Some things women have been taught to expect in pregnancy. The puking, the moodiness, the fatigue, the backaches. Other little joys are just an added bonus.
Because my job is awesome, I get to spend a lot of time in the creepy, dark basement. And, being pregnant, I have recently (perhaps not surprisingly) spent a LOT of time in the basement bathroom.
To save the earth (or more likely to save money) but mostly to add to the creepy ambience of the basement, the bathroom lights are on a motion sensor. Occasionally some other poor soul has spent enough of their life in the basement to need to use the basement bathroom and the lights are actually on for me. Most days, I walk in, they flutter on as I pick out my stall and life goes on as expected. As my bladder currently holds 10cc or less, the bathroom and I are on great terms these days, and I no longer hesitate even a stutter step’s worth before heading on in.
But even the bathroom loves a good joke now and then. Hey, life in the basement has got to be pretty boring, ya can’t blame a guy for wanting a laugh.
And so not once but TWICE this week, I’ve peed in the dark. Absolute pitch-black dark.
At least it was reassuring to discover there is a smoke detector in there.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I Bought a Bridge. And It Was Worth Every Penny.
I answered my phone one day to an angelically sweet voice asking me hadn’t my Much-Older-and-Ridiculously-Talkative cousin we will heretofore refer to as Motormouth Mary told me she was going to call?
In the 2.7 seconds it took me to respond that No, in fact, Motormouth Mary had NOT told me to expect her call, I had decided that as Motormouth Mary is a teacher, and it was the beginning of the school year, she must have met this new young teacher who had just moved to the area and was lacking a social life and thought of me, as I am clearly more this young voice’s age than Motormouth Mary herself, and thought I could act as her social director.
I’ve got a good imagination. But I was totally wrong. Way, way, way wrong.
Her name was Ida. Who names their kid Ida? It should have been my first clue. She just wanted to give me a quick presentation. 15 minutes, no more. Nothing to buy, I promise. Just get me some credits. It’s for a scholarship. Motormouth Mary said you were so sweet, Penney, I just thought you’d say yes.
I said yes.
First words out of her mouth were, “I’m not a salesman.” Should have been my second clue.
There were scissors. But who NEEDS scissors that cut pennies in half anyway? Of course, the cutting with ease of that terrible indestructible plastic surrounding children’s toys was way cooler.
And there were knives. Knives that sliced through carrots like butter. Knives that chop like the chef does on the Food Network. In MY hands. Knives that cut bread slices in thirds. The thin way. For real. Clearly this is something we all need in our lives.
I bought three.
She was a damn fucking good salesman if you ask me.
When the knives hadn’t come two weeks later, I got buyers remorse. Like WOAH. Because these WEREN’T cheap knives. And we have really nice knives already. REALLY nice. And an electric sharpener. So even though the really nice knives are a bit dull, it should take us approximately twenty-eight seconds to sharpen them all. Not three hundred dollars.
And how exactly would I tell the Unsupportive Louse that I no longer thought the fantastic purchase I had made was most definitely worth the fantastic amount of money I had spent? I’m pregnant. So I didn’t. (This excuse works for numerous things, you should try it sometime.)
The knives finally showed up.
You know how you make a gorgeous homemade loaf of bread and then when you cut it it gets all squished down and kinda torn up and the pieces are still way thicker than they need to be? Not with Cutco’s bread knife.
You know how tomatoes squirt all over the place when you try to slice them? Not with Cutco’s knife.
You know how much of a pain in the ass it is to make that first half cut through a watermelon? Cutco’s butcher knife makes it child’s play.
Yes, I thought, they were indeed a good purchase.
Then I bought a couple pie pumpkins. Jokingly (though admittedly I was the only one in on the joke), I hacked the butcher knife into one a la Freddy Crougar…and cut the damn thing straight through.
Worth every penny.
In the 2.7 seconds it took me to respond that No, in fact, Motormouth Mary had NOT told me to expect her call, I had decided that as Motormouth Mary is a teacher, and it was the beginning of the school year, she must have met this new young teacher who had just moved to the area and was lacking a social life and thought of me, as I am clearly more this young voice’s age than Motormouth Mary herself, and thought I could act as her social director.
I’ve got a good imagination. But I was totally wrong. Way, way, way wrong.
Her name was Ida. Who names their kid Ida? It should have been my first clue. She just wanted to give me a quick presentation. 15 minutes, no more. Nothing to buy, I promise. Just get me some credits. It’s for a scholarship. Motormouth Mary said you were so sweet, Penney, I just thought you’d say yes.
I said yes.
First words out of her mouth were, “I’m not a salesman.” Should have been my second clue.
There were scissors. But who NEEDS scissors that cut pennies in half anyway? Of course, the cutting with ease of that terrible indestructible plastic surrounding children’s toys was way cooler.
And there were knives. Knives that sliced through carrots like butter. Knives that chop like the chef does on the Food Network. In MY hands. Knives that cut bread slices in thirds. The thin way. For real. Clearly this is something we all need in our lives.
I bought three.
She was a damn fucking good salesman if you ask me.
When the knives hadn’t come two weeks later, I got buyers remorse. Like WOAH. Because these WEREN’T cheap knives. And we have really nice knives already. REALLY nice. And an electric sharpener. So even though the really nice knives are a bit dull, it should take us approximately twenty-eight seconds to sharpen them all. Not three hundred dollars.
And how exactly would I tell the Unsupportive Louse that I no longer thought the fantastic purchase I had made was most definitely worth the fantastic amount of money I had spent? I’m pregnant. So I didn’t. (This excuse works for numerous things, you should try it sometime.)
The knives finally showed up.
You know how you make a gorgeous homemade loaf of bread and then when you cut it it gets all squished down and kinda torn up and the pieces are still way thicker than they need to be? Not with Cutco’s bread knife.
You know how tomatoes squirt all over the place when you try to slice them? Not with Cutco’s knife.
You know how much of a pain in the ass it is to make that first half cut through a watermelon? Cutco’s butcher knife makes it child’s play.
Yes, I thought, they were indeed a good purchase.
Then I bought a couple pie pumpkins. Jokingly (though admittedly I was the only one in on the joke), I hacked the butcher knife into one a la Freddy Crougar…and cut the damn thing straight through.
Worth every penny.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
I’m So Smart, I Don’t Even Believe Myself
First time pregnant ladies are told a lot of stories. This is simply a proven fact. Stories of someone’s pregnancy, of their wife’s pregnancy, their friend’s pregnancy, their mother’s pregnancy. Most of the stories come with a heavy load of advice. Some simply come with a “you’re fucking screwed” chuckle.
Now, any pregnant woman would go insane if she fully concerned herself with everything that could possibly be taken from these stories - all the things that could go wrong or just go the way pregnancy goes - much less if she tried to follow all the unsolicited, and often conflicting, advice.
But, me being me, all throughout my first pregnancy there was also this little arrogant voice in my head that said, “Yeah, but THAT woman was a dumbass. I’m WAY smarter than she was.” Because, obviously, I’m smart. And spend far too many daytime hours reading pregnancy and health and science and baby and medical studies (all work-related if daytime hours happen to include work hours, of course.) So, it’s clear to me that I know more than the average preggo, and knowing more, am without a doubt treating myself and my parasite – er, fetus – better than all those “normal” women out there. Duh.
Interestingly, I haven’t gotten nearly as many of the un-requested stories or unwelcome advice this time around. I’d like to think people are keeping it to themselves because they know I’ve already been there, done that. More likely though, I’ve just gotten bitchier in the past three years. I’ve probably already forgotten that I ate an annoying storyteller or two and the rumor has gotten around. (I have the slightest touch of pregnancy brain – I walked two blocks past my bus stop the other day without ever wondering where I was going… So really, anything is possible.) Pregnancy brain and digested storytellers aside, it’s not like I don’t remember all the stories and advice from last time around. I do.
But dude, I’m SMART. Even smarter than last time. ‘Cause I HAVE been there, done that. And let’s face it, most of those jackasses were EXAGGERATING. Like…a lot. Scare tactics, you know. I'm almost positive I remember that.
But, while telling myself it wasn’t going to happen to me because I’m smart enough to….drink enough water/eat healthy/not gain too much/not gain too little/keep exercising/blah blah blah…I STILL freaked out about certain things. But it doesn't matte, because looking back, I clearly remember all those stories being way over the top. Swear to it. If everyone were perfect like me they’d be fine. Exaggerated. All of it. Not untrue, no. But definitely exaggerated.
Even my own stories.
See, I remember this ridiculously impossible story where I loudly cursed out my ever-loving Unsupportive Louse for his jackassishness of walking FAR too quickly up the GIGANTIC hill that was the grocery store parking lot.
This is a fantastically embellished tale. Must be. First of all, I don’t curse. Ever. Certainly not in public. Or loudly. And never at a loved one. Ever. Really. Just ask the Unsupportive Louse.
Secondly, and much more importantly, (and perhaps slightly more honestly) I’ve always walked fast. Significantly faster than my 6’5” tall husband. Enough so that sometimes he even whines about it. It would make no sense for me to have slowed down THAT much in just a few short months.
Third of all, after years of walking this same Meijer parking lot…there is no hill. At all. Maybe if you got down on your hands and knees and look at it straight on you could delude yourself into seeing a slight incline. Very slight.
So, as seems to be the case with all pregnancy stories, this one too, must be exaggerated.
Except…suddenly I’m no longer at the head of the crowd when walking away from the bus. And suddenly I’m noticing that a bit of a hill has developed on the way home. A hill I’m almost certain hasn’t been there for the past two years.
And now, I’m slightly terrified. Because maybe that story isn’t so exaggerated after all? And if it’s not…what about that whole labor thing...??
Do I really have to go through with this?
Now, any pregnant woman would go insane if she fully concerned herself with everything that could possibly be taken from these stories - all the things that could go wrong or just go the way pregnancy goes - much less if she tried to follow all the unsolicited, and often conflicting, advice.
But, me being me, all throughout my first pregnancy there was also this little arrogant voice in my head that said, “Yeah, but THAT woman was a dumbass. I’m WAY smarter than she was.” Because, obviously, I’m smart. And spend far too many daytime hours reading pregnancy and health and science and baby and medical studies (all work-related if daytime hours happen to include work hours, of course.) So, it’s clear to me that I know more than the average preggo, and knowing more, am without a doubt treating myself and my parasite – er, fetus – better than all those “normal” women out there. Duh.
Interestingly, I haven’t gotten nearly as many of the un-requested stories or unwelcome advice this time around. I’d like to think people are keeping it to themselves because they know I’ve already been there, done that. More likely though, I’ve just gotten bitchier in the past three years. I’ve probably already forgotten that I ate an annoying storyteller or two and the rumor has gotten around. (I have the slightest touch of pregnancy brain – I walked two blocks past my bus stop the other day without ever wondering where I was going… So really, anything is possible.) Pregnancy brain and digested storytellers aside, it’s not like I don’t remember all the stories and advice from last time around. I do.
But dude, I’m SMART. Even smarter than last time. ‘Cause I HAVE been there, done that. And let’s face it, most of those jackasses were EXAGGERATING. Like…a lot. Scare tactics, you know. I'm almost positive I remember that.
But, while telling myself it wasn’t going to happen to me because I’m smart enough to….drink enough water/eat healthy/not gain too much/not gain too little/keep exercising/blah blah blah…I STILL freaked out about certain things. But it doesn't matte, because looking back, I clearly remember all those stories being way over the top. Swear to it. If everyone were perfect like me they’d be fine. Exaggerated. All of it. Not untrue, no. But definitely exaggerated.
Even my own stories.
See, I remember this ridiculously impossible story where I loudly cursed out my ever-loving Unsupportive Louse for his jackassishness of walking FAR too quickly up the GIGANTIC hill that was the grocery store parking lot.
This is a fantastically embellished tale. Must be. First of all, I don’t curse. Ever. Certainly not in public. Or loudly. And never at a loved one. Ever. Really. Just ask the Unsupportive Louse.
Secondly, and much more importantly, (and perhaps slightly more honestly) I’ve always walked fast. Significantly faster than my 6’5” tall husband. Enough so that sometimes he even whines about it. It would make no sense for me to have slowed down THAT much in just a few short months.
Third of all, after years of walking this same Meijer parking lot…there is no hill. At all. Maybe if you got down on your hands and knees and look at it straight on you could delude yourself into seeing a slight incline. Very slight.
So, as seems to be the case with all pregnancy stories, this one too, must be exaggerated.
Except…suddenly I’m no longer at the head of the crowd when walking away from the bus. And suddenly I’m noticing that a bit of a hill has developed on the way home. A hill I’m almost certain hasn’t been there for the past two years.
And now, I’m slightly terrified. Because maybe that story isn’t so exaggerated after all? And if it’s not…what about that whole labor thing...??
Do I really have to go through with this?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Don’t Get Up for the Pregnant Lady. Really.
Now that I’ve grown too fat and slovenly to ride my bike ten miles on a daily basis, I’m back to taking the bus to work and daycare. Which, as much as I love the availability and world-saving possibility of the bus…can really be obnoxious.
Because some days I’m running 30 seconds late, and on those days, the bus is right on time and then I’m 20 minutes late. And some days, when I’m right on time, the bus is running 30 minutes late and then, no matter what, so am I. And that’s just not fair really.
And some days, the bus is crowded. Some days, I have to stand. Some days, I have to hold on to that flimsy strap of material way the hell up on that bar that to reach stretches my arm beyond good balance even when I’m not middle-heavy. And I know there are plenty of young women out there these days with beer guts and I know I’m not so pregnant that there is still a good chance to the outside observer that this baby is just a beer baby like all the rest of those girls. And so when I have to stand, I don’t whine. Really, I don’t.
It’s days that I have to stand and watch the jackasses who didn’t bother to get up for me also not bother to get up for an ELDERLY (1) WOMAN (2) whose left leg is clearly not in working order (3) who is fumbling to put her wallet back in her purse because her left hand doesn’t seem to be as functional as the rest of ours (4) and her right hand is desperately holding on to the pole she is forced to hold because those dumb jackasses are pretending to look the other way and not notice her so god forbid they have to give up their precious seat for the next 5 stops.
Even WORSE, there is always one jackass, most often a chatty regular who thinks she owns the bus, with her FLIPPING BAG on the seat next to her, so involved in her overly loud conversation that she can’t possibly observe that the poor woman needs to sit down and she wouldn’t even lose her seat. Her bag (or, in most cases, her three different cat stamped, homemade, Ikea-looking bags) would lose its seat. And now wouldn’t that be tragic.
So really, don’t get up for the pregnant lady. I’ll gladly fall on you. But if you don’t get up for that elderly woman with a bum leg AND bum hand next time? I’ll throw up on you. Because my motion sickness has been getting better and better every time I have to stand on the bus.
Because some days I’m running 30 seconds late, and on those days, the bus is right on time and then I’m 20 minutes late. And some days, when I’m right on time, the bus is running 30 minutes late and then, no matter what, so am I. And that’s just not fair really.
And some days, the bus is crowded. Some days, I have to stand. Some days, I have to hold on to that flimsy strap of material way the hell up on that bar that to reach stretches my arm beyond good balance even when I’m not middle-heavy. And I know there are plenty of young women out there these days with beer guts and I know I’m not so pregnant that there is still a good chance to the outside observer that this baby is just a beer baby like all the rest of those girls. And so when I have to stand, I don’t whine. Really, I don’t.
It’s days that I have to stand and watch the jackasses who didn’t bother to get up for me also not bother to get up for an ELDERLY (1) WOMAN (2) whose left leg is clearly not in working order (3) who is fumbling to put her wallet back in her purse because her left hand doesn’t seem to be as functional as the rest of ours (4) and her right hand is desperately holding on to the pole she is forced to hold because those dumb jackasses are pretending to look the other way and not notice her so god forbid they have to give up their precious seat for the next 5 stops.
Even WORSE, there is always one jackass, most often a chatty regular who thinks she owns the bus, with her FLIPPING BAG on the seat next to her, so involved in her overly loud conversation that she can’t possibly observe that the poor woman needs to sit down and she wouldn’t even lose her seat. Her bag (or, in most cases, her three different cat stamped, homemade, Ikea-looking bags) would lose its seat. And now wouldn’t that be tragic.
So really, don’t get up for the pregnant lady. I’ll gladly fall on you. But if you don’t get up for that elderly woman with a bum leg AND bum hand next time? I’ll throw up on you. Because my motion sickness has been getting better and better every time I have to stand on the bus.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Pet Peeve #57,692 (I have a few) - Not NOT Trying
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Friday, September 3, 2010
Warning – This Could Be the Hardest Thing You Have to Do as a Parent
Now, don’t get me wrong, it could easily not. You could wind up one of the many unlucky parents who has to deal with drugs or truancy or a high-school dropout or a car wreck or a teen pregnancy. All of which would certainly be harder.
But let’s say you have a good teenager. This will undoubtedly be harder than all those endless diaper changes. Late night wake-ups pale in comparison. A litany of “whys” for the rest of your life you could manage. Missed naps and break-downs and temper tantrums can be overcome. Geometry homework? You can do it. Parent-teacher conferences? Time outs? Detentions? Done.
If only you can manage to put together all that cute, tiny baby furniture…without killing your partner.
But let’s say you have a good teenager. This will undoubtedly be harder than all those endless diaper changes. Late night wake-ups pale in comparison. A litany of “whys” for the rest of your life you could manage. Missed naps and break-downs and temper tantrums can be overcome. Geometry homework? You can do it. Parent-teacher conferences? Time outs? Detentions? Done.
If only you can manage to put together all that cute, tiny baby furniture…without killing your partner.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
30 Things I’ve Managed to Accomplish by 30
On this Holy Day of 2010, your one and only favorite blogger is turning 30. (No, not that one - me, damn it!) And so, for my big day, I’ve decided to make you all a list. A fabulous list of 30 Grand Life Accomplishments that I’ve succeeded in completing, all in less than 30 years.
1- Lived happily in four distinct regions of the US. A non-accomplishment but what I’m saying is I’m not one of those bitchers and whiners constantly complaining about something that’s "just not like [enter home state here]" and I’m damn proud of it.
2- Got a darn good degree from a darn good university that I’ve actually gone on to use. Ha! That’s a good one.
3- Without racking up huge student loan bills. (Despite depleting the savings I had solely because my father died so young…but hell, that IS what it was there for.)
4- While there, wrote several essays and a couple short stories in a foreign language. Even if I couldn’t begin to PRETEND to read them now, I still did it.
5- Found a career I like (most of the time), using the degree I actually got (it’s a science job and science is the degree and even if it’s not biochemistry/chemistry, you all don’t know any better), AND I’m actually good at. Most of the time.
6- Found myself somewhat accomplished in said career, including a first author paper that was featured on the cover of the kinda good journal it was published in! (Even if I am destined to never be fully respected as I do not have a PhD, STILL.)
7- Not yet really regretted not getting my PhD. Most of the time.
8- Drank beyond my limit enough times to learn my limit. Until I got pregnant and had a kid and even the idea of tolerance flew completely out the window, at which point one sip was beyond my tolerance, which doesn't seem to be enough to preclude me from accepting drinks from a cute guy at a bachelorette party, even if I did already tell him I was married, and learning all over again, ten years later, what drinking WAY beyond one’s limit really means. But that’s beside the point. I learned it when it was important.
9- Never been fired (despite #8). And while they might have been contemplating firing me at Round Table Pizza back in college, they were contemplating firing everyone all the time – and either way, I quit before they could make up their minds. Besides, that barely counts as a job at all.
10- Saved a life. Well, no, okay, probably not. But I rode around in an ambulance in the middle of the night with reflective tape declaring “EMT” on my back and got pissy that I’d been woken up AGAIN, as a VOLUNTEER, for a darn stomachache, but I’m sure someone thinks maybe I was some help to them and that’s an accomplishment, right?
11- Managed to remain (mostly) on speaking terms with my entire family, despite me being me and them being…them.
12- Birthed one beautiful baby boy and have grown half way to completion a baby girl and despite this not actually being something I really had anything to do with and being something hundreds of morons do every day, I’m still calling it an accomplishment.
13- AND I did the whole birthing thing with NO drugs the first time around. Granted it wasn’t really my idea, well, no I had that idea BEFOREHAND, but no one knows what the hell they’re talking about beforehand...point being, if I’d had the opportunity during the whole shindig, I would have shot MYSELF up with an epidural, chance of paralysis be damned, but either way, I did it all naturally and that’s an accomplishment.
14- Maintained a few good lasting friendships and a shit ton of Facebook-worthy friends. We all know how much I love Facebook, and Facebook just wouldn’t be Facebook without the 400 friends.
15- Not created (to my knowledge) any lasting enemies. If you know otherwise, just don’t tell me till tomorrow, k?
16- Not killed or physically maimed anyone who may have become a short term or long term enemy, despite any inclination I may have had to do so. With my temper, this is definitely an accomplishment.
17- Managed to get two men to fall desperately enough in love with me to marry me, and only one regretted it. So far.
18- Got divorced before the VAST majority of my friends had even gotten married. Or engaged. Wait, is that an accomplishment? Right, I got that whole “starter marriage” crap out of the way, so you know, that was nice. And learned how the court systems work in three different states along the way! And how shitty divorce really is, in all three states. (Only got divorced in one state, geez, can’t you follow me here, people?) K, let’s just call this an accomplishment and move on.
19- Broken a heart. Or two. Or ten. And had my heart broken back once or twice. Or, more like a dozen times. I like to know the variables on these things.
20- Racked up massive credit card debt (I blame the ex) AND managed to pay it all off again so I have none today. It’s the accomplishment we’re concerned with here folks. If I hadn’t had the debt, I couldn’t have paid it off, now could I have?
21- Actually maintained a savings account that is (finally) staying above the monthly minimum, AND not only that, is increasing! By like, at least $1.27 a month!
22- Begun a retirement fund that would allow me to live somewhere other than the local underpass for my final years…so long as I keep adding to it for the next 50 years or so… and the cost of living doesn’t excessively spike…and the stock market doesn’t crash…again…
23- Started a college fund for my little boy. He’s GUARANTEED to be able to attend at LEAST one semester of college, TOTALLY covered. (Besides books, supplies, rent and probably food.) Totally covered.
24- Bought a beautiful house in a beautiful neighborhood with a mortgage that is actually affordable and I absolutely love. And better always love, because according to my sweet and loving and supportive husband, if I ever want to move again, he’ll kill me.
25- Maintained good (albeit not always great) credit throughout it all. Obama thinks it’s an accomplishment.
26- Gone parasailing despite my fear of heights, ridden a motorcycle despite my fear of speed, constantly tried new things despite my fear of failure AND, most importantly of all, ridden my bike to work daily (in the warm-ish months) despite my ENORMOUS fear of an untimely death by a big rig while biking to work one sunny summer morning.
27- Realized my massive personality flaws (at least a couple of them) and vaguely attempted to do something about them, which never really worked because my biggest flaw is being so damned stubborn even I can’t get through to myself.
28- Ran two marathons and one half-marathon and didn’t do too terribly at them, even if I never will win my age bracket. Or the 65 plus age bracket who always has some hippy-type crazy runners thrown in just to piss people like me off, usually running barefoot as an added insult.
29- Wrote a novel. I haven’t done anything with it, but hey, I wrote it. There’s gotta be something left for the next 30 years, you know.
30- Created a STELLAR blog with even MORE stellar followers. ‘Cause I’m awesome.
1- Lived happily in four distinct regions of the US. A non-accomplishment but what I’m saying is I’m not one of those bitchers and whiners constantly complaining about something that’s "just not like [enter home state here]" and I’m damn proud of it.
2- Got a darn good degree from a darn good university that I’ve actually gone on to use. Ha! That’s a good one.
3- Without racking up huge student loan bills. (Despite depleting the savings I had solely because my father died so young…but hell, that IS what it was there for.)
4- While there, wrote several essays and a couple short stories in a foreign language. Even if I couldn’t begin to PRETEND to read them now, I still did it.
5- Found a career I like (most of the time), using the degree I actually got (it’s a science job and science is the degree and even if it’s not biochemistry/chemistry, you all don’t know any better), AND I’m actually good at. Most of the time.
6- Found myself somewhat accomplished in said career, including a first author paper that was featured on the cover of the kinda good journal it was published in! (Even if I am destined to never be fully respected as I do not have a PhD, STILL.)
7- Not yet really regretted not getting my PhD. Most of the time.
8- Drank beyond my limit enough times to learn my limit. Until I got pregnant and had a kid and even the idea of tolerance flew completely out the window, at which point one sip was beyond my tolerance, which doesn't seem to be enough to preclude me from accepting drinks from a cute guy at a bachelorette party, even if I did already tell him I was married, and learning all over again, ten years later, what drinking WAY beyond one’s limit really means. But that’s beside the point. I learned it when it was important.
9- Never been fired (despite #8). And while they might have been contemplating firing me at Round Table Pizza back in college, they were contemplating firing everyone all the time – and either way, I quit before they could make up their minds. Besides, that barely counts as a job at all.
10- Saved a life. Well, no, okay, probably not. But I rode around in an ambulance in the middle of the night with reflective tape declaring “EMT” on my back and got pissy that I’d been woken up AGAIN, as a VOLUNTEER, for a darn stomachache, but I’m sure someone thinks maybe I was some help to them and that’s an accomplishment, right?
11- Managed to remain (mostly) on speaking terms with my entire family, despite me being me and them being…them.
12- Birthed one beautiful baby boy and have grown half way to completion a baby girl and despite this not actually being something I really had anything to do with and being something hundreds of morons do every day, I’m still calling it an accomplishment.
13- AND I did the whole birthing thing with NO drugs the first time around. Granted it wasn’t really my idea, well, no I had that idea BEFOREHAND, but no one knows what the hell they’re talking about beforehand...point being, if I’d had the opportunity during the whole shindig, I would have shot MYSELF up with an epidural, chance of paralysis be damned, but either way, I did it all naturally and that’s an accomplishment.
14- Maintained a few good lasting friendships and a shit ton of Facebook-worthy friends. We all know how much I love Facebook, and Facebook just wouldn’t be Facebook without the 400 friends.
15- Not created (to my knowledge) any lasting enemies. If you know otherwise, just don’t tell me till tomorrow, k?
16- Not killed or physically maimed anyone who may have become a short term or long term enemy, despite any inclination I may have had to do so. With my temper, this is definitely an accomplishment.
17- Managed to get two men to fall desperately enough in love with me to marry me, and only one regretted it. So far.
18- Got divorced before the VAST majority of my friends had even gotten married. Or engaged. Wait, is that an accomplishment? Right, I got that whole “starter marriage” crap out of the way, so you know, that was nice. And learned how the court systems work in three different states along the way! And how shitty divorce really is, in all three states. (Only got divorced in one state, geez, can’t you follow me here, people?) K, let’s just call this an accomplishment and move on.
19- Broken a heart. Or two. Or ten. And had my heart broken back once or twice. Or, more like a dozen times. I like to know the variables on these things.
20- Racked up massive credit card debt (I blame the ex) AND managed to pay it all off again so I have none today. It’s the accomplishment we’re concerned with here folks. If I hadn’t had the debt, I couldn’t have paid it off, now could I have?
21- Actually maintained a savings account that is (finally) staying above the monthly minimum, AND not only that, is increasing! By like, at least $1.27 a month!
22- Begun a retirement fund that would allow me to live somewhere other than the local underpass for my final years…so long as I keep adding to it for the next 50 years or so… and the cost of living doesn’t excessively spike…and the stock market doesn’t crash…again…
23- Started a college fund for my little boy. He’s GUARANTEED to be able to attend at LEAST one semester of college, TOTALLY covered. (Besides books, supplies, rent and probably food.) Totally covered.
24- Bought a beautiful house in a beautiful neighborhood with a mortgage that is actually affordable and I absolutely love. And better always love, because according to my sweet and loving and supportive husband, if I ever want to move again, he’ll kill me.
25- Maintained good (albeit not always great) credit throughout it all. Obama thinks it’s an accomplishment.
26- Gone parasailing despite my fear of heights, ridden a motorcycle despite my fear of speed, constantly tried new things despite my fear of failure AND, most importantly of all, ridden my bike to work daily (in the warm-ish months) despite my ENORMOUS fear of an untimely death by a big rig while biking to work one sunny summer morning.
27- Realized my massive personality flaws (at least a couple of them) and vaguely attempted to do something about them, which never really worked because my biggest flaw is being so damned stubborn even I can’t get through to myself.
28- Ran two marathons and one half-marathon and didn’t do too terribly at them, even if I never will win my age bracket. Or the 65 plus age bracket who always has some hippy-type crazy runners thrown in just to piss people like me off, usually running barefoot as an added insult.
29- Wrote a novel. I haven’t done anything with it, but hey, I wrote it. There’s gotta be something left for the next 30 years, you know.
30- Created a STELLAR blog with even MORE stellar followers. ‘Cause I’m awesome.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Ask and Ye Shall Receive...Occasionally
Here’s the thing. When you’re having your first baby, (especially if first baby happens to be the first grandchild cubed, and the first great-grandchild quadrupled), you barely have to spit out the “p-word” before the gifts start rolling in. Everybody and their brother and their brother’s mother is excited for you. Everybody wants to give you something.
The gifts range from the extreme (a couple hundred bucks worth of goods from some distant friend of the family whom neither of you have ever met) to the extremely heartfelt (knitted homemade blankets and croqueted homemade blankets and quilted homemade blankets…and throw in a knitted bonnet or two for variety…) When I finally stopped counting I believe the Energizer Bunny had 14 homemade blankets, including the one I naively chose to labor hours and days and weeks over myself before realizing it would be joined in the laundry basket coated in spit up and by a permanent smell only a mother could love, by 13 other equally heartfelt and quite possibly better constructed homemade blankets, 17 brand-new store bought blankets and 12 hand-me down blankets. Not to say I don’t love every one. Of course I do. There are just a lot… Because a lot of people care. A lot of people are excited. And everyone wants you to know.
In stark contrast, there’s the poor neglected second pregnancy. You know, it’s not like no one cares, it’s just they ALREADY told you this. They already tossed you a couple hundred bucks for your first baby and they still haven’t even seen the kid. They already spent hours and days and weeks pouring love into a teeny tiny baby blanket that you so carelessly allowed to be spit upon and chewed on and torn at the seam and in the measly, pitiful three months that you actually bothered to use the beautiful creation in which they weaved a tiny piece of their soul, you only managed to get one picture of it in use (out of the 15327 pictures you took…after all, it was your first baby) and that can only mean you really didn’t FULLY appreciate the amount of effort and love put into the homemade blanket to begin with… So why the hell would they make another one? Why the hell would they buy another gift?
Fact is, they won’t. But it’s not that they don’t care. They do. It’s just maybe not quite as much. And even if they did care as much (which they don’t, not quite, no matter what they say), you’ve still GOT all the shit from the first one. What could you possibly want? Much less need?
But I DOOOO want things. And NEED things. No, really. Desperately need. All right, not a desperate need like an air conditioner in the Sahara Desert but more like a desperate need for a raise when your bills are already covered, you’ve got plenty of food on your table and you’re putting 10% in savings, just not enough for all the fun things you want to do. So you know, good ol’ fashioned American desperation for more stuff.
But we’re not going to be able to buy EVERY thing we (and by we I mean the baby and by the baby I mean mostly me) desperately need. And there’s no politically correct baby shower for the second baby. There aren’t oodles of friends to buy us oodles of things so we don’t have to spend every penny we’ve managed to save in the last three years on all the new desperate needs that we have (which is approximately 5 pennies anyway.)
So we asked. Against my better judgment, we put a politically incorrect not-quite-request out for more desperately needed shit. Hoping, hoping, hoping, that maybe we’d really get some of it. That someone would care just enough to fill in one or two of the huge gaping gaps in our already overstuffed nursery.
And someone did.
The most fantastic Female PILL ever (and most of us either have one, had one or are one, and let's face it, there still aren't many we can call fantastic) bought the fantastically overpriced (but new! and exciting! and patented…) sit-n-stand stroller for the second child. This baby will be overjoyed to know that her paternal grandmother really did care that there was yet ANOTHER baby coming along. At least she’ll know there’s one.
The gifts range from the extreme (a couple hundred bucks worth of goods from some distant friend of the family whom neither of you have ever met) to the extremely heartfelt (knitted homemade blankets and croqueted homemade blankets and quilted homemade blankets…and throw in a knitted bonnet or two for variety…) When I finally stopped counting I believe the Energizer Bunny had 14 homemade blankets, including the one I naively chose to labor hours and days and weeks over myself before realizing it would be joined in the laundry basket coated in spit up and by a permanent smell only a mother could love, by 13 other equally heartfelt and quite possibly better constructed homemade blankets, 17 brand-new store bought blankets and 12 hand-me down blankets. Not to say I don’t love every one. Of course I do. There are just a lot… Because a lot of people care. A lot of people are excited. And everyone wants you to know.
In stark contrast, there’s the poor neglected second pregnancy. You know, it’s not like no one cares, it’s just they ALREADY told you this. They already tossed you a couple hundred bucks for your first baby and they still haven’t even seen the kid. They already spent hours and days and weeks pouring love into a teeny tiny baby blanket that you so carelessly allowed to be spit upon and chewed on and torn at the seam and in the measly, pitiful three months that you actually bothered to use the beautiful creation in which they weaved a tiny piece of their soul, you only managed to get one picture of it in use (out of the 15327 pictures you took…after all, it was your first baby) and that can only mean you really didn’t FULLY appreciate the amount of effort and love put into the homemade blanket to begin with… So why the hell would they make another one? Why the hell would they buy another gift?
Fact is, they won’t. But it’s not that they don’t care. They do. It’s just maybe not quite as much. And even if they did care as much (which they don’t, not quite, no matter what they say), you’ve still GOT all the shit from the first one. What could you possibly want? Much less need?
But I DOOOO want things. And NEED things. No, really. Desperately need. All right, not a desperate need like an air conditioner in the Sahara Desert but more like a desperate need for a raise when your bills are already covered, you’ve got plenty of food on your table and you’re putting 10% in savings, just not enough for all the fun things you want to do. So you know, good ol’ fashioned American desperation for more stuff.
But we’re not going to be able to buy EVERY thing we (and by we I mean the baby and by the baby I mean mostly me) desperately need. And there’s no politically correct baby shower for the second baby. There aren’t oodles of friends to buy us oodles of things so we don’t have to spend every penny we’ve managed to save in the last three years on all the new desperate needs that we have (which is approximately 5 pennies anyway.)
So we asked. Against my better judgment, we put a politically incorrect not-quite-request out for more desperately needed shit. Hoping, hoping, hoping, that maybe we’d really get some of it. That someone would care just enough to fill in one or two of the huge gaping gaps in our already overstuffed nursery.
And someone did.
The most fantastic Female PILL ever (and most of us either have one, had one or are one, and let's face it, there still aren't many we can call fantastic) bought the fantastically overpriced (but new! and exciting! and patented…) sit-n-stand stroller for the second child. This baby will be overjoyed to know that her paternal grandmother really did care that there was yet ANOTHER baby coming along. At least she’ll know there’s one.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Guilt Trip in a Nutshell
My little family recently had the vast and undeniable pleasure of being secluded in the middle of nowhere, in a tiny cabin, with no recognizable escape, with my mother – The Walking Guilt Trip, and my brother – The Mooch. Now, to clarify, this is a family “reunion” of sorts – in which the brother who lives with me, and the mother who lives 4 miles from me are confined to even smaller quarters, while the sister who lives 3000 miles away and therefore might be enjoyable to see for at least 57 seconds has backed out.
For my part of the duties while isolated in the wilderness with said loving relations, I had the joy and pleasure of doing something completely new and exciting. Cooking. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. New. And exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. It’s just, you know…vacation… (please add sufficiently annoying whiny voice.)
Standing in the kitchen while the chitlins splashed and played in the lake and on the boats, I slaved away at yet another meal.
The Walking Guilt Trip, needing to pee, enters said kitchen through the side deck door. Perhaps some of her own guilt trippage slipped into her beverage that morning, because on return to the fun area of life, she asks, “Could I help with anything?” While her swimsuit drips on my toes.
This is quite an unusual offering. I internally debate my options. Deny her and be made to feel ungrateful for everything she has offered and provided throughout the years? Or accept and have to hear how she “helped cook” all week, and probably all year, long? I chose the latter.
“There’s some bacon to crumble and chives to chop over there if you want. Otherwise, I think I’m fine.”
She stares at me with that blank stare of hers while I pretend to ignore her and contentedly cut my tomatoes.
Without a word, she walks off and organizes her stuff in the living room.
When she returns, she watches me put my cute little tomato cubes on bread slices for a minute or two. “Do you need help with that?”
For my part of the duties while isolated in the wilderness with said loving relations, I had the joy and pleasure of doing something completely new and exciting. Cooking. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. New. And exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. It’s just, you know…vacation… (please add sufficiently annoying whiny voice.)
Standing in the kitchen while the chitlins splashed and played in the lake and on the boats, I slaved away at yet another meal.
The Walking Guilt Trip, needing to pee, enters said kitchen through the side deck door. Perhaps some of her own guilt trippage slipped into her beverage that morning, because on return to the fun area of life, she asks, “Could I help with anything?” While her swimsuit drips on my toes.
This is quite an unusual offering. I internally debate my options. Deny her and be made to feel ungrateful for everything she has offered and provided throughout the years? Or accept and have to hear how she “helped cook” all week, and probably all year, long? I chose the latter.
“There’s some bacon to crumble and chives to chop over there if you want. Otherwise, I think I’m fine.”
She stares at me with that blank stare of hers while I pretend to ignore her and contentedly cut my tomatoes.
Without a word, she walks off and organizes her stuff in the living room.
When she returns, she watches me put my cute little tomato cubes on bread slices for a minute or two. “Do you need help with that?”
Thursday, August 5, 2010
You’ll Thank Me Someday
One beautiful sunny morning I am happily singing along in the kitchen to show tunes or something equally cheesy, cheerfully chopping veggies and spices for our crock-pot dinner so I won’t spend the gorgeous evening hours cooped inside cooking and yet my perfect little family will still have a fantastic home-cooked meal made by none other than me.
As lucky as I am to be blessed with such a loving and wonderful family, and home, and food, and summer (and any other crap you can add to the list) let’s not forget I am also lucky enough to be joyfully pregnant. And by pregnant, I, in this case, really mean immunosuppressed. ‘Cause that’s right folks, I’ve gotten every fuc*ing illness you can think of in the past 19 weeks, 6 days and 8 hours.
So I’m happily chopping away at a jalapeno or two, singing a show tune or two, when, not surprisingly at all, my nose begins to twitch. To quiver. To, maybe, just a little bit, run. My memory SWEARS to me I finished the chopping, tossed the jalapenos in the slow-cooker, rinsed my hands and grabbed a tissue from the bathroom.
But I’ve been known to suppress a memory or two.
Back in the kitchen, I move on to the green peppers. Chop, chop, chop. ABBA song lyric.
My nose twitches again. My first thought? A simple “stupid runny nose.” And then, the twitch became more of an itch…maybe a little bit of a sting. Maybe even a burn. And before I had time to wonder “What the FU*K?” My eyes were watering from the searing pain of what could only be a jalapeno acid burn.
Shit, shit, shit.
I rinse with water. Repeatedly. Soap. Up my nose. As much as I can get. No effect.
Finally, in desperation, and I could only ever admit something like this in a most desperate form of desperation, I yell to the Unsupportive Louse a demand for cures possibly including a burst of offensive language. Completely unlike me.
He suggests vinegar. Vinegar, he claims, neutralizes lye burns. Lye and jalapeno might, perhaps, maybe, possibly, be in the same category. Kinda. I hastily pour half a bottle of distilled vinegar up my nose. As if the Unsupportive Louse planned it, the burn instantly INTENSIFIES. Beyond belief.
I further swear at the louse and demand information from the internet, a clearly more reliable source. Google knows everything.
While I await his quite pointedly unhurried web search, I have an epiphany. Baking soda. Sodium bicarbonate. Used in undergraduate chemistry laboratories across the country to neutralize the pH of countless solutions before pouring the shit down the drain. This is a BRILLIANT idea.
I expeditiously make a paste through my pain. Shove it up my nose. Gag, snort, sneeze. And realize the burn has decreased NOT AT ALL.
“Most of these pages just say to avoid getting the oil on your skin to begin with.” My very, very, very helpful husband calls from the other room where he has yet to push his ass up out of his lazy-boy, not even to reach for his laptop. I feel the concern oozing from his every pore.
I’m quite certain I called him a name or two.
Unfazed, he patiently waits for my tirade to end before lackadaisically mentioning, “Wait, this one says to try milk. Maybe?”
There is just no easy way to pour a gallon jug of milk into your nose. With yet another Einstein-ian idea I fill a bowl full and dunk half my face in. I come up sputtering, dripping, gasping for breath. And still breathing fire.
My only hope is to inflict serious injury on the Unsupportive Louse in order to decrease my own pain. I swear it works. It’s kind of like voodoo.
So I storm to the living room imagining the various instruments I can torture him with, visualize myself dumping the whole crockpot on his head – imagine where the jalapenos might land! Because misery truly does love company.
Not even aware his very life is threatened, he barely saves himself with just one more suggestion. “This person swears by sour cream.”
At first, the thought of shoving sour cream up my nose only makes me want to cause him greater agony and torment. But you can only imagine someone else’s pain to decrease your own for so long and the very fibers of my nose were shouting, screaming, pleading to be helped. And so I did it. I tried one last thing. I thrust some sour cream up my nose.
Relief. Sweet, sweet, instantaneous relief.
And so, my friends, one day, when you have been negligent enough to chop a jalapeno pepper (or worse!) without wearing your rubber gloves…and if, by chance, you carelessly rub a more sensitive area of skin with the tiniest tip of a finger before you thoroughly wash away the oil, you, on that day, will thank me. On that day, you will never be happier to force sour cream up your nose.
I say in advance: You’re welcome.
As lucky as I am to be blessed with such a loving and wonderful family, and home, and food, and summer (and any other crap you can add to the list) let’s not forget I am also lucky enough to be joyfully pregnant. And by pregnant, I, in this case, really mean immunosuppressed. ‘Cause that’s right folks, I’ve gotten every fuc*ing illness you can think of in the past 19 weeks, 6 days and 8 hours.
So I’m happily chopping away at a jalapeno or two, singing a show tune or two, when, not surprisingly at all, my nose begins to twitch. To quiver. To, maybe, just a little bit, run. My memory SWEARS to me I finished the chopping, tossed the jalapenos in the slow-cooker, rinsed my hands and grabbed a tissue from the bathroom.
But I’ve been known to suppress a memory or two.
Back in the kitchen, I move on to the green peppers. Chop, chop, chop. ABBA song lyric.
My nose twitches again. My first thought? A simple “stupid runny nose.” And then, the twitch became more of an itch…maybe a little bit of a sting. Maybe even a burn. And before I had time to wonder “What the FU*K?” My eyes were watering from the searing pain of what could only be a jalapeno acid burn.
Shit, shit, shit.
I rinse with water. Repeatedly. Soap. Up my nose. As much as I can get. No effect.
Finally, in desperation, and I could only ever admit something like this in a most desperate form of desperation, I yell to the Unsupportive Louse a demand for cures possibly including a burst of offensive language. Completely unlike me.
He suggests vinegar. Vinegar, he claims, neutralizes lye burns. Lye and jalapeno might, perhaps, maybe, possibly, be in the same category. Kinda. I hastily pour half a bottle of distilled vinegar up my nose. As if the Unsupportive Louse planned it, the burn instantly INTENSIFIES. Beyond belief.
I further swear at the louse and demand information from the internet, a clearly more reliable source. Google knows everything.
While I await his quite pointedly unhurried web search, I have an epiphany. Baking soda. Sodium bicarbonate. Used in undergraduate chemistry laboratories across the country to neutralize the pH of countless solutions before pouring the shit down the drain. This is a BRILLIANT idea.
I expeditiously make a paste through my pain. Shove it up my nose. Gag, snort, sneeze. And realize the burn has decreased NOT AT ALL.
“Most of these pages just say to avoid getting the oil on your skin to begin with.” My very, very, very helpful husband calls from the other room where he has yet to push his ass up out of his lazy-boy, not even to reach for his laptop. I feel the concern oozing from his every pore.
I’m quite certain I called him a name or two.
Unfazed, he patiently waits for my tirade to end before lackadaisically mentioning, “Wait, this one says to try milk. Maybe?”
There is just no easy way to pour a gallon jug of milk into your nose. With yet another Einstein-ian idea I fill a bowl full and dunk half my face in. I come up sputtering, dripping, gasping for breath. And still breathing fire.
My only hope is to inflict serious injury on the Unsupportive Louse in order to decrease my own pain. I swear it works. It’s kind of like voodoo.
So I storm to the living room imagining the various instruments I can torture him with, visualize myself dumping the whole crockpot on his head – imagine where the jalapenos might land! Because misery truly does love company.
Not even aware his very life is threatened, he barely saves himself with just one more suggestion. “This person swears by sour cream.”
At first, the thought of shoving sour cream up my nose only makes me want to cause him greater agony and torment. But you can only imagine someone else’s pain to decrease your own for so long and the very fibers of my nose were shouting, screaming, pleading to be helped. And so I did it. I tried one last thing. I thrust some sour cream up my nose.
Relief. Sweet, sweet, instantaneous relief.
And so, my friends, one day, when you have been negligent enough to chop a jalapeno pepper (or worse!) without wearing your rubber gloves…and if, by chance, you carelessly rub a more sensitive area of skin with the tiniest tip of a finger before you thoroughly wash away the oil, you, on that day, will thank me. On that day, you will never be happier to force sour cream up your nose.
I say in advance: You’re welcome.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Whacha Makin?
Some days…okay, every day…when the Mooch saunters lazily into the kitchen, conveniently (and completely uncomplicitly) catching me in the middle of dinner preparations and asks, “What’s for dinner?” I really just want to yell, “None of your god-damned business!”
Which is completely at odds with the nice little family scene that will take place at the kitchen table just 20 minutes from then when we all sit down with our cloth napkins and calmly ask each other, one and all, “How was your day?” and considering he will, indeed, be eating said meal-in-preparation with us and it therefore, maybe a little bit, IS kind of his business.
So, why, I ask myself, do I still have this overwhelming NEED to curse him out of my kitchen? A part of it is more obvious – that he makes little contribution to the household and if he’s lucky enough to get a homemade dinner to eat, he’d better just shove it and eat without complaining.
But, unfortunately, I must tell you, this is only a small part of my reasoning I discovered during my deep soul-searching.
For the other part, I can only blame my mother. You see, the other part is my concern, my worry, my FEAR that, perhaps, just perhaps, my big brother won’t actually LIKE what I’m making for dinner. That he won’t APPROVE of my choice.
I’m concerned that my older brother, who lives with his little sister, in her house, with her husband and kids, might not approve of my meal.
That my big brother who leaves my good wedding china in his room until the food is dried and caked on so effectively that it has to soak for days before it comes off might not like what I’m cooking.
That the mooch who makes a bigger mess around his plate than our 3-year old every night and has never once, in two years, cleaned a single dish* much less the table, might dislike my choices.
That my big brother who quits jobs and avoids new ones like they’re STDs** might disapprove of ME.
That my big brother who never bothers cleaning up those nasty little pubic hair looking shaving remnants from around the sink, who goes for weeks without using toothpaste because he forget to write it on MY grocery list and couldn’t possibly buy any himself (because, after all, he didn’t NEED to go to the store in all that time), who misses the bowl and blames it on the toilet leaking might be judging ME.
This kind of concern can only be blamed on the guilt trippage of my mother (as clearly, all things must be blamed on SOMEONE). And I believe I lived with my mother far too long for therapy. I am beyond all help.
* he does occasionally claim to “do the dishes” which involves him putting (generally without rinsing) his own single plate and possibly his glass as well into the dishwasher. He has not yet once started the dishwasher, nor has he put any dishes away to my memory.
**did you know they’re called STIs now??
Which is completely at odds with the nice little family scene that will take place at the kitchen table just 20 minutes from then when we all sit down with our cloth napkins and calmly ask each other, one and all, “How was your day?” and considering he will, indeed, be eating said meal-in-preparation with us and it therefore, maybe a little bit, IS kind of his business.
So, why, I ask myself, do I still have this overwhelming NEED to curse him out of my kitchen? A part of it is more obvious – that he makes little contribution to the household and if he’s lucky enough to get a homemade dinner to eat, he’d better just shove it and eat without complaining.
But, unfortunately, I must tell you, this is only a small part of my reasoning I discovered during my deep soul-searching.
For the other part, I can only blame my mother. You see, the other part is my concern, my worry, my FEAR that, perhaps, just perhaps, my big brother won’t actually LIKE what I’m making for dinner. That he won’t APPROVE of my choice.
I’m concerned that my older brother, who lives with his little sister, in her house, with her husband and kids, might not approve of my meal.
That my big brother who leaves my good wedding china in his room until the food is dried and caked on so effectively that it has to soak for days before it comes off might not like what I’m cooking.
That the mooch who makes a bigger mess around his plate than our 3-year old every night and has never once, in two years, cleaned a single dish* much less the table, might dislike my choices.
That my big brother who quits jobs and avoids new ones like they’re STDs** might disapprove of ME.
That my big brother who never bothers cleaning up those nasty little pubic hair looking shaving remnants from around the sink, who goes for weeks without using toothpaste because he forget to write it on MY grocery list and couldn’t possibly buy any himself (because, after all, he didn’t NEED to go to the store in all that time), who misses the bowl and blames it on the toilet leaking might be judging ME.
This kind of concern can only be blamed on the guilt trippage of my mother (as clearly, all things must be blamed on SOMEONE). And I believe I lived with my mother far too long for therapy. I am beyond all help.
* he does occasionally claim to “do the dishes” which involves him putting (generally without rinsing) his own single plate and possibly his glass as well into the dishwasher. He has not yet once started the dishwasher, nor has he put any dishes away to my memory.
**did you know they’re called STIs now??
Friday, July 23, 2010
What You Just Might Have to Look Forward to if You're Not Good
Try something for me. It'll make this just a teensy bit more understandable for you. Close your eyes and try not to move your eyeballs or twitch your lids even just the teensiest tiniest little bit at all. For a whole minute. Think you did good? Now try it for a whole day. Think you're still doing good? Now imagine putting the barb from one of those really annoying plants that gets caught on you clothes and takes froever to pick out under your eyelid so that if you actually DO move your eyeball just the minutest amount or wiggle your eyelid ever-so-slightly, you'll feel it. And it'll hurt like hell. I mean, those little fuckers have prickles all over them and their fucking little barbs get caught in everything.
K, but you're not done yet. Now, put that barb-y planty thingy in there, then add a light-sensitive dimension to the pain - every time you look at light, or every time the intensity of light changes - say the sun goes behind a cloud or someone turns off a light down the hall, or your neighbor's motion sensor light flips on and off every time the wind blows that god-damned tree branch in front of it? any time something like that happens, the barb gets squished in your eye. Like, someone huge shoves their fist in your eye and holds it there for 15 or 20 seconds.
Now, the day this first occurs, add an emergency room visit, with fucking brilliant fluorescent lights and constant flashes and inconsiderate arrogant assholes opening and closing flimsy curtains designed to keep nothing out and constant loud noises (which attract your attention and FORCE your eyes to move...really, try it) and only a dentist's chair to sit in.
Stay in that emergency room for a minimum of 7 hours, until 4 in the morning, ensuring that you WILL NOT get a good night's sleep.
For fun, throw in a nurse's warning that the numbing drops they've been pouring profusely into your eyes for the past 7 hours (causing burning and stinging sensations just before your eye goes mindlessly numb and your head begins to spin from some weird side effect) WILL MELT YOUR CORNEA if you use them too much. But not tell you how the fuck too much is too much, of course, and you KNOW she has no idea how many medical students and residents and attendings and specialists and opthamologists and janitors have come in and dumped some of the shit in your eye in the last 5 hours. So now you've got a nagging worry in the back of your mind. Just a little one. After all, you have one good eye.
Now stay in bed for two days, unable to read, unable to watch TV (cause THAT fucking hurts) unable to have conversations (you'd be shocked that you can't just keep your damned eyeball still while you talk), unable to pee because you can't find your way to the bathroom, unable to eat because the food can't find it's own damn way to your mouth, unable to cry because it hurts like a bitch.
Then have the brilliant 83 year old opthamologist tell you he's not happy with the way your special little 3-yr old's finger hole in your eye is healing, and have him SHOVE gauze in your eye (which, PS, hurts), tape it on your face with approximately 67 pieces of surgical tape (which isn't SUPPOSED to come off), in what he calls a "pressure patch." Now stay like that for another day. Peel the tape off, because you're NOT ALLOWED to just leave it on there until the stickiness just fades away, you've got to peel it out of your eyebrows and sideburn fuzz. Because that's what hell is.
And here is the reason why you need to eat your vegetables and mind your manners and not chase girls and be nice to animals and clean up your room and not waste your food and all those other things that your Momma always told you you should do. Because this could be just one of the many versions of hell that you may have to look forward to in your afterlife. And believe me, you don't want it.
K, but you're not done yet. Now, put that barb-y planty thingy in there, then add a light-sensitive dimension to the pain - every time you look at light, or every time the intensity of light changes - say the sun goes behind a cloud or someone turns off a light down the hall, or your neighbor's motion sensor light flips on and off every time the wind blows that god-damned tree branch in front of it? any time something like that happens, the barb gets squished in your eye. Like, someone huge shoves their fist in your eye and holds it there for 15 or 20 seconds.
Now, the day this first occurs, add an emergency room visit, with fucking brilliant fluorescent lights and constant flashes and inconsiderate arrogant assholes opening and closing flimsy curtains designed to keep nothing out and constant loud noises (which attract your attention and FORCE your eyes to move...really, try it) and only a dentist's chair to sit in.
Stay in that emergency room for a minimum of 7 hours, until 4 in the morning, ensuring that you WILL NOT get a good night's sleep.
For fun, throw in a nurse's warning that the numbing drops they've been pouring profusely into your eyes for the past 7 hours (causing burning and stinging sensations just before your eye goes mindlessly numb and your head begins to spin from some weird side effect) WILL MELT YOUR CORNEA if you use them too much. But not tell you how the fuck too much is too much, of course, and you KNOW she has no idea how many medical students and residents and attendings and specialists and opthamologists and janitors have come in and dumped some of the shit in your eye in the last 5 hours. So now you've got a nagging worry in the back of your mind. Just a little one. After all, you have one good eye.
Now stay in bed for two days, unable to read, unable to watch TV (cause THAT fucking hurts) unable to have conversations (you'd be shocked that you can't just keep your damned eyeball still while you talk), unable to pee because you can't find your way to the bathroom, unable to eat because the food can't find it's own damn way to your mouth, unable to cry because it hurts like a bitch.
Then have the brilliant 83 year old opthamologist tell you he's not happy with the way your special little 3-yr old's finger hole in your eye is healing, and have him SHOVE gauze in your eye (which, PS, hurts), tape it on your face with approximately 67 pieces of surgical tape (which isn't SUPPOSED to come off), in what he calls a "pressure patch." Now stay like that for another day. Peel the tape off, because you're NOT ALLOWED to just leave it on there until the stickiness just fades away, you've got to peel it out of your eyebrows and sideburn fuzz. Because that's what hell is.
And here is the reason why you need to eat your vegetables and mind your manners and not chase girls and be nice to animals and clean up your room and not waste your food and all those other things that your Momma always told you you should do. Because this could be just one of the many versions of hell that you may have to look forward to in your afterlife. And believe me, you don't want it.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
That’s It. We’re Suing.
A little over a year ago, we had some good friends who were moving out of town, selling their house and moving into an apartment for awhile. As their move coincided closely with the beginning of our first spring in our new house with a gloriously huge backyard, these friends were nice enough to donate, free of charge, their lawn mower to us.
Which was fantastic. And we used the lawn mower all last spring and summer and fall on our gloriously huge backyard and all this spring and… then the fucker broke down. Approximately ¾ of the way through the yard. Which, I might add, makes the yard look fantastically terrible.
Of course the Unsupportive Louse spent hours letting it cool and checking the oil and triple-checking the gas and unclogging the blades and re-priming the primer-y thingy and yanking on the cord-y start-y thingy. And nothing worked.
And of course there was all sorts of swearing and all sorts of “shits not made like it used to be” yells and “good money” curses thrown in to unintelligibly mumbled screams. Of course, it wasn’t OUR good money, but I’m sure SOMEONE paid good money for it.
When slightly calmer, the Unsupportive Louse decides that we should opt for a hand powered push mower in the future, rather than rely on machinery that’s bound to die or need repairs in no time at all, and being the environmentalist hippy that I am, I think this is a great plan.
The next day, he purchases our first hand mower. And painfully (oh so very painfully) puts the thing together. Because it seems hand mowers, like all of Santa’s best toys, don’t come assembled. Once we’re happily back in the land of cursing and yelling, the damn thing is pulled and dragged and kicked and manhandled into the backyard to finish off that last crappy looking bit that now has massive dandelions that are actually bold enough to laugh out loud at the new mower…and with good reason.
The thing blew. Some spots The Unsupportive Louse went over a dozen times before it looked vaguely trimmed. And even then, the dandelions would simply pop back up and spit in his eye before spewing their seeds across the rest of the lawn.
So it gets thrown into the back of the very manly cruck and driven right back to the store (possibly with a few corners taken a few miles too fast just to teach the damn thing a lesson) and returned. With no replacement purchased. I refrain from asking any questions.
But the grass is growing fast this rainy season and I can’t stay too quiet for too long. And my very own little old lady of a mother used a hand mower for years while she lived all alone and lonely after we’d all deserted her in California. They can’t all be terrible. So back the cruck goes to a different hardware store and home comes a new hand mower, assembly required.
Yelling, screaming, cursing ensues, lawn mowing is attempted…and you guessed it, the lawn wins again.
And so now we must discuss what our plans are, because clearly we (and by we, I mean he) cannot purchase, assemble, and return a hand mower EVERY week for the rest of the summer.
We’ve come to a decision. We’ve decided to sue the friends who gave us the lawn mower that broke down in the first place. After all, this pain and suffering and loss of valuable family time and gas money and mental anguish is truly their fault for giving us, free of charge, such a shoddy lawn mower in the first place. I think this is a fair and reasonable decision. (And as an added bonus, will place us firmly back in the sphere of “Californians” rather than “Midwesterners” which we’d really prefer not to be considered, 'cause, dude, they're weird.)
So – you know who you are. The next time your doorbell rings? You’ve been served. And it serves you right.
Which was fantastic. And we used the lawn mower all last spring and summer and fall on our gloriously huge backyard and all this spring and… then the fucker broke down. Approximately ¾ of the way through the yard. Which, I might add, makes the yard look fantastically terrible.
Of course the Unsupportive Louse spent hours letting it cool and checking the oil and triple-checking the gas and unclogging the blades and re-priming the primer-y thingy and yanking on the cord-y start-y thingy. And nothing worked.
And of course there was all sorts of swearing and all sorts of “shits not made like it used to be” yells and “good money” curses thrown in to unintelligibly mumbled screams. Of course, it wasn’t OUR good money, but I’m sure SOMEONE paid good money for it.
When slightly calmer, the Unsupportive Louse decides that we should opt for a hand powered push mower in the future, rather than rely on machinery that’s bound to die or need repairs in no time at all, and being the environmentalist hippy that I am, I think this is a great plan.
The next day, he purchases our first hand mower. And painfully (oh so very painfully) puts the thing together. Because it seems hand mowers, like all of Santa’s best toys, don’t come assembled. Once we’re happily back in the land of cursing and yelling, the damn thing is pulled and dragged and kicked and manhandled into the backyard to finish off that last crappy looking bit that now has massive dandelions that are actually bold enough to laugh out loud at the new mower…and with good reason.
The thing blew. Some spots The Unsupportive Louse went over a dozen times before it looked vaguely trimmed. And even then, the dandelions would simply pop back up and spit in his eye before spewing their seeds across the rest of the lawn.
So it gets thrown into the back of the very manly cruck and driven right back to the store (possibly with a few corners taken a few miles too fast just to teach the damn thing a lesson) and returned. With no replacement purchased. I refrain from asking any questions.
But the grass is growing fast this rainy season and I can’t stay too quiet for too long. And my very own little old lady of a mother used a hand mower for years while she lived all alone and lonely after we’d all deserted her in California. They can’t all be terrible. So back the cruck goes to a different hardware store and home comes a new hand mower, assembly required.
Yelling, screaming, cursing ensues, lawn mowing is attempted…and you guessed it, the lawn wins again.
And so now we must discuss what our plans are, because clearly we (and by we, I mean he) cannot purchase, assemble, and return a hand mower EVERY week for the rest of the summer.
We’ve come to a decision. We’ve decided to sue the friends who gave us the lawn mower that broke down in the first place. After all, this pain and suffering and loss of valuable family time and gas money and mental anguish is truly their fault for giving us, free of charge, such a shoddy lawn mower in the first place. I think this is a fair and reasonable decision. (And as an added bonus, will place us firmly back in the sphere of “Californians” rather than “Midwesterners” which we’d really prefer not to be considered, 'cause, dude, they're weird.)
So – you know who you are. The next time your doorbell rings? You’ve been served. And it serves you right.
Monday, June 28, 2010
PLEEEASE, Mommy?
It was one of THOSE mornings…
One of those mornings when I overslept and I’m already running late and everything is going wrong and I keep forgetting things and the Energizer Bunny is doing everything he can to slow down the process and then it happens.
He declares he wants me to stay home. “Alllllll day, forever and ever and ever.”
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I’d just gone from being really late to might as well have called in sick ‘cause you didn’t have any time to get any work done anyway late.
Commence Energizer Bunny crying. And what kind of a mother would I be if I left the Energizer Bunny crying for his Mommy? And what kind of a wife would I be if I simply left it for the Unsupportive Louse to deal with? And so, of course, like all good mothers and wives would do, I stayed.
Half and hour later, the Energizer Bunny was physically holding me down (I’m sure I could have thrown him off, but this takes us back to the “what kind of a mother would I be if…” question and really, this isn’t a question I want to have to ask myself more than once in a day), all while holding my bike helmet hostage to be certain I won’t be able to leave, even if I do attempt a violent escape.
Having tried everything else, I put on my sternest grown-up voice and say, “Bunny, I AM going to work RIGHT NOW, so you need to let me up and give me a kiss goodbye.” I can’t be ALL mean, geez. And I get up. And he seems to be okay with this. And then he runs off with my helmet. Dammit.
So I track him down and try to convince him it’s really a better idea for me to have my own helmet than his tiny yellow frog-speckled helmet, as, after all, it doesn’t fit me.
And then I did it. I am ashamed to say… I used a tactic my mother would have used. I tried to guilt him. I’m hanging my head. It was a last ditch effort, the only thing left that I hadn’t tried. But you’re right, it was terrible none-the-less. But never fear, in the end, I got what I deserved.
You see, my father used to ride his bike to work, and my father (who wore a helmet every time he rode) was hit by a truck and was killed. On his bike. On his way to work. It’s a terrible story. But the little, sweet, innocent, conniving, manipulative Energizer Bunny who is holding my helmet hostage has heard it before. So I simply reminded him that sometimes, only sometimes, people driving aren’t careful, or if a biker isn’t wearing their helmet – a helmet that fits them well- maybe, just maybe, something terrible could happen. Say…that person could die. So please, pretty please, may I have my helmet to wear to bike today?
The Energizer Bunny screams “NOOOO! I WANT you to DIE!” I told you I got what I deserved.
I closed my eyes to control the milieu of emotions coursing through my head and simply said, “Sweetie, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
He screws up his face in concentration and then, as he’s been so well taught, asks in a calm and rational voice, “Please, Mommy, can I take your helmet so you can die?”
One of those mornings when I overslept and I’m already running late and everything is going wrong and I keep forgetting things and the Energizer Bunny is doing everything he can to slow down the process and then it happens.
He declares he wants me to stay home. “Alllllll day, forever and ever and ever.”
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I’d just gone from being really late to might as well have called in sick ‘cause you didn’t have any time to get any work done anyway late.
Commence Energizer Bunny crying. And what kind of a mother would I be if I left the Energizer Bunny crying for his Mommy? And what kind of a wife would I be if I simply left it for the Unsupportive Louse to deal with? And so, of course, like all good mothers and wives would do, I stayed.
Half and hour later, the Energizer Bunny was physically holding me down (I’m sure I could have thrown him off, but this takes us back to the “what kind of a mother would I be if…” question and really, this isn’t a question I want to have to ask myself more than once in a day), all while holding my bike helmet hostage to be certain I won’t be able to leave, even if I do attempt a violent escape.
Having tried everything else, I put on my sternest grown-up voice and say, “Bunny, I AM going to work RIGHT NOW, so you need to let me up and give me a kiss goodbye.” I can’t be ALL mean, geez. And I get up. And he seems to be okay with this. And then he runs off with my helmet. Dammit.
So I track him down and try to convince him it’s really a better idea for me to have my own helmet than his tiny yellow frog-speckled helmet, as, after all, it doesn’t fit me.
And then I did it. I am ashamed to say… I used a tactic my mother would have used. I tried to guilt him. I’m hanging my head. It was a last ditch effort, the only thing left that I hadn’t tried. But you’re right, it was terrible none-the-less. But never fear, in the end, I got what I deserved.
You see, my father used to ride his bike to work, and my father (who wore a helmet every time he rode) was hit by a truck and was killed. On his bike. On his way to work. It’s a terrible story. But the little, sweet, innocent, conniving, manipulative Energizer Bunny who is holding my helmet hostage has heard it before. So I simply reminded him that sometimes, only sometimes, people driving aren’t careful, or if a biker isn’t wearing their helmet – a helmet that fits them well- maybe, just maybe, something terrible could happen. Say…that person could die. So please, pretty please, may I have my helmet to wear to bike today?
The Energizer Bunny screams “NOOOO! I WANT you to DIE!” I told you I got what I deserved.
I closed my eyes to control the milieu of emotions coursing through my head and simply said, “Sweetie, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
He screws up his face in concentration and then, as he’s been so well taught, asks in a calm and rational voice, “Please, Mommy, can I take your helmet so you can die?”
Monday, June 21, 2010
Mexican Mishap #4 - Goggles? Weed?
Ever since last summer when the Energizer Bunny watched the Male Pill swim out into the ocean with his goggles on, he has been obsessed with goggles. (An obvious obsession, really.) And every visit, he asks the Male Pill where his goggles are.
So for this vacation, the Male Pill visited one of his favorite (read: dollar) stores and purchased a pair of goggles for the Energizer Bunny.
Upon arriving in Mexico, the Male Pill related this information to us and brought us to their room, opened the closet in which the goggles were stashed...and out poured the very strong, very clear scent of good ol' marajuana.
The Unsupportive Louse and I crinkled our noses and gave each other funny looks, but waited until we'd left the room to comment, as it seemed the Pills were completely unaffected by the overwhelming smell.
Perhaps, we surmised, the previous tenants of the room had hidden their stash in that closet and the stench simply carried over. Perhaps. But it was awfully strong. It would be HILARIOUS to me if my in-laws had taken up the habit of smoking weed. HILARIOUS. So funny I wish I could say I thought it was true.
(In an aside here, I'd like to add that the goggles were too big for the Energizer Bunny otherwise, this story may have had a very different ending, most likely including Custom officials and drug dogs and jail time...)
But we brought those goggles back to our room, tossed them on the table and headed out for lunch. And when we came back? The ENTIRE condo-type "room" (kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom, two full bathrooms...) the ENTIRE thing smelled of maryjane. As if the maids had come in and had a full-blown, no holds barred joint smoking party while we were gone, then cleaned up after themselves (as all good maids would), and continued on cleaning other rooms, red-eyed and giggly.
Picking up the goggles by the strap, I held them to my nose. And made what I can only imagine was the most attractive face I made all week. Even in light of the back-flipping beach gymnasts. The damn things SMELLED.
So we decided to put them out on the porch overnight, let them air out a bit. Nothing a little ocean air and hurricane force winds can't fix.
Wrong. TWO days and nights later, those damn 99cent goggles still smelled like they'd been smuggled into the country amongst and entire shipment of cannabis.
So we thought maybe we'd soak them in some hot, soapy water. We put them in the sink, with hot as can be water slowly draining and constantly replenishing with fresh hot water, an entire bottle of the hotel shampoo crap poured in...for 6 hours (environmentalists be damned!) and they STILL smelled like a drug bust waiting to happen.
Run them through the dishwasher? Take them in the pool with the chlorine? In ocean's salt water?
Nope, nope, nope.
We left the damn things on the porch. Hope some maid's kid gets a nice high off of them.
So for this vacation, the Male Pill visited one of his favorite (read: dollar) stores and purchased a pair of goggles for the Energizer Bunny.
Upon arriving in Mexico, the Male Pill related this information to us and brought us to their room, opened the closet in which the goggles were stashed...and out poured the very strong, very clear scent of good ol' marajuana.
The Unsupportive Louse and I crinkled our noses and gave each other funny looks, but waited until we'd left the room to comment, as it seemed the Pills were completely unaffected by the overwhelming smell.
Perhaps, we surmised, the previous tenants of the room had hidden their stash in that closet and the stench simply carried over. Perhaps. But it was awfully strong. It would be HILARIOUS to me if my in-laws had taken up the habit of smoking weed. HILARIOUS. So funny I wish I could say I thought it was true.
(In an aside here, I'd like to add that the goggles were too big for the Energizer Bunny otherwise, this story may have had a very different ending, most likely including Custom officials and drug dogs and jail time...)
But we brought those goggles back to our room, tossed them on the table and headed out for lunch. And when we came back? The ENTIRE condo-type "room" (kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom, two full bathrooms...) the ENTIRE thing smelled of maryjane. As if the maids had come in and had a full-blown, no holds barred joint smoking party while we were gone, then cleaned up after themselves (as all good maids would), and continued on cleaning other rooms, red-eyed and giggly.
Picking up the goggles by the strap, I held them to my nose. And made what I can only imagine was the most attractive face I made all week. Even in light of the back-flipping beach gymnasts. The damn things SMELLED.
So we decided to put them out on the porch overnight, let them air out a bit. Nothing a little ocean air and hurricane force winds can't fix.
Wrong. TWO days and nights later, those damn 99cent goggles still smelled like they'd been smuggled into the country amongst and entire shipment of cannabis.
So we thought maybe we'd soak them in some hot, soapy water. We put them in the sink, with hot as can be water slowly draining and constantly replenishing with fresh hot water, an entire bottle of the hotel shampoo crap poured in...for 6 hours (environmentalists be damned!) and they STILL smelled like a drug bust waiting to happen.
Run them through the dishwasher? Take them in the pool with the chlorine? In ocean's salt water?
Nope, nope, nope.
We left the damn things on the porch. Hope some maid's kid gets a nice high off of them.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Mexican Mishap #3 - Beach Acrobatics
Energizer Bunny, the Unsupportive Louse and I are busily making a fortress of sand castles when construction on my left abruptly stops. I scan the beach to see the cause of the delay (while the Energizer Bunny takes this interruption in supervision to destroy the entire aforementioned fortress.) My eyes flow past dark tans on toned bodies, string bikinis, silicon boobs - these things are just too commonplace in our beautiful resort town for even the Unsupportive Louse to stop filling a sand bucket.
And then I see them. Three extremely athletic, extremely shapely, extremely beautiful, extremely tanned, extremely young, extremely blond women. In bikinis. On the ocean's wave line. Doing back-flips. No joke. Back flips.
The Unsupportive Louse begins, "If they can do the splits..."
I quickly admonish him - "You have a CHILD on the way, don't even finish that THOUGHT." (as if it would make a difference)
He simply smiles the smile of the Cheshire cat. "If they can do the splits, I might have several children on the way."
And then I see them. Three extremely athletic, extremely shapely, extremely beautiful, extremely tanned, extremely young, extremely blond women. In bikinis. On the ocean's wave line. Doing back-flips. No joke. Back flips.
The Unsupportive Louse begins, "If they can do the splits..."
I quickly admonish him - "You have a CHILD on the way, don't even finish that THOUGHT." (as if it would make a difference)
He simply smiles the smile of the Cheshire cat. "If they can do the splits, I might have several children on the way."
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Mexican Mishap #2 - Repeat Performance
I loved our Mexican vacation, but we DID spend a week with the Pills...and I can't spend an entire week with my in-laws without complaining about *something.*
Saturday -
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - some extended version of "Yup, he really is." while it is the Unsupportive Louse's high school friend and not mine that is coming to visit, really, he doesn't know much about his own life any more, it's best I just head things off at the pass and answer for him.
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"
Me - some extended version of "Sure did."
Tuesday -
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - slightly abridged version of "Yup, he really is."
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"
Me - slightly abridged version of "Sure did."
Wednesday
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - pretending to help the Energizer Bunny so my massive eye roll is not quite so obvious, thus leaving the Unsupportive Louse (who HAS BEEN PRESENT for BOTH other conversations, I will remind you) to answer the question
Unsupportive Louse - "Uh, yeah, I think so."
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?" I AM NOT kidding you that the words were EXACTLY the same. EXACTLY.
Unsupportive Louse - "Um. I don't know, I think so. Do you know, babe?"
The apple truly does not fall far from the tree, does it?
Saturday -
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - some extended version of "Yup, he really is." while it is the Unsupportive Louse's high school friend and not mine that is coming to visit, really, he doesn't know much about his own life any more, it's best I just head things off at the pass and answer for him.
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"
Me - some extended version of "Sure did."
Tuesday -
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - slightly abridged version of "Yup, he really is."
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?"
Me - slightly abridged version of "Sure did."
Wednesday
Female Pill- "So is Somewhat Unreliable Highschool Friend really coming to visit?" (aimed at either the Unsupportive Louse or I)
Me - pretending to help the Energizer Bunny so my massive eye roll is not quite so obvious, thus leaving the Unsupportive Louse (who HAS BEEN PRESENT for BOTH other conversations, I will remind you) to answer the question
Unsupportive Louse - "Uh, yeah, I think so."
Female Pill, expressing mild disbelief - "Did he already buy tickets and everything?" I AM NOT kidding you that the words were EXACTLY the same. EXACTLY.
Unsupportive Louse - "Um. I don't know, I think so. Do you know, babe?"
The apple truly does not fall far from the tree, does it?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Mexican Mishap #1 - The Best Laid Plans
If you know me at all, you know I'm slightly (ever so very slightly) OCD. I tend to plan my life...my ENTIRE life, down to teeny-tiny minute details, years ahead of time. And write it down so I won't forget. Of course, I must admit, the minute details do not *always* work out quite the way they were planned...but I continue to plan them all the same.
So of course I planned for our 2010 beach vacation while planning for our future child beginning approximately two years ago...I mean really, who wouldn't? We knew (read: I knew I could convince the Unsupportive Louse to agree with me) that we wanted our children to be about 3 years apart. And after considering beach vacation time frame, I decided to start systematically raping the Unsupportive Louse... I mean we decided to start "trying" in October - giving myself a month or two for conception, this brought me to about 6 months pregnant for vacation time.
While this may not be the most comfortable time in the world to travel, there are more important things in life than travelling folks. And besides, it's not as bad as 7 or 8 months, I'd survive. But most importantly, a 6-month pregnant woman looks pregnant. Looking obviously pregnant garners a woman sympathy and favors completely unrequested. Because everyone knows she is pregnant. And everyone feels bad that she has to be pregnant on vacation. On the beach. Or for the poor dude she's with. But whatever, as long as I'm the one that gets the goods, they can feel as bad for him as they want.
Now, a THREE-month pregnant woman, who has gained only 5 lbs (but, in my completely impersonal opinion, looks significantly larger than just 5 extra pounds) really just looks decidedly pudgy and a bit jiggly... just a bit fat. No matter what swimsuits said pregnant woman might have bought to try to cover up the flab while accentuating the PREGNANT look of the belly.
And sure, YOU say it's all fine and good that a 3-month pregnant woman looks a little flabby. Because, after all, YOU'RE not the one who is 3-months pregnant and on the beach. In a swimsuit. In a resort surrounded by liposections and tummy tucks and silicon breasts and fake-bake tans and paid-for-perfection.
Those damn emaciated, tanned, toned, implanted bathing beauties? They can't tell a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway is pregnant. They just think she's a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway. Damn sluts.
So of course I planned for our 2010 beach vacation while planning for our future child beginning approximately two years ago...I mean really, who wouldn't? We knew (read: I knew I could convince the Unsupportive Louse to agree with me) that we wanted our children to be about 3 years apart. And after considering beach vacation time frame, I decided to start systematically raping the Unsupportive Louse... I mean we decided to start "trying" in October - giving myself a month or two for conception, this brought me to about 6 months pregnant for vacation time.
While this may not be the most comfortable time in the world to travel, there are more important things in life than travelling folks. And besides, it's not as bad as 7 or 8 months, I'd survive. But most importantly, a 6-month pregnant woman looks pregnant. Looking obviously pregnant garners a woman sympathy and favors completely unrequested. Because everyone knows she is pregnant. And everyone feels bad that she has to be pregnant on vacation. On the beach. Or for the poor dude she's with. But whatever, as long as I'm the one that gets the goods, they can feel as bad for him as they want.
Now, a THREE-month pregnant woman, who has gained only 5 lbs (but, in my completely impersonal opinion, looks significantly larger than just 5 extra pounds) really just looks decidedly pudgy and a bit jiggly... just a bit fat. No matter what swimsuits said pregnant woman might have bought to try to cover up the flab while accentuating the PREGNANT look of the belly.
And sure, YOU say it's all fine and good that a 3-month pregnant woman looks a little flabby. Because, after all, YOU'RE not the one who is 3-months pregnant and on the beach. In a swimsuit. In a resort surrounded by liposections and tummy tucks and silicon breasts and fake-bake tans and paid-for-perfection.
Those damn emaciated, tanned, toned, implanted bathing beauties? They can't tell a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway is pregnant. They just think she's a blubbery chick not really worthy of their attention anyway. Damn sluts.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Guilt Returns
That's right, my mother is back in town. She was off galavanting across the world as if she's retired (she is) for three weeks. And it was a calm, pleasant, peaceful three weeks.
We told her the day before she left that I was pregnant.
We didn't talk to her at all while she was gone. (She was in Europe, this has nothig to do with me not missing her guilt trips.)
As soon as she returned, she came over to see the Energizer Bunny. She played baseball with the Energizer, she showed us her pictures from her trip, she ate dinner with us. She talked non-stop.
She did not once ask me how I'd been feeling. She did not once ask us how doctor's appointments went or how the Princess took it, or how the mooch took it (after all, he might get even less attention from us if we have another one!), or how the Energizer Bunny was handling it - he was the first to know - or how my boss took the news. Nothing.
Though she did bring home a pair of slippers, sized 12 months, one can only assume are for a new baby as they wouldn't have fit the Energizer Bunny for the past two years.
Still, as she's about to leave, I think to myself, that wasn't SO bad. She may still be slightly self-centered, but at least there was none of that other standard Walking Guilt Trip stuff. Maybe I'm just too hard on her.
And then as she's walking out the door, she gives me a guilt trip. See, we're leaving for vacation just three days after she returns. And going on vacation with the OTHER set of grandparents. What TERRIBLE people we are.
Does it make me an even worse person if I say I don't think I'll miss her while we're gone?
We told her the day before she left that I was pregnant.
We didn't talk to her at all while she was gone. (She was in Europe, this has nothig to do with me not missing her guilt trips.)
As soon as she returned, she came over to see the Energizer Bunny. She played baseball with the Energizer, she showed us her pictures from her trip, she ate dinner with us. She talked non-stop.
She did not once ask me how I'd been feeling. She did not once ask us how doctor's appointments went or how the Princess took it, or how the mooch took it (after all, he might get even less attention from us if we have another one!), or how the Energizer Bunny was handling it - he was the first to know - or how my boss took the news. Nothing.
Though she did bring home a pair of slippers, sized 12 months, one can only assume are for a new baby as they wouldn't have fit the Energizer Bunny for the past two years.
Still, as she's about to leave, I think to myself, that wasn't SO bad. She may still be slightly self-centered, but at least there was none of that other standard Walking Guilt Trip stuff. Maybe I'm just too hard on her.
And then as she's walking out the door, she gives me a guilt trip. See, we're leaving for vacation just three days after she returns. And going on vacation with the OTHER set of grandparents. What TERRIBLE people we are.
Does it make me an even worse person if I say I don't think I'll miss her while we're gone?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
My Biggest Pregnancy Fear
The one thing that TERRIFIED me about this whole getting pregnant thing (besides the gaining of 3 billion pounds, the possibility of permanent stretch marks, the mutilage of my girly parts, the weight of bringing another life onto our overcrowded and dying earth and then of sending that new little life straight into therapy...) was telling my boss.
Don't get me wrong, my boss is kind, understanding, friendly, family-oriented - any good word or phrase you can think of to describe a boss, probably describes mine. (Even "seldom there!")
But I was still terrfied.
So I made the Unsupportive Louse come with me. Because this time if my boss threatened to fire me if I didn't come back after 6 weeks maternity leave, I was going to have a WITNESS damn it! And he is the douche that knocked me up after all!
So he did. He stood by my side and smiled at all the right times and looked all proud of his sperm at all the right times and said all the right things at all the right times. (If anyone ever tells you that man isn't supportive, you shouldn't believe a damn word that comes out of their mouth!)
And my boss congratulated me and didn't bat an eye when I told him I wanted to take four months off.
And now my worst fears are over. Besides the whole mutilation of my girly parts thing... (It's not too late to change my mind, is it??)
Don't get me wrong, my boss is kind, understanding, friendly, family-oriented - any good word or phrase you can think of to describe a boss, probably describes mine. (Even "seldom there!")
But I was still terrfied.
So I made the Unsupportive Louse come with me. Because this time if my boss threatened to fire me if I didn't come back after 6 weeks maternity leave, I was going to have a WITNESS damn it! And he is the douche that knocked me up after all!
So he did. He stood by my side and smiled at all the right times and looked all proud of his sperm at all the right times and said all the right things at all the right times. (If anyone ever tells you that man isn't supportive, you shouldn't believe a damn word that comes out of their mouth!)
And my boss congratulated me and didn't bat an eye when I told him I wanted to take four months off.
And now my worst fears are over. Besides the whole mutilation of my girly parts thing... (It's not too late to change my mind, is it??)
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Conception Story
Because you all want to know EXACTLY how this baby was conceived, right?
Right.
So, it was decided, by us, on towards a year ago or so, that we would begin “trying” for our #2 soon. Three-ish years separation is a good one, we thought. It was then decided (by me, because, I’m the one that really matters since I’m the one who’s going to be, you know, PREGNANT) that I did not want to miss (or otherwise HATE) our summer vacations because I was 18 months and 9000lbs pregnant. I thus decided to put off the trying until October, which, if we conceived in the first second post-IUD removal would make our children precisely three years apart. As The Energizer Bunny was…shall we say “no problem” to conceive, I assumed #2 would not be either. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think they’d be precisely 3 years apart. In fact, it would have annoyed me if their birthdays were REALLY close together. But I expected them to be 3 years and 1 month apart…maybe 2…
So 5 ½ months go by with no success, due completely and totally to my body’s lack of any kind of schedule. Apparently my uterus has become just as lackadaisical about her work schedule as I am about mine…don’t worry, she gets the work done, just kinda, you know, whenever she wants to do it.
By this point, of course, I have mastered the time-honored ovulation discerning technique known as the “Cervical Mucus Method.”
Oh, I tried the easier ones, like the Basal Body Temperature, but it turns out I’m constantly living in a half-dead state based on my body temperature, which never rises above 96 degrees based on my home thermometer (despite the fact that the thing works appropriately in both the Unsupportive Louse and the Energizer Bunny…) But even ignoring my near-zombie-ness (which would explain a lot really) and blaming the stupid broken thermometer my temperature never fluctuated the entire 1.4 degrees it was expected to, to show ovulation had occurred or was about to occur or whatever. If I hadn’t managed to conceive previously, I would have at this point, completely freaked out. Instead, I threw the thermometer away. (Nice digital one too. Damn it.)
I want you all to know that I am completely, absolutely, utterly horrified by the mere THOUGHT of the Cervical Mucus Method. Probably not as much as you men reading this, but close enough. Nevertheless, lives were at stake. I rallied my courage and even managed not to puke. And quite confidently figured the grossness out in just two cycles.
So 5 ½ months after the “trying” begins, produces much grossness and no fertilized egg, I count very scientifically on my fingers and realize a baby conceived during whatever week my crazy ass uterus decides to ovulate this cycle would be due right around Christmas. And ugh, what a terrible time of year to be about to pop. Imagine the holiday parties you have to stand on your feet and look happy and talk with people you barely like that you couldn’t even drink at. Imagine the pain of getting gifts ready and wrapped and the house cleaned and the tree trimmed all while 9 months pregnant? Lord, imagine the in-laws being in town when you ACTUALLY deliver??
So we decided to take the month off. Now, remember we’d been trying with no success forever, so taking the month off just meant I didn’t force the Unsupportive Louse into un-consensual sex a few days of the month when it seemed most likely to be good timing. (This included the calendar method based on a 28 day cycle, and the calendar method based on my shortest and longest cycles in the last 5 months and the evil Cervical Mucus Method. Generally none of the 4 lined up which meant there was a whole lot of un-consensual sex going on.) Taking the month off did NOT mean abstinence (who the hell do you think I am?) nor did it mean actually using some sort of contraception, I mean, really, we are TRYING to get pregnant, that would just be dumb.
Only a day or two after my monthly bleeding session (sorry boys) I happened to notice (no, I wasn’t really checking, we weren’t trying, remember??) that my cervical mucus seemed to be telling me I was ovulating. As this is clearly impossible, being that a NORMAL uterus would wait 2 weeks before ovulating, I ignored said cervical mucus.
So of course we got pregnant.
Due date – December 20.
(Or Dec 27 if you use a normal cycle calendar, which the stupid nurse insisted on doing…because she knows more about my body than me.)
Right.
So, it was decided, by us, on towards a year ago or so, that we would begin “trying” for our #2 soon. Three-ish years separation is a good one, we thought. It was then decided (by me, because, I’m the one that really matters since I’m the one who’s going to be, you know, PREGNANT) that I did not want to miss (or otherwise HATE) our summer vacations because I was 18 months and 9000lbs pregnant. I thus decided to put off the trying until October, which, if we conceived in the first second post-IUD removal would make our children precisely three years apart. As The Energizer Bunny was…shall we say “no problem” to conceive, I assumed #2 would not be either. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think they’d be precisely 3 years apart. In fact, it would have annoyed me if their birthdays were REALLY close together. But I expected them to be 3 years and 1 month apart…maybe 2…
So 5 ½ months go by with no success, due completely and totally to my body’s lack of any kind of schedule. Apparently my uterus has become just as lackadaisical about her work schedule as I am about mine…don’t worry, she gets the work done, just kinda, you know, whenever she wants to do it.
By this point, of course, I have mastered the time-honored ovulation discerning technique known as the “Cervical Mucus Method.”
Oh, I tried the easier ones, like the Basal Body Temperature, but it turns out I’m constantly living in a half-dead state based on my body temperature, which never rises above 96 degrees based on my home thermometer (despite the fact that the thing works appropriately in both the Unsupportive Louse and the Energizer Bunny…) But even ignoring my near-zombie-ness (which would explain a lot really) and blaming the stupid broken thermometer my temperature never fluctuated the entire 1.4 degrees it was expected to, to show ovulation had occurred or was about to occur or whatever. If I hadn’t managed to conceive previously, I would have at this point, completely freaked out. Instead, I threw the thermometer away. (Nice digital one too. Damn it.)
I want you all to know that I am completely, absolutely, utterly horrified by the mere THOUGHT of the Cervical Mucus Method. Probably not as much as you men reading this, but close enough. Nevertheless, lives were at stake. I rallied my courage and even managed not to puke. And quite confidently figured the grossness out in just two cycles.
So 5 ½ months after the “trying” begins, produces much grossness and no fertilized egg, I count very scientifically on my fingers and realize a baby conceived during whatever week my crazy ass uterus decides to ovulate this cycle would be due right around Christmas. And ugh, what a terrible time of year to be about to pop. Imagine the holiday parties you have to stand on your feet and look happy and talk with people you barely like that you couldn’t even drink at. Imagine the pain of getting gifts ready and wrapped and the house cleaned and the tree trimmed all while 9 months pregnant? Lord, imagine the in-laws being in town when you ACTUALLY deliver??
So we decided to take the month off. Now, remember we’d been trying with no success forever, so taking the month off just meant I didn’t force the Unsupportive Louse into un-consensual sex a few days of the month when it seemed most likely to be good timing. (This included the calendar method based on a 28 day cycle, and the calendar method based on my shortest and longest cycles in the last 5 months and the evil Cervical Mucus Method. Generally none of the 4 lined up which meant there was a whole lot of un-consensual sex going on.) Taking the month off did NOT mean abstinence (who the hell do you think I am?) nor did it mean actually using some sort of contraception, I mean, really, we are TRYING to get pregnant, that would just be dumb.
Only a day or two after my monthly bleeding session (sorry boys) I happened to notice (no, I wasn’t really checking, we weren’t trying, remember??) that my cervical mucus seemed to be telling me I was ovulating. As this is clearly impossible, being that a NORMAL uterus would wait 2 weeks before ovulating, I ignored said cervical mucus.
So of course we got pregnant.
Due date – December 20.
(Or Dec 27 if you use a normal cycle calendar, which the stupid nurse insisted on doing…because she knows more about my body than me.)
Monday, May 24, 2010
Love of my Life
Let me just say, it seems I'm frickin' terrible at keeping secrets. Other people's? Fine, whatever, it's probably not as excitng as they think it is anyway. But my own? EVERYBODY MUST KNOW NOW!!
So I am proud to say, you all, my fabulous blog followers/readers/stalkers will be the first to know this long-kept secret of mine. Besides the Pills, the Walking Guilt Trip, The Princess, the Energizer Bunny, obviously the Unsupportive Louse, and a few select friends who water-boarded me/twisted my arm/didn't even really ask but maybe hinted in the right direction and I gave in. But you are the first ones I don't HAVE to tell, and I'm telling anyway! Because you are so special to me. Even more special than my Facebook friends. Or maybe just because this blog doesn't quite work as well without said secret being revealed.
So here goes... I'm pregnant!! (All females, please read this to mean - I expect lots of oohs and aahs and is it a boy or girls? and what are you gonna name thems? and traded pregnancy stories and birth stories and baby stories for the next 6 months or so. All males, please read this to mean - I now have an absolute right to be the biggest, mood-swingiest, crankiest, tiredest, manipulativest, demandingest bitch you've ever met, and you're still required to think I'm beautiful and sexy and sweet and loving for at LEAST the next 9 or 10 months.)
Now, for the real story.
This first trimester has kicked me on my flipping ass. I'm exhausted, I'm drained, I'm cranky, I'm moody, I'm just plain tired.
Friday night after work the Unsupportive Louse offered to cook dinner, and let me relax and read and go to bed early - I was absolutely in heaven. What a wonderful man, husband, father, partner, love of my life. So caring, so understanding, so perfect. He even brought home ice cream. My life is perfect. Ideal. A fantasy, a fairy tale. I married Prince Charming. Not even Cinderella is happier than me.
Two hours after I head up to bed to read in blissful peace and ignorance of the rest of the household, imagining the romantic things we can do when he makes it up to bed and I'm actually well-rested... the ever-present Mooch barges in to the room. "Hey, I'm pretty sure the Unsupportive Louse is passed out down there. I didn't want to wake him up." So he woke me up instead. Of course.
I groan and pull myself out of bed and head down to see if he's perhaps exaggerating the situation. It is, after all, barely 9:00. (In other news, the Energizer Bunny's regular bedtime is now 10:00 as he wakes up before the college version of myself went to bed if he falls asleep any earlier than 10.)
Turning the corner from the stairway, I see the Energizer Bunny expertly turning off the TV and DVD player with the remote (we don't even have cable, there's no reasonable explanation for his knowledge in this capacity.) He then informs me he just watched a WHOOOOLE movie. The WHOOOOLE thing. He is very proud of this fact.
And....slouched off his bean bag chair in the middle of the floor is the Unsupportive Louse. Snoring, mouth hanging open, drooling. The Energizer Bunny runs over to him and tackles him with gusto, climbs on top of him and jumps off. Repeats. The Unsupportive Louse doesn't move.
Spread around him is our favorite board game, the one we don't let the Energizer Bunny play with, ever... it's hundreds of tiny pieces out of their individual bags, spread from the TV to the window to the couch, the cards out of their boxes, all shuffled together, along with the tiny circles game board pieces.
On the end table is his "mystery cup." The cup he's held on to since college like a talisman of days when he could do what he wanted when he wanted and never have to hear a word about it from anyway. It's the cup he uses to steal illicit drinks. It smells of vodka.
The vodka bottle on the kitchen counter was brand new that afternoon, as is apparent from the crumpled receipt on the counter - ice cream and vodka. It's half-empty. In less than two hours.
Love of my life my ass. Pain in my ass is more like it. Giving me a night off just so he can get drunk? Jackhole. Falling asleep so the Energizer Bunny can get into one of the few things that are still sacred in this house? Dumbass. Building up my dreams of a relaxing night before making me put both the Energizer Bunny AND him to bed?? Stupid chauvanistic bastard. (I'm pregnant, I can turn on Mother Teresa if she looks at me funny out from under her halo, what kind of man would think this was a good idea?)
I spent all night cursing the man and wondering why I had ever decided to have another baby when really I already have two and am practically a single mother (I mean, for real, he can't consider himself a PARENT after this, can he?)
Luckily for him, he realized what trouble he was in, let me sleep in (he swore he didn't have a hangover...) made me breakfast, cleaned the house and even bought me "contrition shoes."
So I forgave him.
Personally, I think he's lucky he still has his balls. After all, I probably won't be needing them any more. ;)
So I am proud to say, you all, my fabulous blog followers/readers/stalkers will be the first to know this long-kept secret of mine. Besides the Pills, the Walking Guilt Trip, The Princess, the Energizer Bunny, obviously the Unsupportive Louse, and a few select friends who water-boarded me/twisted my arm/didn't even really ask but maybe hinted in the right direction and I gave in. But you are the first ones I don't HAVE to tell, and I'm telling anyway! Because you are so special to me. Even more special than my Facebook friends. Or maybe just because this blog doesn't quite work as well without said secret being revealed.
So here goes... I'm pregnant!! (All females, please read this to mean - I expect lots of oohs and aahs and is it a boy or girls? and what are you gonna name thems? and traded pregnancy stories and birth stories and baby stories for the next 6 months or so. All males, please read this to mean - I now have an absolute right to be the biggest, mood-swingiest, crankiest, tiredest, manipulativest, demandingest bitch you've ever met, and you're still required to think I'm beautiful and sexy and sweet and loving for at LEAST the next 9 or 10 months.)
Now, for the real story.
This first trimester has kicked me on my flipping ass. I'm exhausted, I'm drained, I'm cranky, I'm moody, I'm just plain tired.
Friday night after work the Unsupportive Louse offered to cook dinner, and let me relax and read and go to bed early - I was absolutely in heaven. What a wonderful man, husband, father, partner, love of my life. So caring, so understanding, so perfect. He even brought home ice cream. My life is perfect. Ideal. A fantasy, a fairy tale. I married Prince Charming. Not even Cinderella is happier than me.
Two hours after I head up to bed to read in blissful peace and ignorance of the rest of the household, imagining the romantic things we can do when he makes it up to bed and I'm actually well-rested... the ever-present Mooch barges in to the room. "Hey, I'm pretty sure the Unsupportive Louse is passed out down there. I didn't want to wake him up." So he woke me up instead. Of course.
I groan and pull myself out of bed and head down to see if he's perhaps exaggerating the situation. It is, after all, barely 9:00. (In other news, the Energizer Bunny's regular bedtime is now 10:00 as he wakes up before the college version of myself went to bed if he falls asleep any earlier than 10.)
Turning the corner from the stairway, I see the Energizer Bunny expertly turning off the TV and DVD player with the remote (we don't even have cable, there's no reasonable explanation for his knowledge in this capacity.) He then informs me he just watched a WHOOOOLE movie. The WHOOOOLE thing. He is very proud of this fact.
And....slouched off his bean bag chair in the middle of the floor is the Unsupportive Louse. Snoring, mouth hanging open, drooling. The Energizer Bunny runs over to him and tackles him with gusto, climbs on top of him and jumps off. Repeats. The Unsupportive Louse doesn't move.
Spread around him is our favorite board game, the one we don't let the Energizer Bunny play with, ever... it's hundreds of tiny pieces out of their individual bags, spread from the TV to the window to the couch, the cards out of their boxes, all shuffled together, along with the tiny circles game board pieces.
On the end table is his "mystery cup." The cup he's held on to since college like a talisman of days when he could do what he wanted when he wanted and never have to hear a word about it from anyway. It's the cup he uses to steal illicit drinks. It smells of vodka.
The vodka bottle on the kitchen counter was brand new that afternoon, as is apparent from the crumpled receipt on the counter - ice cream and vodka. It's half-empty. In less than two hours.
Love of my life my ass. Pain in my ass is more like it. Giving me a night off just so he can get drunk? Jackhole. Falling asleep so the Energizer Bunny can get into one of the few things that are still sacred in this house? Dumbass. Building up my dreams of a relaxing night before making me put both the Energizer Bunny AND him to bed?? Stupid chauvanistic bastard. (I'm pregnant, I can turn on Mother Teresa if she looks at me funny out from under her halo, what kind of man would think this was a good idea?)
I spent all night cursing the man and wondering why I had ever decided to have another baby when really I already have two and am practically a single mother (I mean, for real, he can't consider himself a PARENT after this, can he?)
Luckily for him, he realized what trouble he was in, let me sleep in (he swore he didn't have a hangover...) made me breakfast, cleaned the house and even bought me "contrition shoes."
So I forgave him.
Personally, I think he's lucky he still has his balls. After all, I probably won't be needing them any more. ;)
Friday, May 21, 2010
"Study Break"
Here's the truth, people - I went to a nerdy college. It's true, I did. I'd apologize for possibly offending all those who went to the same nerdy college as me, but the fact is, if you went to UCSD, you're most likely not denying it, you're solemnly nodding your head. If you ARE denying the nerd-dom that dwells within...you're a nerd in denial.
That being said if at any time in our school schedule, whether it be the first day of classes or the day before finals, if we had a scheduled "Study Break," even 5 minutes, we would have used it to...study. Yup, told you, nerd school.
In my current cute little midwestern college town, they have an ENTIRE WEEK before finals which is devoted to "studying." A week off of classes. A week to prepare for the grueling tests that are rumored to be open note, are definitely all multiple choice, and are scheduled for one THIRD the time ours were.
And what do the brilliant U of M college students do during this "Study Break?"
Drink, of course.
Other than football Saturdays there isn't any other time the streets are so littered with red dixie cups, crushed beer cans or empty liquor bottles.
Which I've grown used to. It IS the beginning of Spring after all, since they also end their term well over a month before we did... and while we nerdy little San Diegans could lay out all year round, these poor kids are trapped inside their well-heated dorms all winter long with no reprieve - it's time to get OUT, time to PARTY.
So fine, I maneuver my bike around the glass shards and puke piles and cowboy golf racks and bean bag toss boards with no longer even a second glance. But this...this made me pause:
I cannot begin to imagine a study break drinking game that involves a beer bottle graveyard, metal spikes and a broken vacuum cleaner.
Seriously, we weren't THAT nerdy that I can't even IMAGINE a cool drinking game out of this...were we?
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Stress Counselor?
My place of employment is giving it's employees an incentive hundred bucks if we participate in a health/preventative program. If you at all understand me, you know that for a hundred bucks I'm willing to do pretty much anything. So, of course, I signed up.
To start, you take a questionnaire, enter in all sorts of information you're probably lying about because you have no idea (BMI? cholesterol levels? triglycerides?) and all sorts of personal questions that you have to answer using only the A, B, C or D options they give you (which they've cleverly devised to not *actually* fit any real life situation so that no single person can truly answer the question by choosing either A, B, C or D.)
Once you've taken the fabulous questionnaire, you are given your "risk factors." What, from the very in depth questionnaire, they have determined to be your future cause of illness/death/disablement.
From these risk factors, you choose programs to participate in in order to achieve your final goal of... ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS! or, I suppose they want me to think the ultimate goal is not dying of whatever disease, but really, I'm going to die eventually. And yeah, they're probably going to have to pay the insurance when I go. I just want my hundred bucks.
My number one risk factor? Killing the Energizer Bunny. I think what I read between the lines was "having stupid parents is a risk factor for children." So educating me, as a parent, means big points on my hundred buck scale. And as I am actually concerned about the Energizer Bunny, I chose this program. It was 6 weeks, on-line, a bunch of articles, a quiz or two that you could change your answers to after they gave you the right ones, no big deal.
Next risk factor: stress. Apparently I am stressed out. I momentarily thought to adamantly deny this while throwing a fit regarding said retarded questionnaire, then realized this might simply increase my stress level to the point that they were right. And THAT would be terrible. Almost as terrible as the Unsupportive Louse being right.
So I choose to enroll in the stress counseling instead. Three 15 minute phone calls is all it is. No biggie, I can manage.
My first phone call with my brand-spanking new stress counselor, Annie, goes something like this:
"What's one major thing that's been stressing you out recently?"
"Well, my husband was writing his thesis and was gone 16 hours a day and stressed out himself, so that was huge."
"Oh! What degree was he working toward?"
"A PhD in Immunology."
"You said you're in science too, didn't you?"
"Yep."
"But you don't have an advanced degree?"
"Nope."
"Have you ever thought about getting one?"
"I've thought about it occasionally."
"I'm sure you know it can change the way you're regarded in the field, increase your respect, as well as your pay."
"Yep."
"If it's something you're considering, you should go for it, you're still young!" A slight pause. "You know, I just read an article that found that graduate students have less sex than geriatrics."
Wait a second... have I been having less sex than OLD PEOPLE for the last SIX years?
Wait a MINUTE... isn't this supposed to be stress counseling??
To start, you take a questionnaire, enter in all sorts of information you're probably lying about because you have no idea (BMI? cholesterol levels? triglycerides?) and all sorts of personal questions that you have to answer using only the A, B, C or D options they give you (which they've cleverly devised to not *actually* fit any real life situation so that no single person can truly answer the question by choosing either A, B, C or D.)
Once you've taken the fabulous questionnaire, you are given your "risk factors." What, from the very in depth questionnaire, they have determined to be your future cause of illness/death/disablement.
From these risk factors, you choose programs to participate in in order to achieve your final goal of... ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS! or, I suppose they want me to think the ultimate goal is not dying of whatever disease, but really, I'm going to die eventually. And yeah, they're probably going to have to pay the insurance when I go. I just want my hundred bucks.
My number one risk factor? Killing the Energizer Bunny. I think what I read between the lines was "having stupid parents is a risk factor for children." So educating me, as a parent, means big points on my hundred buck scale. And as I am actually concerned about the Energizer Bunny, I chose this program. It was 6 weeks, on-line, a bunch of articles, a quiz or two that you could change your answers to after they gave you the right ones, no big deal.
Next risk factor: stress. Apparently I am stressed out. I momentarily thought to adamantly deny this while throwing a fit regarding said retarded questionnaire, then realized this might simply increase my stress level to the point that they were right. And THAT would be terrible. Almost as terrible as the Unsupportive Louse being right.
So I choose to enroll in the stress counseling instead. Three 15 minute phone calls is all it is. No biggie, I can manage.
My first phone call with my brand-spanking new stress counselor, Annie, goes something like this:
"What's one major thing that's been stressing you out recently?"
"Well, my husband was writing his thesis and was gone 16 hours a day and stressed out himself, so that was huge."
"Oh! What degree was he working toward?"
"A PhD in Immunology."
"You said you're in science too, didn't you?"
"Yep."
"But you don't have an advanced degree?"
"Nope."
"Have you ever thought about getting one?"
"I've thought about it occasionally."
"I'm sure you know it can change the way you're regarded in the field, increase your respect, as well as your pay."
"Yep."
"If it's something you're considering, you should go for it, you're still young!" A slight pause. "You know, I just read an article that found that graduate students have less sex than geriatrics."
Wait a second... have I been having less sex than OLD PEOPLE for the last SIX years?
Wait a MINUTE... isn't this supposed to be stress counseling??
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The World is Going to Hell in a Handbasket
My grandfather's death left 50 years of collected parapharnelia filling an entire house, which of course, his survivors must dispense of somehow. And HOW, you may ask? Well, how else!? An estate sale!
As The Walking Guilt Trip tends to raise her nose at buying other people's used crap, she was not inclined to sell used crap to other people. She intended to pay Crap-Picker-Uppers thousands of dollars to haul away said crap.
For a few reasons - I hate seeing usable things go into the landfill, I can't stand not making money when I otherwise could have made money, and indeed, because I am a masochist - I volunteered to help dispose of heaps and heaps of crap and named myself the Very Important Person in Charge of This Estate Sale.
Now, everyone knows a garage sale is a lot of work and while you can make a couple hundred bucks, you've gotta kinda really WANT that hundred bucks... because you're going to have to deal with Garage-Salers. The ones that ask you if you'll take 75 cents instead of a buck for that brand new snow shovel that cost you 20 bucks just last year.
Everyone knows to expect this. I knew to expect this.
There are two things that I did not expect.
One: a nice looking lady who asked me the price of two chairs which were clearly labelled as $20 apiece, $30 for the pair (while "accidentally" covering the price tag with her thumb), talked me down to $20 for the pair, then LIED to The Unsupportive Louse, telling him I'd agreed to $15 for the pair, told me I simply didn't remember when I corrected her, and finally, after paying only $28 for crap we'd labelled for at least $60 and that really would have cost her $400, she picks up a 50 cent plate and asks, "Will you throw this in for free?"
Now, clearly, I wanted to yell "No, ya dumb bi-otch, pay the F-ing 50 cents- it's only 50 god damned cents!!" But, you know, it IS just 50 cents, so I didn't. But I still hated her a little bit.
Which is why what she did next shocked the shit out of me.
She gave me her real estate card, told me to give her a call when we were selling the house.
Give you a call? Give me my $32.50 and you can have my seven THOUSAND dollar commission! Think maybe it would have been worth it? Dumbass!!
But story number two may have surprised me even more. Why? Because it was a sweet, sweet little old lady.
Three of them showed up together - as several of my grandparent's friends were stopping by to say their farewells to the house and maybe pick up a Doris flower pot memento, I momentarily thought they may part of that crowd...but I sure as hell hope not now.
They picked over stuff all slow and old-lady like, and one bought a 25 cent piece of costume jewelry. Sweet, sweet little old lady had a $2 "Santa Stops Here" sign in her hand at that moment, standing at the little cash table. I ask if she's ready. She says she's going to go inside to look at the furniture first. Because you're going to actually BUY the furniture, lady? You're like 97. But sure, whatever, feel free to pretend. She ambles inside, checks out the furniture. Ambles back out just about two seconds later. I'm busy helping another cheapskate but see them out of the corner of my eye, walking to their car. Sweet, sweet little old lady STOLE a TWO DOLLAR Santa sign. Are you kidding me? And old people think it's the YOUNG people that are screwing up this world? UGH! (Oh, and don't even TRY to tell me she forgot, that malicious old devil did it on purpose without a doubt!)
No thanks to these two jerk-offs, the estate sale was quite successful. You can rest assured The Energizer Bunny will now be able to enroll for 2 college units. So long as the rate of our education fund keeps up with the rate of the rising tuition. And so long as he goes to a community college. And lives at home. And walks to school. And eats Ramen for every meal.
Definitely worth it.
As The Walking Guilt Trip tends to raise her nose at buying other people's used crap, she was not inclined to sell used crap to other people. She intended to pay Crap-Picker-Uppers thousands of dollars to haul away said crap.
For a few reasons - I hate seeing usable things go into the landfill, I can't stand not making money when I otherwise could have made money, and indeed, because I am a masochist - I volunteered to help dispose of heaps and heaps of crap and named myself the Very Important Person in Charge of This Estate Sale.
Now, everyone knows a garage sale is a lot of work and while you can make a couple hundred bucks, you've gotta kinda really WANT that hundred bucks... because you're going to have to deal with Garage-Salers. The ones that ask you if you'll take 75 cents instead of a buck for that brand new snow shovel that cost you 20 bucks just last year.
Everyone knows to expect this. I knew to expect this.
There are two things that I did not expect.
One: a nice looking lady who asked me the price of two chairs which were clearly labelled as $20 apiece, $30 for the pair (while "accidentally" covering the price tag with her thumb), talked me down to $20 for the pair, then LIED to The Unsupportive Louse, telling him I'd agreed to $15 for the pair, told me I simply didn't remember when I corrected her, and finally, after paying only $28 for crap we'd labelled for at least $60 and that really would have cost her $400, she picks up a 50 cent plate and asks, "Will you throw this in for free?"
Now, clearly, I wanted to yell "No, ya dumb bi-otch, pay the F-ing 50 cents- it's only 50 god damned cents!!" But, you know, it IS just 50 cents, so I didn't. But I still hated her a little bit.
Which is why what she did next shocked the shit out of me.
She gave me her real estate card, told me to give her a call when we were selling the house.
Give you a call? Give me my $32.50 and you can have my seven THOUSAND dollar commission! Think maybe it would have been worth it? Dumbass!!
But story number two may have surprised me even more. Why? Because it was a sweet, sweet little old lady.
Three of them showed up together - as several of my grandparent's friends were stopping by to say their farewells to the house and maybe pick up a Doris flower pot memento, I momentarily thought they may part of that crowd...but I sure as hell hope not now.
They picked over stuff all slow and old-lady like, and one bought a 25 cent piece of costume jewelry. Sweet, sweet little old lady had a $2 "Santa Stops Here" sign in her hand at that moment, standing at the little cash table. I ask if she's ready. She says she's going to go inside to look at the furniture first. Because you're going to actually BUY the furniture, lady? You're like 97. But sure, whatever, feel free to pretend. She ambles inside, checks out the furniture. Ambles back out just about two seconds later. I'm busy helping another cheapskate but see them out of the corner of my eye, walking to their car. Sweet, sweet little old lady STOLE a TWO DOLLAR Santa sign. Are you kidding me? And old people think it's the YOUNG people that are screwing up this world? UGH! (Oh, and don't even TRY to tell me she forgot, that malicious old devil did it on purpose without a doubt!)
No thanks to these two jerk-offs, the estate sale was quite successful. You can rest assured The Energizer Bunny will now be able to enroll for 2 college units. So long as the rate of our education fund keeps up with the rate of the rising tuition. And so long as he goes to a community college. And lives at home. And walks to school. And eats Ramen for every meal.
Definitely worth it.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Curse of the Middle Child
If you’ll recall, my Grandfather died recently. For his funeral and visitations, I put together two large picture boards including dozens of pictures from my grandparent’s home, a few from my mother, and all of mine. Let me repeat that – every single picture that I had of my grandfather I pulled out of photo albums, scrap books, out of frames off my wall.
When handing the boards off to The Walking Guilt Trip to take to the funeral home, this conversation ensued:
“So the funeral home is making that memory book from all of these pictures?”
“That’s what they say.”
“So could I have these ones after the funeral?”
Silent look of death. How could I ask such a thing of her?
“I’d really like them and you’ll have the book with copies of all of them anyway, right?”
Close of eyes in disbelief.
“Maybe just a couple of the ones with Papa and Grandma young then?”
Deep sigh. A look that asks - You just don’t give in, do you?
I chose to stop speaking to her altogether at this point.
It was clear to me that I would not be getting the pictures, which annoyed me and I thus needed to make sure she was aware that I was annoyed because it’s really the only way I get what I want - by making her think I don’t love her anymore - which she will of course guilt me about later, but every once in awhile, it’s worth the effort and the pain. I’ve found not talking or not smiling at all works best. Unfortunately, smiling wasn’t really expected at the funeral…
Anyway, the funeral comes and goes and we return home without once thinking of the pictures.
Theses are written, theses are defended, in-laws and Easter are come and gone, and suddenly the obnoxious empty frames on my wall start whining to me that I have not gotten my pictures back from the funeral yet.
So I ask The Walking Guilt Trip, “Could I get my pictures back from Papa’s memory boards? I keep forgetting to ask you about them.”
“The pictures?” Blank stare.
I stare back because WTF. I spent HOURS on those boards. She BETTER remember them. “From the funeral?”
“Oh. I gave them to the Princess. They were all in one bag, it was just easier to give them all to her.”
If you’ll recall, my Grandfather died recently. For his funeral and visitations, I put together two large picture boards including dozens of pictures from my grandparent’s home, a few from my mother, and all of mine. Let me repeat that – every single picture that I had of my grandfather I pulled out of photo albums, scrap books, out of frames off my wall.
When handing the boards off to The Walking Guilt Trip to take to the funeral home, this conversation ensued:
“So the funeral home is making that memory book from all of these pictures?”
“That’s what they say.”
“So could I have these ones after the funeral?”
Silent look of death. How could I ask such a thing of her?
“I’d really like them and you’ll have the book with copies of all of them anyway, right?”
Close of eyes in disbelief.
“Maybe just a couple of the ones with Papa and Grandma young then?”
Deep sigh. A look that asks - You just don’t give in, do you?
I chose to stop speaking to her altogether at this point.
It was clear to me that I would not be getting the pictures, which annoyed me and I thus needed to make sure she was aware that I was annoyed because it’s really the only way I get what I want - by making her think I don’t love her anymore - which she will of course guilt me about later, but every once in awhile, it’s worth the effort and the pain. I’ve found not talking or not smiling at all works best. Unfortunately, smiling wasn’t really expected at the funeral…
Anyway, the funeral comes and goes and we return home without once thinking of the pictures.
Theses are written, theses are defended, in-laws and Easter are come and gone, and suddenly the obnoxious empty frames on my wall start whining to me that I have not gotten my pictures back from the funeral yet.
So I ask The Walking Guilt Trip, “Could I get my pictures back from Papa’s memory boards? I keep forgetting to ask you about them.”
“The pictures?” Blank stare.
I stare back because WTF. I spent HOURS on those boards. She BETTER remember them. “From the funeral?”
“Oh. I gave them to the Princess. They were all in one bag, it was just easier to give them all to her.”
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Lesson Learned
Let me tell you a little something about myself: I like to entertain.
When I was 12 years old, I planned a formal dinner party for my birthday – not just the menu, but the recipes to be used, the “mocktails” to be offered, the napkins to be put on the table, the timing of the dishes to be served. (I told you, I’ve always been this crazy.)
For New York Thanksgivings (when there was a huge crowd) I literally spent a month planning my menu and the timing and began making desserts a week in advance.
For the Walking Guilt Trip’s 60th birthday, I planned a whole surprise shebang at my place for OLD PEOPLE.
Let’s rephrase – I love to entertain.
So you may be surprised to hear that I planned nothing, NOTHING for the Unsupportive Louse’s post-thesis defense party.
But I was SO DAMN proud when, the first day of their stay, the Female Pill pulled out a stack of recipes and said, “I thought we’d make a couple little appetizers for the party on Saturday; we always just do the standards – chips and dips, those little mini-hot dogs, chicken wings, pizzas. Nothing special.”
I could smile and say, with sincerity, “That would be great.”
And when there were enough leftovers to feed all of Djibouti for a week, I felt asbolutely vindicated for having contributed precisely nothing to my own party.
I feel a lesson has been learned here. 1 point tallied for Penney. Only 999,627 to go.
When I was 12 years old, I planned a formal dinner party for my birthday – not just the menu, but the recipes to be used, the “mocktails” to be offered, the napkins to be put on the table, the timing of the dishes to be served. (I told you, I’ve always been this crazy.)
For New York Thanksgivings (when there was a huge crowd) I literally spent a month planning my menu and the timing and began making desserts a week in advance.
For the Walking Guilt Trip’s 60th birthday, I planned a whole surprise shebang at my place for OLD PEOPLE.
Let’s rephrase – I love to entertain.
So you may be surprised to hear that I planned nothing, NOTHING for the Unsupportive Louse’s post-thesis defense party.
But I was SO DAMN proud when, the first day of their stay, the Female Pill pulled out a stack of recipes and said, “I thought we’d make a couple little appetizers for the party on Saturday; we always just do the standards – chips and dips, those little mini-hot dogs, chicken wings, pizzas. Nothing special.”
I could smile and say, with sincerity, “That would be great.”
And when there were enough leftovers to feed all of Djibouti for a week, I felt asbolutely vindicated for having contributed precisely nothing to my own party.
I feel a lesson has been learned here. 1 point tallied for Penney. Only 999,627 to go.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Unsupportive Louse, PhD
The Unsupportive Louse graduated!!! He is now to be known to all those who know him (or perhaps just those who care) as: Unsupportive Louse, PhD.
Of course, for his thesis defense, the Pills came to visit. (Did you really think I'd write an ENTIRE blog about something GOOD the Unsupportive Louse did???)
Please remember that I do love my in-laws even if, by some odd quirk of words, they are at times portrayed somewhat less than fantastically in this silly little blog of mine. And it IS true. Even if I am just saying it because there may be a chance that they’ve discovered this piece of my personality and may or may not stop by someday and may or may not read this very blog.
My favorite Female Pill moment of the week –
The Female Pill is in MY kitchen cooking (all sorts of implications of it’s own…but we’ll ignore those for the moment) – the Unsupportive Louse, the Male Pill and I are sitting in the living room, the Energizer Bunny is napping.
Let me remind you of a few things –
1. it’s MY kitchen
2. it’s OUR house
3. we’re ALL in the living room
4. the Male Pill does not cook
From the kitchen, the Female Pill calls out,
“Hey, Male Pill, I don’t remember how to turn this oven on, do you remember?”
(P.S. – you turn the knob, just like any other oven…)
Of course, for his thesis defense, the Pills came to visit. (Did you really think I'd write an ENTIRE blog about something GOOD the Unsupportive Louse did???)
Please remember that I do love my in-laws even if, by some odd quirk of words, they are at times portrayed somewhat less than fantastically in this silly little blog of mine. And it IS true. Even if I am just saying it because there may be a chance that they’ve discovered this piece of my personality and may or may not stop by someday and may or may not read this very blog.
My favorite Female Pill moment of the week –
The Female Pill is in MY kitchen cooking (all sorts of implications of it’s own…but we’ll ignore those for the moment) – the Unsupportive Louse, the Male Pill and I are sitting in the living room, the Energizer Bunny is napping.
Let me remind you of a few things –
1. it’s MY kitchen
2. it’s OUR house
3. we’re ALL in the living room
4. the Male Pill does not cook
From the kitchen, the Female Pill calls out,
“Hey, Male Pill, I don’t remember how to turn this oven on, do you remember?”
(P.S. – you turn the knob, just like any other oven…)
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Unfortunately Related
My grandfather died last week.
It was sad, obviously, but not tragic. He was 89 years old, had quintuple (that’s 5 if you can’t uple that high) bypass surgery 15 years ago, another bypass surgery 2 years ago and a heart attack a week before he died. So while sympathy is ALWAYS appreciated (after all, what is a blog for??), it’s not the point here.
His funeral meant we had a mini, impromptu family reunion. As plans were coming into place, I confess I had a minor panic attack at the thought of sharing a 1000-square foot house (namely, my grandparent's old place) with my husband, son, mother, brother, sister, Aunt and Uncle.
Fortunately, the Mooch has no soul nor desire to spend quality time with the extended family and drove 2 hours to spend 3 hours at only the funeral and reception. Then the Princess and Walking Guilt Trip declared themselves above sharing facilities with the recently departed and so rented a hotel room for the weekend, as did my Aunt (which I will only assume was a charitable act to us and had nothing to do with her more than minor hatred of small children.) Her husband chose not to come. I’d comment, but I believe he was taking care of his own old, sick relatives, so I will refrain this one time only.
Now, as I’m sure all families must be prone to discuss during the visitation hours in the funeral home following the death of a love one, mine began to discuss the new positions the family members had required. In other words, The Walking Guilt Trip announced that she was now The Matriarch.
A common thing to announce at a funeral, I’m sure.
Thus began a lively debate on the Princess status. You see, both my Aunt and my sister wanted the title. In the end, they shared. No lingering bitterness from either side. Really. (PS - I would find it more amusing that The Princess titled herself The Princess if it weren’t such a fitting title and really rather obvious and therefore not at all clever on my part.)
Discussion moved on. The Energizer Bunny became The Little Prince. Stares turned to me. I chose to kindly exit the conversation with the pretense of entertaining the newly dubbed Little Prince, who was not at all entertained by the grievously incorrect topic. It was a good excuse.
Upon my return, I was told I had been named “Unfortunately Related” to the Family.
SO TRUE, so true!! I accept!!
Only later did it occur to me that THEY named ME. THEY were unfortunately related to ME. HOW DARE THEY!? Bastards! All of them!!
It was sad, obviously, but not tragic. He was 89 years old, had quintuple (that’s 5 if you can’t uple that high) bypass surgery 15 years ago, another bypass surgery 2 years ago and a heart attack a week before he died. So while sympathy is ALWAYS appreciated (after all, what is a blog for??), it’s not the point here.
His funeral meant we had a mini, impromptu family reunion. As plans were coming into place, I confess I had a minor panic attack at the thought of sharing a 1000-square foot house (namely, my grandparent's old place) with my husband, son, mother, brother, sister, Aunt and Uncle.
Fortunately, the Mooch has no soul nor desire to spend quality time with the extended family and drove 2 hours to spend 3 hours at only the funeral and reception. Then the Princess and Walking Guilt Trip declared themselves above sharing facilities with the recently departed and so rented a hotel room for the weekend, as did my Aunt (which I will only assume was a charitable act to us and had nothing to do with her more than minor hatred of small children.) Her husband chose not to come. I’d comment, but I believe he was taking care of his own old, sick relatives, so I will refrain this one time only.
Now, as I’m sure all families must be prone to discuss during the visitation hours in the funeral home following the death of a love one, mine began to discuss the new positions the family members had required. In other words, The Walking Guilt Trip announced that she was now The Matriarch.
A common thing to announce at a funeral, I’m sure.
Thus began a lively debate on the Princess status. You see, both my Aunt and my sister wanted the title. In the end, they shared. No lingering bitterness from either side. Really. (PS - I would find it more amusing that The Princess titled herself The Princess if it weren’t such a fitting title and really rather obvious and therefore not at all clever on my part.)
Discussion moved on. The Energizer Bunny became The Little Prince. Stares turned to me. I chose to kindly exit the conversation with the pretense of entertaining the newly dubbed Little Prince, who was not at all entertained by the grievously incorrect topic. It was a good excuse.
Upon my return, I was told I had been named “Unfortunately Related” to the Family.
SO TRUE, so true!! I accept!!
Only later did it occur to me that THEY named ME. THEY were unfortunately related to ME. HOW DARE THEY!? Bastards! All of them!!
Monday, March 22, 2010
True Story
The Energizer Bunny, like all good two-year olds, is becoming quite adept at story-telling. He is telling stories - some true stories and some that he makes up - usually mildly clever but highly endearing. The problem is that he really can't tell you which ones are ACTUALLY true. He really believes if he's told the story, it's REAL. And real in his mind, is the same as true. That just seemed cute to me. Except...
While I was washing dishes in the kitchen, the Energizer Bunny was talking to his trains (Thomas and Duncan, they're his favorites).
"One time, Momma and me went sleddin' on the big purple sled, and Momma pushed me down the green driveway 'stead of the white snow, and I goed into the street and got hit by a car!"
Dear Lord, my child is telling people I pushed him in front of a moving vehicle!
While I was washing dishes in the kitchen, the Energizer Bunny was talking to his trains (Thomas and Duncan, they're his favorites).
"One time, Momma and me went sleddin' on the big purple sled, and Momma pushed me down the green driveway 'stead of the white snow, and I goed into the street and got hit by a car!"
Dear Lord, my child is telling people I pushed him in front of a moving vehicle!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Fabulous Fitness Friday
Spring is here!!! The past two weeks have been blue skies with temperatures in the 50s and 60s! March in Michigan!!! This is insane!
And because the weather has been so fantastic, I've been able to start riding my bike into work this week! This is particularly awesome, because I don't have to deal with the crazy stalkers or Hannibal Lecter types on the bus OR the even crazier bus schedule (if I'm perfectly on time walking to the bus stop, I'll watch it go flying by, but if I'm even 30 seconds early, the bus is bound to be 13 minutes late...)
But that's not the point, the point is, you too, should start riding your bike to work! But...with the way my ass feels after only 3 days of riding, it would probably be a good idea to start slowly instead of jumping right into it full speed...
And because the weather has been so fantastic, I've been able to start riding my bike into work this week! This is particularly awesome, because I don't have to deal with the crazy stalkers or Hannibal Lecter types on the bus OR the even crazier bus schedule (if I'm perfectly on time walking to the bus stop, I'll watch it go flying by, but if I'm even 30 seconds early, the bus is bound to be 13 minutes late...)
But that's not the point, the point is, you too, should start riding your bike to work! But...with the way my ass feels after only 3 days of riding, it would probably be a good idea to start slowly instead of jumping right into it full speed...
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Loving Concern
One late night recently, after the Unsupportive Louse returned home from yet another day spent slaving over a document no one will ever read, he was generous enough to ask me how I was.
"I have this horrible hacking cough, my throat is dry and scratchy and my nose is all congested and the congestion is making my head pound too. Plus my mouth and tongue are all dried out because I can't breathe out of my nose. I'm frigging exhausted and the Energizer Bunny didn't take a nap today so I didn't even get a break all day."
He regards me calmly and replies, "If I'm sick the week before my thesis is due, I'm gonna be pissed."
It's so good to know he cares about me!
"I have this horrible hacking cough, my throat is dry and scratchy and my nose is all congested and the congestion is making my head pound too. Plus my mouth and tongue are all dried out because I can't breathe out of my nose. I'm frigging exhausted and the Energizer Bunny didn't take a nap today so I didn't even get a break all day."
He regards me calmly and replies, "If I'm sick the week before my thesis is due, I'm gonna be pissed."
It's so good to know he cares about me!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Gamma Guilt Trip
The morning after a quasi recent date (because it's been that long since I've actually had time to write blogs consistently) I asked the Energizer Bunny how his evening with The Walking Guilt Trip had been.
"Good, Momma."
"Did you eat dinner?"
"Yeah."
"What did you have?"
"Omm... chocolate!" (This could be a wish on his part because he can't remember at the moment, or most likely, it is simply the truth. While I never would have had chocolate anywhere near dinner, I believe it actually pleases The Walking Guilt Trip to break my rules and see how I respond. Clearly getting mad at my own mother would incite ridiculous guilt, that for her to watch must be almost like a fortune-teller watching a self-fulling prophecy come to be. For the time being, I chose to ignore the response.)
"Did you play?"
"Yeah." Getting information out of a two-year old who does nothing but ask "why" all day and therefore should know very well what it means to answer a question is a billion times harder than it should be.
"What did you play?"
"Umm... played trains..." He has this really cute way of dragging out the words in a list while he thinks of the next thing to add, "cars... puzzles... books on Gamma's lap..." At this point, a terrible sadness overcomes his entire face, his eyes fills with tears and his lower lip sticks out and begins to quiver. Enough to break a mother's heart.
"Kiddo, what's wrong?"
"Gamma got mad."
This does not surprise me even a little bit, my mother has the patience of a fly (something, I might add, I perhaps inherited just a little bit of), but it still upsets me, obviously. "Why did Gamma get mad?"
"'Cause I peed."
"Because you peed?" I have the brilliant ability to extrapolate (something the Unsupportive Louse is completely inept at), and you see, the Energizer Bunny is in the process of being potty trained (or potty-taught or learned or whatever politically correct but grammatically incorrect phrase you prefer to use) and still has occasional accidents. So I asked, "Did you pee in your underwear?"
Looking at the floor, full of shame, "Yeah."
"And Gamma was upset?" This seems extreme to me even for my mother to get mad at a two-year old simply for having an accident.
He looks up at me, eyes brimming with tears, "'Cause I peed on her lap." I did everything in my willpower to keep from laughing at this hilarious scene: my perfectly composed mother in her freshly pressed slacks discovering the warm feel of pee on her leg.
A tiny tear trickles out of one eye. It's amazing the power a single real tear has over me. "Gamma don'nt wanna come over any-more 'cause I peed."
The guilt trip. I can hear it now, "Gamma isn't going to want to come over anymore if you pee on her."
Way to start 'em young Gamma Guilt-Trip, way to start 'em young.
"Good, Momma."
"Did you eat dinner?"
"Yeah."
"What did you have?"
"Omm... chocolate!" (This could be a wish on his part because he can't remember at the moment, or most likely, it is simply the truth. While I never would have had chocolate anywhere near dinner, I believe it actually pleases The Walking Guilt Trip to break my rules and see how I respond. Clearly getting mad at my own mother would incite ridiculous guilt, that for her to watch must be almost like a fortune-teller watching a self-fulling prophecy come to be. For the time being, I chose to ignore the response.)
"Did you play?"
"Yeah." Getting information out of a two-year old who does nothing but ask "why" all day and therefore should know very well what it means to answer a question is a billion times harder than it should be.
"What did you play?"
"Umm... played trains..." He has this really cute way of dragging out the words in a list while he thinks of the next thing to add, "cars... puzzles... books on Gamma's lap..." At this point, a terrible sadness overcomes his entire face, his eyes fills with tears and his lower lip sticks out and begins to quiver. Enough to break a mother's heart.
"Kiddo, what's wrong?"
"Gamma got mad."
This does not surprise me even a little bit, my mother has the patience of a fly (something, I might add, I perhaps inherited just a little bit of), but it still upsets me, obviously. "Why did Gamma get mad?"
"'Cause I peed."
"Because you peed?" I have the brilliant ability to extrapolate (something the Unsupportive Louse is completely inept at), and you see, the Energizer Bunny is in the process of being potty trained (or potty-taught or learned or whatever politically correct but grammatically incorrect phrase you prefer to use) and still has occasional accidents. So I asked, "Did you pee in your underwear?"
Looking at the floor, full of shame, "Yeah."
"And Gamma was upset?" This seems extreme to me even for my mother to get mad at a two-year old simply for having an accident.
He looks up at me, eyes brimming with tears, "'Cause I peed on her lap." I did everything in my willpower to keep from laughing at this hilarious scene: my perfectly composed mother in her freshly pressed slacks discovering the warm feel of pee on her leg.
A tiny tear trickles out of one eye. It's amazing the power a single real tear has over me. "Gamma don'nt wanna come over any-more 'cause I peed."
The guilt trip. I can hear it now, "Gamma isn't going to want to come over anymore if you pee on her."
Way to start 'em young Gamma Guilt-Trip, way to start 'em young.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Can You Feel the LOOOOVE Tonight?
To give me a break from my single parenting, the Unsupportive Louse came home early one day and made dinner!! No way! I was allowed to put my feet up...and chase the Energizer Bunny, set the table, fan the smoke detector and otherwise calmly relax while my dinner was prepared for me.
And dinner was fantastic. (No really, it actually was. Like FanTAStic. No exaggeration. Nothing was even burnt. The smoke detector might have just been having a little fun with me. Like the Energizer Bunny when he sees me sit down. It just makes them want to f*(k with me a bit, you know?)
So after dinner (which may have been just a teansy little bit later than we normally eat dinner) and the lengthy clean-up (which may have seemed like a lot more of a clean-up than we normally have when I make dinner), the Unsupportive Louse makes some very romantic and classy comment in regards to doing me, like, "I can't wait to do you later."
Remember I've been single-parenting for two months now, so I respond, "What if I'm too tired?"
"It doesn't matter, I made dinner, I have free access to your pants."
And dinner was fantastic. (No really, it actually was. Like FanTAStic. No exaggeration. Nothing was even burnt. The smoke detector might have just been having a little fun with me. Like the Energizer Bunny when he sees me sit down. It just makes them want to f*(k with me a bit, you know?)
So after dinner (which may have been just a teansy little bit later than we normally eat dinner) and the lengthy clean-up (which may have seemed like a lot more of a clean-up than we normally have when I make dinner), the Unsupportive Louse makes some very romantic and classy comment in regards to doing me, like, "I can't wait to do you later."
Remember I've been single-parenting for two months now, so I respond, "What if I'm too tired?"
"It doesn't matter, I made dinner, I have free access to your pants."
Monday, March 1, 2010
Famous By Association
There's the cutest little story posted on Everydayfiction.com called Conversation with a Giant:
http://www.everydayfiction.com/conversation-with-a-giant-by-kate-sheeran/
Of course you should all read the story because it's cute, and give it a good rating because it's cute. But let's focus on the more important things here - me.
You see, the author, Kate Sheeran (who is clearly now famous, being a published author and all) is my critique partner. Which means I critiqued that cute story. Which means I am famous by association. So make sure you read it and give it a good rating because it makes me look better. Thank you very much.
http://www.everydayfiction.com/conversation-with-a-giant-by-kate-sheeran/
Of course you should all read the story because it's cute, and give it a good rating because it's cute. But let's focus on the more important things here - me.
You see, the author, Kate Sheeran (who is clearly now famous, being a published author and all) is my critique partner. Which means I critiqued that cute story. Which means I am famous by association. So make sure you read it and give it a good rating because it makes me look better. Thank you very much.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Abandoned Blog
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #1: Dude, does anyone even live here? I swear I haven't seen movement in like...weeks.
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: No, man, I think the place is abandoned.
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #1: Really? You think?
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: Betcha anything. Watch this. (Proceeds to throw stones at computer screen.)
Friendly Neighborhood Blogger: Hey, you kids leave that poor blog alone!
Obnoxious Teenage Blogreaders log off for their lives.
Jokes on you, kids, I couldn't see any cracks on this screen through the fingerprint smudge and grime of the Energizer Bunny even if it WEREN'T plastic and shatter proof.
Understanding has occurred to me why there aren't all that many single parent bloggers in the blogosphere. It's because they're too f*ing tired!! (All single parents should feel free to brag about yourselves if you even have time to read this...)
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: No, man, I think the place is abandoned.
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #1: Really? You think?
Obnoxious Teenager Blogreader #2: Betcha anything. Watch this. (Proceeds to throw stones at computer screen.)
Friendly Neighborhood Blogger: Hey, you kids leave that poor blog alone!
Obnoxious Teenage Blogreaders log off for their lives.
Jokes on you, kids, I couldn't see any cracks on this screen through the fingerprint smudge and grime of the Energizer Bunny even if it WEREN'T plastic and shatter proof.
Understanding has occurred to me why there aren't all that many single parent bloggers in the blogosphere. It's because they're too f*ing tired!! (All single parents should feel free to brag about yourselves if you even have time to read this...)
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