Also, I have no iridescent plumage.

I’ve been conducting a whole bunch of interviews lately for my other work, the one that doesn’t involve wiping someone else’s butt at periodic intervals. I actually enjoy the interviewing quite a lot, but transcribing them is torture. Because I have to listen to myself. And it turns out that I, dear reader, am the prototypical Shrill New York Jackass.

The people I’ve been interviewing invariably call somewhere in Middle America their home—usually they’re from “Georgia,” “Maryland,” or some place called “Ne-brass-ka.” Anyway, these foreign devils, they talk different from me. Real, real different-like. And on tape, they sound thoughtful and calm, while I’m clearly jacked up on Dexedrine. While I listen to these tapes, all I hear is this:

Interview subject: I’m answering your question in a deliberate manner, my words carefully measured.

Me: I’M JUMPING IN TO RESPOND JUST SO YOU KNOW I’M LISTENING WHOOPS WERE YOU STILL TALKING? APOLOGETIC LAUGHTER TEE HEEE HEEEEEEEE!

IS: I chuckle politely, then continue with my points, which were this, this, and the other thing.

ME: I ASK ANOTHER QUESTION WHILE GIGGLING TO SHOW THAT I THINK IT”S A STUPID QUESTION BUT I HAVE TO ASK IT! AND I TALKREALLYFAST! WHEEEE!

IS: How curious. Sigh. Well, your question made little sense, as it was obvious you didn’t listen to what I just said, but I will endeavor to answer it, since this will be good publicity for whatever it is I’m promoting.

ME: MORE QUESTIONS! MORE GIGGLING! I'M KIND OF SPITTY AND SIBILANT, DID YOU NOTICE?

IS: I’m too busy sounding mellow and homespun to pay any mind to your housewife-on-crack voice.

ME: NOW I WILL MAKE JOKES SO YOU KNOW I’M FUNNY! LOOK AT MEEEE! SNICKER!

IS: How quickly I tire of you. I will give you non-answers until you let me off the phone.

ME: AND I’M ALREADY THINKING OF LISTENING TO THIS TAPE AND ALL THE STUPID SHIT I SAID, TRA LA!

This is fun for me, as it feeds into my burgeoning insecurity that I don’t know how to talk to adults anymore. You try chittering all day to a toddler, and then conduct an interview about the benefits of Vitamin D without peppering everything you say with multiple exclamation points. Can’t be done! You will sound relentlessly perky! Your interviewee will sound nervous! Then you’ll have to mention the toddler, so she’ll know you’re not clinically insane! Here I go again with the exclamation points!

But why must I blame the child? Long before Henry was, I was flitting about, my every thought caroming toward its daffy conclusion. I’ve seen video of me. It's painful. I look a little like a hummingbird, but without the grace and, you know, hovering. Maybe I could blame all the caffeine, but how I love the caffeine, don't make me give it up, oh god.

Henry is becoming one of us New York fast-talkers, too, but in him it's completely adorable, of course. He's been talking for a while, but until recently he stuck to one or two words at a time. He'd carefully consider what word he would use--say, "Park"--and then he'd add a little upwards inflection at the end and repeat it until I felt that I would go mad. "Park?" "Park?" "Did you want to go the park, Henry?" "Park? Park? Par--" "Okay, let's get our shoes on!" "Park? Park?" "Yep, park." "Park? Park? Park park park?"

Now he's begun creating sentences by stringing together the words he doesn't know with babble. His every thought pours out of him, uncensored by judgment or reason. He stomps around the apartment, shouting, "Mommy balalalalalala FIRE TRUCK!" "Henry badoobadooobadooop BLENDER booneeeboooneee LUNCH roobooo DOGGIE!" Bless his little New York heart, he could conduct one of my interviews and no one would notice the difference.

All bets are off. Watch out!

We’re all at my sister’s house, for Father’s Day. My nice sister has a pool. A beautiful, in-ground pool, and every time I see it, I wonder why the hell we don’t live next door to her. But I digress. My mother is wading in the shallow end, while Henry splashes about with his father. I’m sitting on the edge, dangling my legs into the pool. My mother, who feels it is her duty to evaluate my appearance on a regular basis, is glaring at my toes. She considers neglect of one’s parts not only ill-advised but immoral, and here is evidence of my lapsed spirituality--bits of nail polish clinging for dear life to my neglected tootsies. She’s clutching my foot, menacing my poor toes like she could frighten them into enameled, manicured perfection.

Her [disgusted]: It’s a shitty color.

Me: Gee, thanks. I liked the color.

Her: I can’t wear pink. Pink looks terrible on me.

Me: Yeah, see, these aren’t your toes.

Her: Pink. Horrible.

Me: I know. You like to wear gold, or whatever, but’s that not me.

Her [offended]: I do not wear gold. My toes are painted pearl white.

She hoists a leg out of the water and thrusts her foot into my face, just as Henry announces that he needs me. A few minutes later, order is restored, and we’re all back to our original positions.

Her: I can’t believe you said my toes were gold.

Me: You’re upset about that? You called my toes shitty.

Her: I did not say shitty. I would not say shitty to you. I said crappy.

Yeah, I know, it’s not much of a story. It more or less sums up all that confounds me about the woman, is all, and I swore I wouldn’t use my blog to write about my family, but here I am, doing it. Anyway, rules are made to be broken, and me, I’m a rule-breaker. I am dangerous.

Deck the halls!

Yesterday, as you all undoubtedly remember, was Brooklyn/Queens Day. Like everyone else, we’ve been busy decorating our Brooklyn/Queens tree and rehearsing our Brooklyn/Queens carols. Did you know that in Russia, they celebrate Brooklyn/Queens Day by thrashing virgins with Siberian pine branches?

All right, I’m done. For the record, I only knew it was Brooklyn/Queens Day because I wondered aloud why there were so many kids not in school, where they should have been—in school and NOT IN THE PLAYGROUND KNOCKING DOWN MY SON—when someone helpfully announced, “Why, it’s Brooklyn/Queens Day, don’t you know!” Now that I’ve read about Brooklyn/Queens Day, I still don’t understand. Commemorating “the organization of Sunday schools”? Hurgh? I sense a “Teachers Need the Day off from Children Wild with Summer-Vacation Longing” Day. And hey, I can get with that—just don’t lie to me! Enough with the lies!

Random thoughts that have nowhere else to go and can’t stand on their own as a blog entry:

1. Men leer at you when you’re pregnant because they KNOW YOU HAD SEX ONCE. (Or maybe it’s the boobs.) What a naughty thing you are! they’re thinking. Sex! You did it! The evidence is right there. How come no one’s leering when you’re carting a toddler through the aisles of Key Food? Or when you’re a grandmother? Shouldn’t that be extra sexy? You’ve had sex, and you’ve created other beings that have also had sex. Your sex-kitten ways have spilled over to the next generation. You hussy! A spanking is definitely in order!

2. I keep reading that I shouldn’t say “no” to my toddler all the time, and I know there are some good reasons for this but then when Henry is sticking his tongue into an outlet or climbing the dog or sampling a delicacy he found behind a couch cushion I can’t remember what to say instead of no, so it comes out like “Nuuuh! Nah! Nip! Neh neh neh neh!” It works, though: he invariably drops what he was doing/eating/climbing and stares at me like he’s afraid I’ve had a stroke.

3. I’m fascinated by passive-aggressive dream-telling. Does anyone else get this? The people who have another agenda when they’re relating some dream they probably never had? I get this a lot. Or I used to, until I ran screaming from the crazies, at least the ones I could run from because they weren’t related to me. These examples are fictional but only a little:

The soon-to-be-ex-friend: “I dreamt that you didn’t want me to be my friend anymore, and I cried and cried. Then I woke up and I was so glad it was just a dream. Hey, have you been trying to call me? Because my phone isn’t working right, I think.”

The mother: “I had this dream that you were getting married, and you wouldn’t let me come. You screamed, ‘Shut up, Mom! I hate you! You’re so not invited to my wedding!’ and I was crying and saying, ‘But I love you, my youngest daughter, and I only want to give you the most wonderful wedding you could imagine,’ and you said, ‘Keep crying, old woman! I don’t care about anyone but myself! I look so pretty in my dress and you won’t see it! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!’ I wonder what that could mean?”

The bitter, creepy co-worker: “Want to hear about a weird dream I had? I dreamt I became your boss finally and then all you could do all day was refill my stapler and buy me lunch and you were so MAD but you couldn’t do anything about it. Isn’t that weird?”

The former boyfriend: “Hey, I had this funny dream that you and your girlfriend A. were making out. Isn’t that funny? Funny and hot? Hey, speaking of, have you ever done that, or, you know, wanted to?”

4. In conclusion, I ask you: Who would eat Quorn? “Despite what some of the manufacturer's (Marlow Foods) marketing materials indicate, the fungus used in Quorn is only distantly related to mushrooms, truffles, or morels.” Apparently some people did—more than once. People, if you’re vomiting for hours after a dinner of Quorn Chicken Style Recipe Tenders, give your insides a rest before you tuck into a plate of Quorn Fillets Provencale. That's just common sense.

Why I haven't posted in a while.

- I’m writing this week for a dog food company publication. No, really. You know what I’ve learned? Dogs like to be fed! And housed! Also: loved.

- I’m obsessing about how awful our living room is. It’s really awful. Papers are piled on every available surface, toys are scattered on every available inch of floor, our rugs are prickly with dog hair, our furniture is ugly and causes us injury, the lighting makes everyone look like they have cancer. I’m determined to change everything, make it all pretty and good and healthy and THEN I'LL BE HAPPY, RIGHT? but I haven’t the resources or know-how. I’ve heard those are two good things to have. I’m so obsessed that I actually borrowed from the library not one but two books on feng shui. So far I’ve learned that our living room is so un-feng shui that we should have developed leprosy long ago. If we don’t cover our walls in mirrors and wind chimes and scatter goldfish all about the floor, hungry ghosts will knock open our cupboards and steal our rice. I’m fairly convinced it’s all a lot of hoo-ha invented by those funny people over in the East, but I’m willing to think differently, should anyone care to convince me. As one concession to the mysteries of the Orient, I moved a (miraculously, through no effort of my own, still living) plant to a dark corner that had hitherto only housed spiders and dust bunnies (sometimes together! Spiders love company!). We’ll see if the improvement in our chi flow leads to increased riches and improved relations with our elders.

- My son is REFUSING TO NAP. Naptime is post-time. So you see. Instead of napping, Henry sits in his crib and shouts, “Mommy no! No, Mommy, no!” I’m convinced he knows that this will always get me to give up on the nap, because I’m afraid the neighbors will think I’m a child abuser. It’s only a matter of time until he’s learned “Please, Mother, not the iron! Oh, why must you drink so much?”

- You, my loyal audience of readers, have been composing such hilarious and entertaining comments that I hate to interrupt with my prattle. Really: if any of you haven’t been reading the comments, you’re missing out. Apparently everyone who reads my blog is even more beset by vermin, poop, and Jehovah’s Witnesses than I am. I’m amazed you people can do anything but lay your head in your hands and weep. So: carry on!