Things I Love Thursday: Peekaru!

Something new and different, yay! Actually, I just realized how many different random e-mails I send out a week with my (totally unsolicited, I’m sad to say) reviews of random things I try. And I saw some other bloggers do a “Things I Love Thursday” and hey, if all the cool kids jumped off a bridge, I’d be awfully wet.

So I bring to you the first in a series of Things I Love. This one happens to be a baby product because I spent half my weekend explaining it to people and I may be single-handedly responsible for about 300 orders. This won’t always be the way, I have lots of ideas for things to tell you about.

I took Wee ‘Burb to a sheep shearing festival this weekend. More on that in another blog entry. But those of you who have kids know what a pain it is to try to weave a stroller in crowds. Or if you don’t have kids, then you know what a pain it is to weave AROUND strollers in crowds. Especially muddy crowds, as it was this past weekend because the weather Gods are having a great laugh at my expense as I try to get my kid out or more than an hour a week.

Anyway, so I use my carrier when I’m taking her anywhere there’s a crowd. She loves it and I quite like having her near my face so I can see what she’s up to. And typically she falls asleep as you can see.

The gadget she is nestled in is called a Peekaru. Greatest…invention…EVER! If your kid likes a carrier, you MUST invest in this! I got one as a present and at first it seemed…well, hippie-ish. There, I said it. Suburban snob sneaking through again. I didn’t even get to use it at first because Wee ‘Burb REFUSED to go into her carrier until about two months ago. Then all of a sudden it was the greatest invention ever. Who knows? Anyway, so a month ago we’re going to walk around and look at garage sales in our area (more about that in another entry, too…see what you have to look forward to?) and it was very windy. So I pulled out the Peekaru to give it a shot.

The idea behind this is that with the carrier, you are limited in how you keep you and the baby warm. You can: a) put the baby in a ton of layers of clothes, which if your kid is anything like mine will only result in squawking and squirming or b) put a huuuuge coat around yourself and hope it zips over the baby (I’m trying to get OUT of my fat clothes, thank you) or c) stick blankets in or around the baby.

This vest is awesome because it’s a soft fleece with (and this is the goofy part) two head holes. So not only are you protected up to your chin, so is the baby! And it being a vest versus a coat means you don’t get overheated (I’m just assuming your baby is as volcanic as mine). It also means it’s versatile in terms of being able to wear it with a t-shirt (like the picture) or with a sweatshirt or jacket in cooler weather. And it even has a little pocket to stick your phone or pacifier or whatever in. I love me some pockets!

The only con from the baby perspective is that their hands are stuck inside the Peekaru. See, for me this ends up being a pro because then Wee ‘Burb can’t steal purses (more on that with my sheep shearing blog) or otherwise molest random passer-bys. But occasionally her hands being trapped in makes her a little squawky. However, as you can see from the picture that doesn’t last long.

The only other con is if you are in a hurry, it can be bothersome to explain to the 200 people who WILL STOP YOU what it is and where you got it.

I highly recommend this! If you don’t have kids of your own, it would make an amazing gift.

http://www.togetherbe.com/productDescriptionPeekaruOriginal.aspx

I Ain't Got No Alibi

The suburbs are just CRAWLING with cops the last few weeks. I can’t figure it out, at first I thought it was my imagination. For, you see, I was one of the first victims of this crackdown. It was a BAD day from the start. Wee ‘Burb had her first cold, the dog had some sort of rash, work was dreadful and I was just exhausted.

Because Cous Cous isn’t exactly the best behaved dog in the car, I had agreed to go with Scott to the vet. 30 minutes and $30 later we were told it was just a rash that all dogs get all the time…despite the fact that I had DESCRIBED this rash IN DETAIL to the vet, I was still told to come in. To be told it was no biggie. Great.

So in a rage and $30 poorer, I just wanted to go home. So I was not, how you say, vigilant. Of either my speed or the fact that there were a bunch of cops hiding out at a mailbox just waiting for sleep-deprived losers like me.

And so the cherries flash and I about throw up. Here’s the thing about me: I have an irrational fear of cops. I say irrational because, in fact, I have many family friends who are cops. I know nothing is going to happen to me. Yes, I might get a ticket. But it’s very unlikely I am going to get taken in under some false arrest warrant so they can frame me for some heinous deed for which I have no alibi. But that changes nothing, I go white as a ghost, shake and start to cry.

I also, like an a-hole, took my seatbelt off to get my (turns out, expired) proof of insurance from my glove compartment. So I’m trying to put it on and the cop says “A little late for the belt, miss.” I stammer out that it was on, I couldn’t reach my compartment, etc. He just nods, takes my (expired) proof of insurance and license and disappears.

I’m sure in reality it was 2 minutes, but you know how that can feel like eternity? I mean, I really thought it was 10 minutes, at least. But he comes back and issues me a ticket for my expired proof of insurance, nicely telling me all I need to do is fax in my proof and the ticket will be erased.

So I thought it was my imagination, born of PTSD from my experience, that the cops were crawling everywhere, but more and more people started commenting. I even overheard strangers conversing about it! You expect this kind of show of force around major holidays. The only major event that happened here was the tragic death of a police officer recently, but I’m not sure it warranted this level of vigilance.

I’ve tried to Google it and look it up in the local paper to no avail. If anyone knows what’s up, I’m dying to know! In the meantime, just call me Stephanie Speed Limit!

Rotating Restaurants

I’ll come out and admit it: I am a food snob. I blame Scott. I barely cared about the difference between Chef Boyardee and Chef Batali before we met, but now I’m obsessed with Food Network and Top Chef.

Our old condo was near many great restaurants, and offered us a 20-minute drive to the cities if we wanted more. We thought moving to the suburbs would cut our access to great food some, but when we asked our neighbors, we were assured there were many culinary delights surrounding us. We should have known this wasn’t exactly the truth when (and I mean no offense to anyone who has uttered the following phrase, I truly do not, I’m just a snob) they told us that they were celebrating 20 years of marriage at the Outback Steakhouse.

Downtown has had about five different restaurants in our short time here in the ‘burbs. And this food turnover has caused a lot of drama in our city. The local paper had pages of letters to the editor for months after a diner closed, which seemed to be a last straw for the neighborhood. I personally never went to the diner because I never had the chance in the brief time it was open. But Scott did and was rather horrified at the $17 lunch he had there. He had simply ordered turkey and meatloaf, which at a neighboring diner would cost about $7.

So we weren’t at all surprised when it closed. We were the only ones, apparently. A myriad of letters to the editor blamed locals for not caring about local food, the Chamber of Commerce for not supporting local business, the local paper for not advertising for them (for free of course…and on a side note, the local paper did a total fluff piece on diners through the ages or some such nonsense which more than once mentioned this new place), and the townsfolk in general for being cheap horrible people. Some of the people who simply offered advice/reasoning for why it didn’t work show how uniquely suburban this area is:

“Not once did anybody from [the diner] come by the office to drop off a menu or some coupons or just to say ‘hi’ and encourage folks to come over for lunch.”

“Well, [suburb residents], you blew it again. It was with much sadness that I read of the closing of [the diner] after a short, but expensive, run...In an endless parade of sub-par restaurants that have come and gone from the area, [the diner] was what we had been waiting for. Excellent food, great atmosphere, and decent prices for an A-tier restaurant. Insert snicker from Stephanie here. This is a business that should have been supported.”

“Face it, [our suburb] is not as upscale as some of its leaders believe. We are ordinary, moderate and fixed income residents. We need a family restaurant with affordable prices, a varied menu and breakfast. Breakfast diners in the area are very limited. This we would support.”

Last year a Mexican restaurant opened across the street from the doomed diner. I was actually pretty excited because to get good Mexican, we have to go a town over. What luck to have one down the street! Yeah, luck does not equal a $14 enchilada. $14…enchilada! Served with…white rice. I almost can’t write it. WHITE RICE…MEXICAN RESTAURANT! Luckily we didn’t have to bear the injustice of this for long, they closed, too.

And once again, letters to the editor poured in. Only now a few of them actually mirrored what we were thinking: do you not do your research, people??!! I feel like our neighbors are fairly representative of a good portion of the population of our city. More than half have been in this neighborhood for more than 20 years and if they think a fancy special night out is the Olive Garden, then so be it. In the short time I’ve lived in this food wasteland, not a single restaurant has made it that doesn’t host a weekly meat raffle or offer amazing happy hour deals. And that’s fine, right? Maybe, just maybe, though, we stop giving loans to people who want to open fancier restaurants here. Maybe we focus on revitalizing downtown some other way.

May I suggest a cheap Mexican place that serves appropriate rice? And if I could add one request: can my entire bill be $14, please?

Thanks muchly. Sincerely, the Suburban Food Snob

R.I.P. Bunny

The circle of life continues its ugly loop. I have no good updates to post, as today was a traumatic day in suburbia. A few days ago, Scott came in and informed me that he found a bunny carcass. Or half a bunny carcass. Then today, while I was on a conference call in my room, I heard a HORRIBLE scream and I just knew in my gut it was a bunny attack. I’m trying to review my week with my boss and meanwhile as I look out the window, I see a black and white cat with a screeching baby bunny in its mouth. I’m trying not to scream and frantically trying to open and close the window and snap my fingers in the hopes that maybe my ridiculously futile attempts at getting the cat’s attention will momentarily allow the baby bunny to run.

No luck. I think the cat gave me the finger. Flipped me some fur? I don’t know, it looked at me like an evil little monster and ran off with the twitching bunny.

I was so traumatized even Cous Cous stopped her morning destruction and came and sat and put her head in my lap. A friend of mine gave me the phone number for a wildlife rehabilitation place and I called. They said if we felt the bunnies were orphaned (and really, what mommy bunny would send her baby out as bait?) then they would take them, but we would have to bring the bunnies to the rehab center an hour or so away.

I went out to try to find the remaining bunnies, assuming there were any. We can’t find them anywhere! We tried watering and digging a little, and nothing! So either they burrowed down really far, or got smart and moved their little bunny hut. Scott says I am going to have to accept that this is how it goes and for every bunny carcass, there’s another litter of bunnies being born elsewhere. I’m not mollified.

Run, Bunny, Run!

This is one of those days where living in suburbia is not all it cracked up to be. A friend of mine was helping me get my garden in shape. I’ve tried so many times since we moved in to make the garden SOMETHING, but I always get overwhelmed and quit. So my friend has stepped in and offered to help.

So as I was starting dinner tonight, she comes running in all shuddering. She said she had dug into a hosta to split it, and out came a bunch of mice. She didn’t know how many; she stopped counting after two and came running in. So we did what any girls would do: we made Scott go out and see what’s going on. He asked if we wanted to kill the mice and we debated. Finally we decided that we should try to move them or something to get them away from the house so they wouldn’t get in.

So Scott and my friend go out and she comes in giggling. Turns out it’s not mice! It’s baby bunnies. I get all excited and screechy until I realize she’s injured one and the others are wiggling around all nutty in the dirt. My friend says they can’t stay in the garden b/c they’re killing the plants. So, Scott takes them and moves them to a nearby pine tree. Which causes me to burst into tears because I’m positive their mommy is NEVER going to find them.

I know all this is irrational and borderline absurd. Rabbits are a dime a dozen out here and Scott only moved them 20 feet away, but I kept crying “they’ll never see their mommy!"

So, Scott finally went over a few hours later and made sure they were still there. They were, including the one who was injured who Scott keeps saying may bounce back. My adorable husband even brought them a t-shirt and some food.

And now we wait, I guess. Scott is convinced the mommy bunny will find the babies because she eats from planters all around our house, and he’s convinced I’ll be cursing the bunnies in no time. Here’s hoping!

Tupper-WHERE?

About a month after I moved in, I started getting strange, random invitations to various home sales parties. The postcards came rolling in for environmentally friendly cleaning products, candle parties, bath and body stuff. And I had no idea who was sending them to me because the address was for a house I didn’t see on our block and I didn’t recognize the name. I tossed them aside, assuming it was someone we’d run in to on our walks and they wouldn’t be offended.

So about a month ago, I got a knock on the door from a neighbor’s daughter, who hands Scott a piece of paper and takes off. Scott was already giggling when he walked up the stairs, so I was immediately concerned.

It turns out my neighbor was having one of those entertaining at home parties, where they sell cookware. The weirded out city girl in me was tempted to write it off the way I had the others: only in this case I actually knew the invitee, and she’d sent a rather cute emissary. Plus, the neighbor in question actually works in a test kitchen and I was actually dying to see her kitchen and some of the stuff she had bought. So I RSVPd and braced myself for my first neighborhood home sales party.

Let me just say, this wasn’t your Donna Reed type of party, sipping mint juleps and perusing piles of over-priced merchandise. There was booze, sure, and the cooking items were certainly more expensive than your average Amazon purchase. But instead of a room full of women in hoop skirts and hosiery, this was a room full of single women in their late 30s.

I learned some interesting facts about my neighbors as the liquor flowed: their divorce stories, odd child-rearing topics (I’m still baffled on how my neighbor is pregnant again when the two kids she has sleep with her every night, leaving hubby out on the couch), and their participation or interest in participating in more adult-themed home sales parties.

The saleswoman was actually one of the group, and about 10 minutes into her speech and 1,200 “shhhh, seriously guys!” she gave up, handed out the catalogue, and poured more wine. And I must say, I thought that was the most genius sales pitch EVER! I have $50 of merchandise coming to me that proves it.

Tow, Tow, Tow Your Car

Right before winter started and we had the baby, Scott and I witnessed our first neighborhood feud. Knowing your neighbors also means gossiping, complaining and spying on your neighbors, I guess. I’ve accepted this. But that evening was a new low…or high, depending on who you are.

So I believe I’ve discussed previously our neighbors, the Dietz. They’re nice enough people, but perhaps a little too involved in everyone else’s business. So, at 9:00 p.m. this evening while watching a movie, we see Mr. Dietz walk up to the house. Immediately, we are filled with nerves. Sometimes Cous Cous oversteps her boundaries and pees in their yard. We try not to let her, but sometimes she’s so fast, we don’t catch her before the stream comes. So we’re positive we’re about to get an earful about the unfortunate bare grass spots.

But instead, Mr. Dietz was asking if we were responsible for a black car parked “in his yard.” By “in his yard,” he meant exactly 3 inches over the sidewalk. We, in fact, were not responsible for the vehicle, but knew that our other neighbor’s daughter frequently had friends over and it was probably one of their cars. Which is what we said. To which Mr. Dietz screeched howler-monkey style “it’s parked on my sprinkler!”

This seemed impossible! How would someone not know they parked on a sprinkler? Well, apparently they have underground sprinklers, which Scott pointed out after Mr. Dietz exited, is totally against the rules of our association because we don’t actually own the first 6 inches of our yard.

Regardless, we ended it with him saying we didn’t know who had the car, but that if it was the daughter’s friend, they’d probably move it before dawn.

Apparently, that wasn’t good enough for Mr. Dietz, because an hour later we saw flashing red and blue. And sure enough, there was Mr. and Mrs. Dietz chatting with local law enforcement. One of the cops was standing in the yard and searching with his flashlight for the VIN. A half hour later, a tow truck came along and bye-bye vehicle.

Around midnight, Scott took out Cous Cous for a walk and as they were going around the driveway, the cop car pulled up to the driveway and a cop shouted to Scott. He walked over and the cop asked if he knew anything about the black car that was parked next door. Scott said he didn’t, and the cop advised that if the owner came, they should call the station and that Scott shouldn’t talk to him or her about what happened.

Pregnant as I was, I was not able to stay up any later, but Scott was and so could vouch for the fact that around 2 a.m., the car’s owner came and threw a complete hissy fit. 18-year-old girl screeches of “Where the @#$@ is my car??!!” filled the air. And then Scott began to worry that they would think it was us, as the car was between our yard and the Dietz’.

So, the next day under the auspices of taking the dog out, Scott grilled Mrs. Dietz about what happened. Apparently, the owner of the car had failed to register the vehicle and so the VIN was still registered to a dealer. She disingenuously said to Scott: “I feel really bad we had to tow it, but you can’t just go ruining yards.” Scott stole a glance and not a blade of glass was out of place from the car.

We never did find out if they figured out who towed the car, but the pile of presents we got when the baby came leads me to believe they knew it wasn’t us. But still I wonder sometimes if they do know, when the retaliation will hit. The cars are ALWAYS on the other side of the road and now when we have people over, we’re sure to tell them not to park near the yard.