Tuesday, July 17, 2012

This Machine Be Broken

I want to like the downtown Brooklyn Y, but I just can't. To get there I either have to take a subway (i.e., two flights of stairs down and two flights of stairs up) two stops and walk 10 minutes on either end, or I have to take a bus that is chronically late, snakes slowly through the projects and usually ends up having some kind of girl fight on board. 

To get to the pool, I have to park my stroller at the front desk, pick up Henry, walk up two flights of stairs, down a long corridor, into the women's locker room, through the doors to the shower room, past the naked sudsy women, and down a different two flights of stairs. Then Henry splashes around for less than a half hour while I'm forced to sing annoying songs that I barely know, like I'm Going to Kentucky.

This morning, minutes away from the entrance (I chose the subway), a middle aged woman with a black t-shirt that said something like "Greedy People Suck" stopped to inform me that the inside of my stroller, which was covered with a thin, white, muslin blanket to keep the sun off Henry, was probably up to 120 degrees by now, and since she was a nurse, she just wanted to let me know how many kids get dehydrated and end up in the hospital where she works.

Greedy People Suck had clearly not read my post about how Nosy, Judgmental People Suck. I looked at her blankly, said thank you, and moved on.

We topped off the swim lesson with Ring Around the Rosie (I think... they all blend together). After I struggled to change Henry on the broken changing table, I went to wring out my bathing suit in one of those little centrifuge machines. Unfortunately, I couldn't, which I gathered from the looseleaf paper sign on it that read in scrawled letters:



You know who be broken? This machine. Keeping house (and baby) is hard. I feel like a lame-ass for not being able to do it. Today I also forgot to leave a key for the dog-walker, messed up Henry's feeding schedule, left the bag of wet bathing suit in the diaper bag (just realized it now) and canceled date plans with Rayne because I hadn't managed to find a sitter.

Also, Henry decided that he is not interested in nursing so much as in teething on the end of my nipple. When I yelp in pain, he cries hysterically until I give him back the boob, and the cycle starts again.

I have a pile of laundry to do and the dishwasher to unload, it's 500 degrees in my loft apartment (high ceilings! top floor! sun beating down!) despite my $250/month electricity bill, and I am eating a half a melon for dinner.

This shit is no joke.