cat named pig

8:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, and my beloved husband and I are on two different floors of the house, curled up with separate laptops and at least eight internet browser windows open (each).

Is this sad? Is this modern marriage (with children)? Is this exactly what I want to be doing right now?

The answer, perhaps to all three but certainly to the last question, is yes.

Would it make things worse if I told you our last conversation was a raging argument heated debate calm and logical discussion about Twitter?*

Yes, it’s a pretty dorky state of affairs over here, that’s for sure.

…..

*A calm and logical discussion in which I was absolutely and undeniably right, and during which my rational arguments and compelling rhetoric left Matt’s position as little more than a smoldering wreckage of ideas THAT WERE NOT RIGHT.

I mentioned yesterday that I had a Trader Joe’s story to share. It’s not really about Trader Joe’s, but it took place there. It could’ve happened anywhere, but the fact that we were at Trader Joe’s at 5:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night made the whole scene that much more hilarious.

Why? Because the St. Louis Park Trader Joe’s, what with its close proximity to Uptown, at 5:30 on a weeknight, is pretty much jam-packed with Uptown hipsters stocking up on cheap organic dinner ingredients and cheap wine. You see jeans so trendy you didn’t even know that was a trend yet, save for the number of people in the store wearing similar ones. You see young couples holding hands as they decide on the right appetizers to serve their friends who are coming over for a drink later, before they all go out to the bars at 10:00 p.m. You see, as you’re pushing your shopping cart full of chatter-y kids and granola, lots of people who make you feel old and uncool.

Which is fine, right up until the kids start singing.

And what are they singing? Their favorite song, of course: “Battlefield,” by Jordin Sparks. Yes, Jordin Sparks of American Idol fame. And yes, they first heard this song when you played them a clip from So You Think You Can Dance, because you thought they would enjoy the part where the guy jumps and the girl rolls under him. And you were right — they did enjoy this, so much that they asked to watch the video nine billion more times. Not only do they like the dance, they are also in love with the catchy music.

(This is how an obsession is born.)

Every time we’re in the car now, Elliot will request “Battlefield.” He doesn’t understand that the radio is not an iPod, and that we can’t just play it for him on command. (We have not gone so far as to download the song, nor have we told them that this is an option.) Siena understands how the radio works, so she simply requests that we try to find the song. Which means we drive around listening to a lot of cheesy pop music while waiting for it to come on.

We had heard it in the car right before we got to Trader Joe’s that night (Siena made us wait in the car until the end of the song before going in) so it was fresh in their minds. So naturally, they both started belting it out like they were singing for their lives in front of Simon Cowell. I mean belting it. Full volume, full intensity.

The looks we got from other shoppers who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to this stuff were priceless. May their children some day embarrass them by singing a song not recorded by a hip new indie band so obscure no one has heard of them yet. May they sing it loudly. And with feeling. In public.

Well, not so much “adventures” as “things I have thought about today, mainly food-related.” But I felt the need to post an update after the sad tale of Siena’s first bus ride to camp.

And the update is that all is well, from what I gather. She comes home tired but rebounds nicely after dinner. Right now she is happily playing with Elliot and singing “9-1-1, Shorty fire burnin’ on the dance floor, whoa-oh” in a voice that sounds way more like Sean Kingston than you might expect from a five-year-old girl.

And she has plenty of fun things to tell us about: “shooting bows and arrows,” the giant slide, swimming, “the rock climbing where you go like this” (elaborate horizontal body contortions indicate that she is referring to bouldering), and at least one kid in her group whose name she can remember, a girl named Amelia. (Amelia, wherever you are, you have my undying gratitude for being nice enough that Siena remembered your name. She didn’t even remember the counselor’s name.)

So camp is going well, and I am feeling foolish for worrying that it wouldn’t. I just can’t shake the image of her hesitating in the middle of the bus, looking for a seat and ending up all by herself. It kills me. ***Sentimental Parenting Cliché Alert*** It kills me that I can’t go everywhere with her for the rest of her life and smooth out every possible bump in her path, making sure she is happy and comfortable at every moment. But even if there were any way of doing anything even remotely close to that, Siena, of course, wouldn’t want me to. She would kill me. She is tougher than I give her credit for, and way more independent than I ever expect of the baby I used to nurse five times a night, who never wanted to be out of my sight.

Other recent adventures/thoughts include pesto, lots and lots of pesto, and that comfy Ma Ingalls feeling I get from making something seasonal and storing it away for the long winter. (Like you can’t get fresh basil in December in the year 2009, and like freezing some pesto is in any way akin to the endless canning and preserving that went on in olden times, I know. [Eyes rolling at myself.] I still like it.

I also found a white skirt for Siena at Target for a whopping $3.49, and this is significant because 1) Elliot was mad that I wouldn’t buy him one, too and 2) Siena had asked this very morning if, instead of a plain white T-shirt to tie-dye at camp, she could have a skirt instead. And I had doubted that I could find a white skirt anywhere, much less a cheap clearance one, much less a cheap clearance one with shorts attached, making it playground-appropriate. Sometimes Target just really comes through for me. AS THEY SHOULD — I GO THERE ONCE A WEEK, EVEN IN WEEKS WHEN I ALSO GO TO TWO OTHER GROCERY STORES. Target, I can’t quit you.

Speaking of grocery stores, I have a Trader Joe’s story — for another post. It amused me, but this is getting long enough. So in place of a conclusion, I offer you this photo of some sweet corn and a bowl of melted butter:

Sweet corn and pesto. Summer, how I love you. And Camp, thanks for not destroying Siena’s enthusiasm for life. That’ll come later, like when she gets her first job.

Laura and I haven’t been to a movie theater in a few years. Harry might have been in Year Three at Hogwarts. And we haven’t been to the theatre since early 2008. It’s possible we have Netflix to thank for this, as we’ve watched countless movies, finished six seasons of Sopranos, five seasons of Six Feet Under, and four seasons of Weeds while the kids were sleeping.

Usually, however, when we have time to ourselves outside the house, we get a glass of wine somewhere with a great meal or hang out with friends without having to make sure someone isn’t running into the street.

This doesn’t mean we don’t get our share of artistic entertainment and a meal chez CatNamedPig. Behold our Friday night:

Dancing…

…and Dinner

A fine evening. Bravos for the entertainment and the meal.

Note: Siena’s outfit provided by Laura’s friend Heather and her sister, from when she was a dancing little girl. Sweet Corn bought at the small farmer’s market held at Sabathani Community Center on Wednesdays from 3:30-6:30pm.