The baby Greg

I have never before taken care of a baby that cried so much.



He is most comfortable in a specific pose: he needs to throw his head back and face you, staring up at you while you support his head. When he's happy, his lips purse and his eyes cross as he tries to look at your face. When he's upset, his upper lip starts to quiver and then he gasps for air before expressing his disappointment in a surprisingly non-abrasive way.



He's usually upset because he hates all bodily functions. All of them. He can't stand burping, spitting up, or anything out the other end.

I thought I'd gotten used to him. He'd certainly gotten used to me--I was finally able to put him to sleep and even make him laugh. When we'd met for the second time Dec. 24, after our initial meeting Thanksgiving Day, he started crying the moment I touched him. Now, he seemed able to tolerate me. But then something happened I did not expect at all.



I was trying to feed him. He was crying, and nothing could make him happy. He took a few sips from the bottle, then was completely disinterested. Then the projectile vomiting started. I was alone with him--his mother had left to run some errands, and I sat there in horror while he gushed forth, three times, streams of spit up. It was everywhere. Then his face grew red and he cried, and finally, he had no strength left and lay listless in my arms.

I was horrified, and quickly found my phone to call my sister. She didn't pick up, but a few seconds later she walked in through the door. When I explained what happened, she said, "Oh yeah, he does that. He can't digest his food sometimes."



I have a small amount of patience, but my sister's capacity is even smaller. She's the only person that has the ability to truly calm him, and she is either fed up or so tired that she's ready to ... well, she once used a very strong word that I'm sure she didn't mean because she needs sleep.

"He does that."

Poor baby.

Merry Christmas Eve

Oddly enough, I've realized that I've misplaced my bad luck, and while I can't say I miss it, it does feel strange not to have it around. I fully expect it to show up relatively soon, especially because I'm writing about it, and writing about something like bad luck automatically jinxes the writer. It's a rule. These rules are printed in gold on parchment, and they are handed out in elementary school, along with cooties and crushes.

Somewhere, somehow, I switched a fully panicked interior and exterior for a much calmer version.

For example, when I made it to Penn Station today and found my train, I fully believed that I'd gotten on the wrong train. This has become a tradition for me.

Yet I didn't panic, which is what I normally do. I normally start to sweat and freak out and call my mother and explain that, well, I'm sorry, but I might be a little late for the holiday.

Instead, I realized that if I had gotton on the wrong train, I was still headed to Dover, and I'm fairly certain I could just disembark at Dover and get on a train headed in the other direction. It's like driving. If you make a wrong turn, you can turn around. This sage piece of advice was given to me by a friend, and, I must say, it was a breath of fresh air in a dank room--especially because I tend to freak out on a regular basis.

Or, shall we say, I tended to freak out on a regular basis. I don't know why I am suddenly so calm and collected.

As if in homage to my new thought processes, when I was faced with traveling, on two separate occasions, down a flight of stairs, and then up a flight of stairs, two different gentlemen carried my over-stuffed, two-ton bag for me.

It made me feel all grown up and something like a lady.

I'm sorry, fellas, that it was so heavy. After all, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania for awhile, and I couldn't figure out how to pack any lighter. But thanks again, and Merry Christmas.

I'm off to be surprisingly calm and collected ... my family is coming to get me tomorrow. I'll see if they can break me. They usually do.

Have a great holiday, faithful readers. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Happy New Year.

Conversations with Grace

When I'm bored, I sometimes text my sister Grace and ask what crazy thing happened to her that day. Sometimes it takes a little while, but she always provides me with a story. Most often, they don't make sense, but because it's Grace, my crazy, crazy sister Grace, it's all hilarious to me.

"Chip brought me the clothes I left at his house and two of the three shirts weren't mine."

"He gave me roses and I gave them to my teacher."

"Well, I went to walk in between these two people and I got stuck and they started to pull me with them! So I started to yell and then they noticed me and separated."

"Well yesterday I was drinking my juice in class minding my own business and this kid throws his bag at me! It hit my arm and made the juice spill all over me! So then he bends over to pick his bag up and I pour the rest of my juice all over him."

"Well actually this kid spit on my chair in class it was so gross."

I'm getting him the LOTR trilogy, plus The Hobbit, 'cause he's too cute

My 13-year-old brother, David, has a girlfriend. Her name is Meghan. He asked her out, and he picked her because of her personality and looks. They’ve been dating for a week and a couple of days.

“So,” he said after giving me the low-down, “How’s your love life?”

I laughed. “Nonexistent. But there’s this guy I’ve been talking to.”

M My 13-year-old turned 30-year-old brother then gave me some advice:

1. You can’t pursue the guy because some guys don’t respect you if you pursue them.
2. You have to let him know somehow that you like him and that you wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him.

“How do you let – how would I, as the girl, let him know I wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him?” I asked, bemused.

“I have no clue. You just have to let him know somehow,” he said.

“How did Meghan let you know?”

“She didn’t.”

“So how did you know to ask her out?”

“We’ve been friends for awhile, so I decided to take the gamble,” he said, suddenly becoming 35.

“Will you take her on a date?

“If I had any money. I’m getting a job soon. But we do hang out a lot. I went to the dance with her. And I see her everyday in school. We have the same lunch block.”

“Where do you see this relationship going?”

“Good.”

“David, I love you. You’re so cute.”

I don't understand you

I've been trying to call my father all day. The decision about whether I will take a final exam early, or not, falls precariously into his hands. He may come to New York to visit his dying mother, he told me.

My grandmother has been dying for the past seven years. So far, she's survived two heart attacks and lung cancer. She's on an oxygen machine, and she'd continued to smoke cigarettes while on the oxygen machine, because apparently she forgot cigarettes were the reason she needed oxygen in the first place. She turned 80 on December 1, and I wanted to scream into the phone: HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, WOMAN? But because she's my grandmother and I respect the elderly, I merely expressed happiness over her birthday, amazement that she was only 80, and enthusiasm that she was feeling "all right." "All right" is fabulous, terrific even, if anyone manages to survive what this woman has survived.

If my father does come visit, it should be barely a problem to swing into Brooklyn from Long Island and pick me and all my stuff up. IF. IF. My father is the biggest flaker in the history of the universe, and that is not a title I bestow lightly. If he ever tries to make plans with me, I always have back up plans because I know he is not going to follow through. The man is the reason that I have not only a Plan B, but I have a Plan C, a Plan D, a Plan E, and, in some cases, Plans all the way until Z.

I would like to think that he'll be able to come get me. I tried bribing him with coffee, a cheek smooch (I never like giving him those), and even singing him a song. I don't know his reaction to those bribes yet, because I poured those promises into a voicemail, and have not heard back from him all day. He finally did call back, some minutes ago, but I think his phone is possessed because all I heard was a lot of white noise and what seemed like the sound of people walking.

I have finals this week, but I have to buy Christmas presents today if I want them to have the slightest chance of coming on time, and I've been shopping SnapFish and Amazon. I needed to know if my brother wants the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or if he's already read them, and I tried calling my dad again.

This time, he picked up and called me sweetie.

Sweetie.

Sweetie??

"We're eating, sweetie. Let me call you right back," he said.

"You didn't call me back all day," I accused.

"We were busy, sweetie. We're eating now. I'll call you back soon," he said.

I demand to talk to my brother, who is, however, also busy, with food in his mouth. My dad promises he'll call right back, and I, disgruntled, let them finish their meal in peace.

Sweetie.

Really? ... Really?

There's only one reason he'd call me "sweetie." That reason is his bizarre girlfriend, who is, as my older sister said, "quite alright if you don't have to see her or talk to her." He has a carefully sculpted image to upkeep, I suppose, as we all do, in some way or another.

Today

Yes: 17
Si: 1
Oui: 1

I was voted into the position of news editor for the newspaper, and I am now third in command.

Plus, the financial aid lady told me I'm covered for next semester. The entire school is an incompetent organism. I'm getting what I pay for.

I am: The Ramon Noodle Queen

I discovered a new way to make Ramon noodles, and because I am procrastinating, I decided to share it with you. I have become increasingly creative with Ramon noodles since they are cheap and easy to make. The most important thing, however, is that they are easy to modify.

Tonight, I made them the regular way (Boil water. Add noodles. Turn off heat. Add seasoning), and as the noodles quickly softened in the furiously boiling water, I tried to decide if I wanted eggs or not. I even Pam’med a frying pan before I realized that I could just dump the raw egg into the soup. I hesitated only for a moment, recalling my childhood as the egg-drop-soup hater. A few minutes later, I lamented my hesitation. The finished product tasted delicious.

As I look back on my childhood now, I believe that my dislike of egg drop soup resulted from the fact that my older sister liked egg drop soup, and heaven forbid that I like anything she did. On the rare occasion we ordered Chinese food, I choose wonton soup and egg rolls, and those particular choices were relatively safe—meaning: I was sure to get some. While the nine other people I lived with (seven siblings + two parents; think Cheaper by the Dozen, not The Brady Bunch) were vying for the lo mein and fried rice, I stuffed myself with soup and crispy egg rolls smothered in duck sauce. Sometimes I would get some ribs—if I were lucky. Once, we took my dad’s containers of coins and traded them in at the supermarket’s coin machine for $60. The Chinese food we got with the money was the best I ever had. We were really, really hungry.

Other ways to make Ramon noodles:

1. The regular, boring way. To experience the full effect of the sodium on your system, drain the water after allowing the seasoning to seep into the water, and eat the noodles with a fork. Or chopsticks.

2. The trying-to-be-healthy way. Cook some vegetables and add them to the soup. A previous roommate showed me this, and while I was skeptical at first, the result is quite tasty. Eat with chopsticks or one of those big Asian soups.

3. The heart-attack-inducing way. Drain the water from the noodles after adding seasoning. Whip one or two eggs and add to noodles. Try to mix the whole thing as well as you can. You may add milk for fluffiness. Fry in pan with Pam spray or butter. You may fry the whole thing at once, or separate into two patties. Cook until noodles are slightly crispy. Eat with soy sauce.

The here and now

I have a brand-new nephew, an adorable haircut, and ... oh, what's this ... a vise-like sensation gripping my skull. This headache signifies that I have signed up for a tuition pay plan to pay off next semester. I apparently am not receiving any more financial aid, and it will now cost my soul (signed away with a contract written in my own blood) and first born to finish my degree.

I wish this is something I could just blame on Bush and the flippin' retarded economy. But I can't. The fact of the matter is that I'm just a kid, trying to work my way through school, and I can't make enough to pay for rent, food, tuition, and MTA cards. What's that you say? Christmas is right around the corner? Insert inappropriate curse word here. No matter how many jobs I take on (three, last count) or how hard I try to finish school despite transferring (18 credits this and next semester), I can't seem to work it out.

I'm not looking for pity or to induce any sort of guilt. I merely want to present the idea that life is hard. People, life is hard, and we can blame the president or the economy, or we can take a moment to sigh, and then we need to keep moving forward. I heard once that if your childhood sucks, then your adulthood will be awesome. If I'm still a child, then I'll ride the wave a little bit longer. But if I am now an adult, then, dude, this still sucks.

Greg

Yes, thank you, my Thanksgiving was awesome.