion would commence.

I think the only thing more pathetic than a sick child is a sick child’s parents. I, obviously, stood around weeping. Because that is clearly productive. And James ran around reading every parenting book and website imaginable, shouting various remedies, suggestions, and courses of actions in my general direction while I just waved my hands in the air like an idiot. We were awesome. Fortunately, I got my doctor on the phone, despite the fact that it was 8pm on New Year’s Eve and she eased our fears, gave us some advice, said to call if things worsened, and told me I needed to “Bitch be cool.” Of course, I’m paraphrasing, but it was exactly what I needed to chill the fuck out.

Best. Doctor. Ever.

So in conclusion, we rang in the New Year in a home filled with baby vomit soaked dog towels. Let’s just hope this shit isn’t some metaphor for the next decade, or I want my money back.

Happy Belated 2010 to all!

Professing my love for celebrities and taking a hiatus.

In the words of N*SYNC:

Digital digital get down.

And by “get down,” I mean “get rid.”

That word play didn’t really make sense. And now you’re all confused.

What I’m trying to say is that for the first week of the New Year, of the new decade, of 2010 I shall be participating in a digital cleanse.  A whudda? (And no, this isn’t like the creepy LEMONADE cleanse I attempted back in ’07 to purify and detox my system. Read: lots and lots of runny poop). This is an attempt to rid myself of my attachment (addiction?) to my iPhone and the instantaneity of responding to people via Twitter, Facebook, and email from the palm of my hand. I lived for years without these technologies, yet why do I have trouble envisioning my life without them now? Why is it I feel compelled to email someone instantly upon receipt? Why do I feel this NEED to check my inbox the moment the ding of my iPhone chimes in a new message? Aside from being obsessive, it’s not safe when I find myself reaching for my phone while driving thanks to its vibrations of new mail. And why have I wasted hours of my life looking at facebook photos and status updates that at times make me question or feel dissatisfied with my own life? Why should these virtual communities have that influence on my personal reflections? And why do I check the stats on my blog religiously after posting to see how many people care about what I have to say? I started this thing as a space for myself to process the experience of motherhood and to one day share that story with my daughter who made it possible. Why, then, has it become just another technological compulsion and emotional compass?

So, to help sort out these questions, I shall rid myself of emailing, texting, tweeting, facebooking, and blogging (except for work related/academic necessity). This will free up my time for that looming thesis I can’t stop talking about, and force me to connect with friends via the HANDwritten word or an actual phone call, where I use my phone to  ya know, SPEAK with someone. What I’m saying is, I’ll be out of digital range from January 1- January 8. I’m not looking for some crazy, life-altering revelation, just a chance to get back to basics. I’ve been there before. Why not now?

The digital cleanse is an idea conjured up and advocated for by none other than my soul mate (prior to meeting James, of course), John Mayer. Yes, this man is on my “list.” You know, the list of celebs couples create so that if hell froze over and the opportunity presented itself one would be able to sleep with said celeb with a Get Out of Jail Free card. Yep, I have a thing for musicians or those that are musically inclined (thus the reason why my pulse raises at the thought of James bedecked in his high school marching band paraphernalia and I get hot just listening to his old college a capella albums) (yeah, they recorded albums, N-B-D). Also, John Mayer, he is tall. And for a gal who is six feet, and as described by my college roomie who stands in at 5’2”, I come from a family of “heightests.” We like our men tall. Even my bitty baby sister (5’6” = bitty in the Ulmer household) who decided to bust out of my momma’s womb six weeks early (apparently that’s what you get for being impatient) needs a man that is 6 foot plus. In college, during those “experimental” years, I may have dabbled in dating a man a half foot shorter than myself, but we all see how the ended… I’m married to a band geek, but damn it, he is six feet TWO inches. Which means, when I’m not wearing heels, he can see over the top of my head. Bam! TALL!

I was actually confronted face to face with John Mayer’s Ulmer-approved stature back in summer of 2002 when my hetero-life mate and I were living in San Francisco and, thanks to a high school buddy of my mom’s who is a baller in the music industry, we got free front row tix and back stage passes to one of JM’s shows. When we got back stage, I spotted John sitting (brooding?) alone, waiting to go on stage, harnessing all that sexy-musician-energy and I, of course (because I am a large, loud, bubbling fool) rather ungracefully made by approach. I was completely unprepared for what came next. John stood and so filled with shock and awe and intense-tall-longing was I that I didn’t make out a word to say hello and he breezed by me and on stage. So much for convincing him that I was in fact his life-long-soul-mate, DIDN’T HE KNOW?! My friend and I were then allowed to stand in the wings of the stage and dance during his set, and sadly, our pitiful attempts at electric sliding to “No Such Thing” were met with ZERO attention from JM. I’m not even a fleeting memory as that creepy, awkward tall bitch who did the ELECTRIC SLIDE to one of his songs. <Sigh>

His music has traveled with me, however, and was the soundtrack to finding the man who turned out to be my actual soul mate. Those early weeks of my relationship with James are filled with the melodies of JM, as we lay curled up in flannel sheets, in the quiet isolation of our dorms, discovering how lyrics and life could collide. Continuum was released about a year into our relationship, and I thought James might just break up with me, so sick was he of listening to that album on repeat. And then, seven months ago, “Daughters” was the first sound to hit our own daughter’s ears as she entered the world and changed our lives forever. Again, lyrics to life. And now with Battle Studies, while I can no longer relate, I can remember.

John, I hope that one day you find what your music’s helped me find. And in the meantime, call me. In the name of the digital cleanse and all.