2 Bed, 1.5 Bath and My Friend Flicka

Despite the fact that new home sales are moving slower than Michael Vick merchandise, the DC Metro area continues to live by the motto, “The grass is always greener if you build residential apartment complexes on top of it.” You can continue to drive west towards the great outdoors all you want, but as long as your taking I-66, it’s going to be awhile ‘til you find it. People have been moving to the area in droves over the last decade, so much as to skew the Harry-est Town in America sweepstakes that Amazon ran in conjunction with J.K. Rowling’s 7th book. Long story short, they used book sales against 2000 census figures to find it where the most HP7’s per capita were heading.

Who likes commentary on fractions? You do, suckers.

Because there are many, many people in towns like Vienna, Falls Church, and Fairfax, and these many, many people purchased the book, Amazon didn’t see it coming. Therefore, the denominator of their magical formula was understated (there’s a lot more here than in 2000), and it seems like just about everyone in the Metro area was purchasing the wizard tale with reckless abandon. And the worst part? The winning city (Falls Church), was allowed to select a charity for Amazon to donate $5k to “The Mary Riley Styles Public Library Foundation Trust of Falls Church.”

Mary Riley Styles, you lucky, undeserving bastard.

But back to the topic at hand: the residential construction free-for-all.

As I’ve mentioned on occasion, my apartment complex is owned by Camden Living Properties. For Jerseyans, it may shock you that I’ve chosen to live in Camden. Other than the surname of the sap-fest that is 7th Heaven, the only other cultural relevance it has is in the frontrunners for Most Dangerous City. So, the coincidence in nomenclature keeps me safe from errant gunshots and carjacking – a plus, it also leaves me devoid of aquariums within immediate proximity. And just once I’d like to say hello to a dolphin while getting my mail.

Camden, like any other aspiring rental property developer, is working frantically to acquire as much acreage in the Northern Virginia area. While this may be good for their bottom line, it’s confusing as hell for the guests of their tenants. Within 2 miles of y apartment complex, there are two other Camden properties that friends may have seen in passing and therefore assume it is where I live. (These are the people “too good” for MapQuest, not surprisingly.) So how does Camden combat this problem?

By installing oversized chess pieces.

Just down the street from us is Camden Monument Place. It’s on Monument Drive, but so is ours. It’s a place, but so is ours. So in order to give Monument Place a different personality than Fairfax Corner, they hired a crack team of designers and artists to give the new complex its own identity.

They came up with a severed horse head.

Look, I’m all for the equine agenda, but doesn’t this seem a little strange to anyone else? It’s not like they’ve used animal kingdom decapitation at any of their other locations. So there it is, standing on the corner of Fair Lakes and Monument (note: the other Camden property is called Camden Fair Lakes, naturally), for all to see.

Including the poor sap whose view is nothing but the back of a horse head.

Days by the Hundreds

A lot can be accomplished in just 100 days. Napoleon went on an all-out military campaign that restored Louie the 18th to the throne. FDR kicked off one of the most influential presidential terms with a hunsky of legislative progression. Ferris Bueller could do pretty much everything there is to do in Chicago, considering he would take them all off. But for those with less ambitious goals, those who choose to relax and recline, sometimes it’s just great to be alive.

Clara, for example.

Today marks Clara’s 100th day of life. While she may have not led any European military campaigns or found jobs for those drilled by the Depression, I think she’s satisfied with her progress. In just 100 days, she’s developed a routine, responds to those around her, sleeps through the night, eats with regularity, is impressed by toys and wishes to play with them, can scoot a bit, has visited five different states and the District, and has full knowledge of the Fairfax Country utility schematic grid.

I would call her a baby genius, you know, if I wasn’t morally, ethically, and cinematically opposed to such a child classification.

A baby’s first 100 days are impossible without the support and aid of wiser, taller people she comes to know as parents. Having not yet mastered the art of transportation, things like bottle prep, taking baths, changing clothes, and retrieving the pacifier you just shot out of your mouth like a cannon explosion just wouldn’t happen. Face it kid, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. /Colonel Jessup.

And you do exactly what you need to ensure that I enjoy my end of the bargain. In the morning, you are at your best, smiling and looking around because it’s too early for something like a wet diaper to annoy you. I swear, you think you’re actually speaking English to me, but the random assortment of cooing and ahhs make your point well enough. Long story short, you’ve enjoyed your first 100 days with me, despite the fact that I’m over three times taller than you. (Let’s hope I stay taller, too. I highly doubt the WNBA will be around when you’re of pro ball playing age.)

When I get home from work, you seem genuinely excited, as I am handed you moments after dropping my briefcase and entering our home. Maybe it’s because you know I’ll be feeding you shortly, but I’ll take the enthusiasm, whatever your motives. Remember those early days when you’d spend your early evenings wailing just because you could? Ancient history, kiddo. This playing and sighing during the prime time hours is WAY better. But hey, you had 100 days to fill – I would have tried out my pipes every now and then too.

So where do you go from here?

Clara, you’re growing up. It’s time to enter that next stage in your life, the stage of independence. Now I’m not suggesting you figure out how to open the fridge or go down and get the mail, but instead, it’s time to take a little more interest in that other room off the kitchen. To date you’ve spent your nights mere feet from Mom and Dad in your Pack-and-Play. Yet I’m sure you’ve noticed in the room where we keep your clothes (and my computer desk, but that’s space utilization for you) that there’s a pastel-covered bed that may be right up your alley. There are way more plush, huggable bunny rabbits around, and a mobile of friendly revolving butterflies overhead. You’re moving up in the world, and you’ve got a place of your own. I’d hand you keys, but 1) the door is always unlocked and 2) you’d just end up chewing on them anyway.

Last night, Clara spent her first night all alone in her very own bedroom-slash-Dad’s-reduced-workspace, and she did just great. She slept by the LED light of the walkie-talkie base station while we monitored her sound breathing two rooms away. And as fun as staring at a Fisher Price one-way communications device is, I did eventually fall asleep.

Which someone took as an opportunity to check her fantasy baseball team.

Questions or Comments for the little one? E-mail clara.grace.condon@gmail.com.

The Post She Was Born to Read

In the information age of the Interwebs, one has to leave their legacy by imprinting their mark somewhere on the Information Super Highway. After all, when school children of the future need to look back and learn just how awesome Chris Condon was, they’re not going to dust off some old book in some even older library – they’ll Google me. Thanks to YAB, I’ve managed to let futurekids know a fair bit about what it’s like to be a left-handed superblogger with a penchant for Mighty Ducks quotes. But even if YAB never came to be, I do show up numerous times in these indoor track results from 1997. Hey futurekids, I was fast, too.

But what of Clara Grace Condon?

I guess her weblegacy starts…now.

It’s been a week since new text has graced the calming hues of You’re a Blog, and one person can be held responsible. The creative outlet that is blog cannot be stopped by bosses, by co-workers, by friends, or by foes. But there appears to be one person that can make time (backdated or otherwise) stand still.

Now they say that a picture is worth a 1,000 words, I could catch up this backdating in no time flat. (It should be noted though, by not dating this post properly – Clara serves to be our miraculous little tax break.) Over the past week, I believe the girl has been photographed about 11,132 times over the course of her first year of life – maybe making her the best-documented human being of all-time.

And she didn’t even have to shave her head for this attention.

Now, this may seems incredibly weird for the readership – after all, in the 632 career posts of YAB, there has never, ever, ever, been a picture laced in with the funny. Sure, we’ve linked to some funny photos – but never down the main line like this little girl. And this is pretty amazing, considering photography is hilarious. It was never the intent of YAB to outlaw photos on the blog, it just kind of happened that way. And now, we enter the visual world with a picture of someone I’m responsible for. A person I will find adorable, even if she’s doing non-adorable things like operating construction equipment or reading astrophysics. (Eh, who am I kidding – a baby working a jackhammer IS adorable.) A person, who if she plays her cards right, just may get to be a lefty like dear old Dad.

There was no photo in YAB’s maiden post on July 27, 2004. But then again, there wasn’t a graduate school, a marriage, a new apartment, or a Boston Red Sox World Series champion. But hey, that’s why YAB is here – to chronicling the funny. YAB is my legacy on the Interwebs.

And Clara Grace Condon, born 8lbs. 12oz. on February 13, 2007, is my legacy in real life.

Much, much more to follow.