Lurking in Our Bushes

A few weeks ago, I was attacked by a bird as I walked down our driveway. This bird, to be exact:

Of course, the only time birds care if you walk down your own driveway is when they have something to hide. She did.

Four tiny blue eggs. A few days later, the four tiny blue eggs turned into this:

They pretty much looked like something the cat hacked up. Fuzzy little balls. On the second day, the fuzzy little balls figured out how to do the blind begging for food thing.

Then on the third day, I caught them all waiting for food at one time.

On the fourth day, they started to open their eyes.

And they might kinda sorta actually be looking a little bit like actual birds, except for when I catch them all lined up sleeping.

Then they just look like fuzzy little balls with beaks.

Today they turned five-days old, but just looking at eggs to four-days old? HOLY MOLEY. I thought human babies grow quickly, but birds kick our butts on the growing up too fast thing. I expect to catch them flying any minute now.

She Doesn't Need Rose-Colored Glasses; She Can See Just Fine.

One of the so-called "perks" of the March for Babies this year was that everyone who raised at least $25 was given a ticket to the Pirates game. While I generally think I should be paid to bestow my wondrous presence on the Epic Suck that is the Succos, free isn't all that bad of a deal. So, I drug the husband and kid to the game. It was there that I took this photograph:

It's Pittsburgh, reflected perfectly in Alexis' sunglasses.

Later, looking through my photos from the day, it struck me--that photo accurately summarizes what Alexis has done for my relationship with Pittsburgh. She sees it differently than I do, with the wide-eyed wonderment and innocence that comes with being 4-years old.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees big buildings, including one that she says looks like an ice castle and another that she proudly declares is where her daddy works. She doesn't see the homeless people that roam the streets.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees the home of most of the people that she loves dearly. She doesn't see the corruption and stupidity that run rampant through the city government.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees fun. She thinks of the joy of splashing in the Water Stairs, the rush of bike riding along the Eliza Furnace Trail, and the wonderment of all that is the Cultural District. She doesn't see deficits and unemployment and high taxes.

When she looks at PNC Park, she sees the home of her favorite baseball team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. If you ask her if they're going to win, she always says, "Yes!" Her devotion comes straight from her heart, a product of her self-built love for all that is Pittsburgh. If you don't believe me, just know that Mr. Husband is even more cynical about the Pirates' hopes for a half-decent season than I am. She believes in the Pirates despite the fact that her parents do not.

When Alexis sees Pittsburgh, she sees perfection. Thanks to her, I am constantly reminded to see it the same way.

See! I Told You I Would Finish the Story.

Confession: I enjoy car shopping.

But not with my husband.

The man cannot make a decision, but once he does . . . WATCH OUT! There's no stopping him.

We approached the topic of getting rid of the Passport squarely on the same page. We needed something small(ish), but big enough to fit Alexis' car seat. We needed something that got great gas mileage, but that didn't cost a lot of money. We only buy used because new cars are, in our united opinions, a waste of money. With that set of qualifications, it should have been simple.

Of course it wasn't.

I think maybe there weren't enough restrictions on the purchase because Mr. Husband could. not. decide. He sent link after link after link to me, each time for a car that I couldn't believe he was even slightly interested in buying. I think maybe it was all part of an elaborate scheme to see if he could make me tell him what to buy, with plans to later blame me when he wasn't happy.

I'm not that dumb; I didn't fall for it.

After weeks of torturing me, he finally stumbled onto the idea of getting a Toyota Yaris. It fit all of the rules, gets great reviews, and there were several used ones scattered around town. It was the perfect situation for me to do my thing. (Yes, it's a tiny little "starter car," but the man drives 50 miles per day and parks in the slums. He can't drive a vehicle that is worth anything, or even seems like it might be.)

So we drove up to one of the dealerships that had one. Alexis and I waited patiently in the Passport as he did his initial scan of the car. I had already scoped out a few others, so I knew what to expect. I knew that the one he was looking at wasn't the best one in town, but it was acceptable. The thing is, if the man opens the drivers side door of a car on a sales lot, he's buying it. Period. He can't be stopped, no matter what. I can point out overspray in a door that indicates that the car had been wrecked, while the salesman denies it, and he will still buy the car (true story). I can tell him that a car is ten seconds from falling apart, and he will still buy it. I can tell him that there is an identical car across town selling for considerably less, and he will still buy it. It's his thing.

Fortunately, my dear sweet husband is aware of the fact that he sucks at buying cars. He has learned, the hard way, that he should just shut his trap and let me handle things. So, we have a system. He test drives the car, checks out all the mechanical stuff that boys seem to care about so much, and lets me comment on how cute the car is. I might comment on the color. I might say something about the happy face the headlights and grill make. I might make a remark about the pretty glow of the dashboard. I might even ask Alexis if she thinks we look beautiful in the car as I fuss with her curls and make sure her car seat matches the new vehicle's interior.

Oh, yes, I do. I absolutely 100% play up the "clueless female" role. I should get an Academy Award for some of the performances I have put on.

And then BAM! The test drive ends and I engage. My absolute favorite moment every. single. time. is that moment when the salesperson realizes that I control their destiny. If they have treated me poorly and ignored me to that point, they pay a price. As in, unless they meet my ridiculously low offer immediately, we walk.

If they have been even remotely considerate, they still get to meet my offer or we walk, but I'm at least a little nicer about it.

The salesman with the Toyota fell somewhere in the middle of the Chauvinistic Jerk scale, so I made an offer, fully expecting him to counter. As he walked over to talk to his sales manager, I loudly told Mr. Husband all the benefits of the other identical car that was sitting across town. True story, there was a twin and it was a better car. But, that dealership wasn't open and Mr. Husband wanted to buy a car right. that. second.

The salesman tried to make a counter off, I gave him a "You Have to Be Kidding Me" face, and he agreed to our initial offer.

Mr. Husband looked like he was ready to spin gravel into gold and build me a pedestal.

And now? Now I'm free to start trying to find Audrey's replacement. That evil little car is soooo going to be history.