I have admitted that I have been lonely. I have delved into the depths of my mind to elucidate the minutiae of every lonely thought. And I have saved those details and sent them out to the abyss of the internet where they will live in infamy forever.
In less than 1000 words, I have left much out. While I could have gone on for days about the self-doubt and pity that tries to make up my daily existence, that’s not what is important. It doesn’t take more than 1000 words for you to get that. What’s important is that I’m not lonely. What’s important is that I have an amazing support network that has kept me afloat. Beyond afloat, they have pulled me on their shoulders out of the lake of my own tears and carried me completely dry to the shore. And while I look now at the vast lake we crossed and the distant shore I can never return to and feel that loss, I’m not in that lake. I am not drowning.
There are multitudes who shared the burden of my unfortunate mess of a life while I was unable to carry it myself, some for mere seconds or minutes, some for endless days and weeks, some I know intimately, some I don’t know at all. I owe to all of you a debt of gratitude. But to none do I owe more than to the “wonderful man I have to date.”
In the time before we dated, you were a distant star in the complete darkness that had enclosed me. You were the first little light that allowed me to realize there was still light left in my world; that I only had to reach out to turn them on. Your light gave me the hope I had lost. Your light gave me the power to find happiness where I’d begun to doubt it ever would be again.
As we began to date, your glow lit up my world and a path I would have taken much longer to find had you not been there for me. You made me smile and laugh as I forgotten how to smile or laugh. Perhaps more importantly, you let me cry and break in front of you and you were there to re-adhere the broken pieces, without judgment, without complaint. And you could have judged, you could have complained. You could have left me alone in my pooling tears. You owed me nothing, you knew me little. But you never left my side.
The more microbe-infested my growing lake of issues and drama became, the stronger you were for me, the more strength you gave to me. And you gave me the credit for that strength. Nothing made you turn your back on me and wade your way right back out, you just kept carrying me. And I think sometimes I forgot to realize that it was you trudging through my mess and me sitting blissfully on your shoulders. Sometimes I forgot to realize there was such a big mess at all. I needed to forget it, and you gave that chance to me the way no one else could.
And now I sit here safely on the edge of my lake of tears with you still standing by my side, holding me up, and I glance back at the distant shore where my former life lives, and whine to the world that I’m lonely, that my life is not perfect.
I can be lonely. Even with you next to me. My life is not perfect. It never will be. But I have you.
You made my imperfect life happy. You made my darkest days livable. You pulled me through it all. You are my Prince Charming. You are my White Knight.
Without you, I may not have drowned, I may not have drowned all my friends, I may even someday have made it as far as I have now. But it would have been excruciatingly painful. Without you, it would have been hell.
No matter where we go from here, no matter where our paths take us, I will owe you a debt I can never repay. I will always remember; I will always cherish what you have done for me. I will always cherish you.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
If We Weren't the Absolutely Perfect Couple...
The Unsupportive Louse and I were having an argument the other day…we never actually fight in real life of course, this is just a totally and completely made up story for the sake of a good blog post. Obviously.
During this completely fictional argument, our offspring were present. (Obviously also fictional as if the Unsupportive Louse and I were to fight, we would never, EVER do so in front of our children.)
But, pretending for the moment that this DID in fact happen, and realizing that if we were to argue, it would never be over something ridiculously unimportant or include and miscommunications or become blown out of proportion in 3.5 seconds at all. Ever. Because we (especially me) are very intelligent, rational grown-ups and are capable of having calm, rational discussions. Of course. But if we weren’t so wonderfully mature and expansive and DIDN’T wait until our kids were tucked snuggly in bed to peacefully ruminate over our minor disagreements, it would have gone something like this:
“I swear sometimes you don’t even know me at all!”
“Yes, he does Mommy, don’t you, Daddy? He just sometimes forgets, huh?”
“Yes, cutie, he does, you’re right.”
“What the hell does me knowing you have anything to do with it?” (We also never, ever, ever swear in front of the kids.)
“You shouldn’t say hell Daddy. I might say it at daycare.”
“Well, it’s either that or you’re just totally inconsiderate and don’t give a rat’s ass about us at all. And you’re right, sweetie, we shouldn’t say hell. And I shouldn’t say ass either.”
“How can you even say that? You know you guys mean everything to me.”
“Yeah, Mommy, Daddy loves us.”
“Of course he does baby. But you have a shitty way of showing it!”
“It’s not because I don’t love you, I just need some time alone sometimes to reboot.” (The Unsupportive Louse does in fact say things like reboot in regular conversation, even if this dialogue is all fake…)
“Mommy should we make an ID card for me now?” He wants an ID card. Don’t ask me.
“We need to get the picture from the store first, remember kiddo? And I GIVE you time off, I give you time off ALL the time, besides, when do I get any time off?”
“You don’t need time off from people, you’re an extrovert!”
“What’s an eggs-a-vert? NO!! That’s my ID card!!”
“Baby, give the card back to your brother, no no, don’t eat it, no sweetie, don’t cry.” The tiny drama queen proceeds to have a melt-down in which no other small piece of cut out cereal box will substitute for THE piece of cut-out cereal box. I would like to say this minor temper tantrum interrupted the argument. But as only veteran parents can, we soldiered on. Or, er, I mean, we would have…it’s just a story, not real, all that…
“What does being an extrovert have to do with needing a break? Just because I actually LIKE people doesn’t mean I don’t need a break sometimes.”
“Maybe, but not as much as I do.”
“Can I have a break?”
”What? You think you do more work then me? You seriously think you need a break more than me? Of course you can have a break, kiddo, just lay down on the couch with me, we can cuddle, do you want to cuddle?”
"Why does Daddy not like people Mommy?”
“Great, thanks, see, you made him think I don’t like people.”
“Of course Daddy likes people kiddo, he just likes to be alone sometimes to think. Some people like to be alone more than other people, and some people like more time alone than other people. YOU just happen to want WAY too much time alone. Am I supposed to be a single parent here? Oh, our sweet tiny drama queen wants to cuddle too, come cuddle baby.”
“No, you’re not supposed to be a single parent! Damn it! You know what I mean! I just don’t know why you get so frustrated with me!”
The Energizer Bunny looks up at me from our cuddle session on the couch, “Mommy, why are you mad at Daddy?”
And can I tell you that for at least 30 seconds I had no idea. I would like to tell you that that realization ended the argument…but such a realization so deep into the land of pissed off can only cause further irritation. Besides, I'm sure I would have remembered right away if it weren't for the kids.
In other news, we’ve begun a savings fund for the kids’ future therapy sessions. You know, just in case.
During this completely fictional argument, our offspring were present. (Obviously also fictional as if the Unsupportive Louse and I were to fight, we would never, EVER do so in front of our children.)
But, pretending for the moment that this DID in fact happen, and realizing that if we were to argue, it would never be over something ridiculously unimportant or include and miscommunications or become blown out of proportion in 3.5 seconds at all. Ever. Because we (especially me) are very intelligent, rational grown-ups and are capable of having calm, rational discussions. Of course. But if we weren’t so wonderfully mature and expansive and DIDN’T wait until our kids were tucked snuggly in bed to peacefully ruminate over our minor disagreements, it would have gone something like this:
“I swear sometimes you don’t even know me at all!”
“Yes, he does Mommy, don’t you, Daddy? He just sometimes forgets, huh?”
“Yes, cutie, he does, you’re right.”
“What the hell does me knowing you have anything to do with it?” (We also never, ever, ever swear in front of the kids.)
“You shouldn’t say hell Daddy. I might say it at daycare.”
“Well, it’s either that or you’re just totally inconsiderate and don’t give a rat’s ass about us at all. And you’re right, sweetie, we shouldn’t say hell. And I shouldn’t say ass either.”
“How can you even say that? You know you guys mean everything to me.”
“Yeah, Mommy, Daddy loves us.”
“Of course he does baby. But you have a shitty way of showing it!”
“It’s not because I don’t love you, I just need some time alone sometimes to reboot.” (The Unsupportive Louse does in fact say things like reboot in regular conversation, even if this dialogue is all fake…)
“Mommy should we make an ID card for me now?” He wants an ID card. Don’t ask me.
“We need to get the picture from the store first, remember kiddo? And I GIVE you time off, I give you time off ALL the time, besides, when do I get any time off?”
“You don’t need time off from people, you’re an extrovert!”
“What’s an eggs-a-vert? NO!! That’s my ID card!!”
“Baby, give the card back to your brother, no no, don’t eat it, no sweetie, don’t cry.” The tiny drama queen proceeds to have a melt-down in which no other small piece of cut out cereal box will substitute for THE piece of cut-out cereal box. I would like to say this minor temper tantrum interrupted the argument. But as only veteran parents can, we soldiered on. Or, er, I mean, we would have…it’s just a story, not real, all that…
“What does being an extrovert have to do with needing a break? Just because I actually LIKE people doesn’t mean I don’t need a break sometimes.”
“Maybe, but not as much as I do.”
“Can I have a break?”
”What? You think you do more work then me? You seriously think you need a break more than me? Of course you can have a break, kiddo, just lay down on the couch with me, we can cuddle, do you want to cuddle?”
"Why does Daddy not like people Mommy?”
“Great, thanks, see, you made him think I don’t like people.”
“Of course Daddy likes people kiddo, he just likes to be alone sometimes to think. Some people like to be alone more than other people, and some people like more time alone than other people. YOU just happen to want WAY too much time alone. Am I supposed to be a single parent here? Oh, our sweet tiny drama queen wants to cuddle too, come cuddle baby.”
“No, you’re not supposed to be a single parent! Damn it! You know what I mean! I just don’t know why you get so frustrated with me!”
The Energizer Bunny looks up at me from our cuddle session on the couch, “Mommy, why are you mad at Daddy?”
And can I tell you that for at least 30 seconds I had no idea. I would like to tell you that that realization ended the argument…but such a realization so deep into the land of pissed off can only cause further irritation. Besides, I'm sure I would have remembered right away if it weren't for the kids.
In other news, we’ve begun a savings fund for the kids’ future therapy sessions. You know, just in case.
Monday, December 5, 2011
I Hit Because I Care
I only do it because I care.
I know, I know, that’s what they all say, but in my case, it’s true! Besides, if the Unsupportive Louse just listened occasionally, I would HAVE to hit him anymore.
You don’t believe me, I see it in your eyes. You’re horrified. But listen, you have to hear my side of the story. By the end, you’ll side with me just like you sided with Lorena Bobbit* after she cut off that cheating bastard’s faithless piece of anatomy. Taught him! (Quick advice interjection here – you can use Ms Bobbit’s knife to teach your own Mr. Bobbit a lesson. Go public with your opinion on her (whether it’s your real opinion or not.) Your willie is MINE, buddy.)
But to get back to the very deserving Unsupportive Louse…at first, as is true with all relationships, he was perfect. Or rather, we didn’t have kids to wake us up in the middle of the nigh to make me realize just how imperfect he was.
But then, post Energizer Bunny, in the middle of the night, it started to keep me up. Constantly. His major imperfection.
At first, I just flicked him a bit. Nothing big, not even noticeable really.
But then, it started to annoy me that he didn’t notice. So I’d flick him a bit harder. Or maybe whack him a bit on the shoulder. Or the back. Or his head. Just a bit. Then a bit more. Just until he rolled over. Because at first, rolling over helped.
But then it stopped helping. Instead of stopping, he’d just start snoring louder. And he doesn’t just snore loud, you see, he snores imperfectly. Every snore is different from the last. Like snowflakes, except without the pretty part.
So then, I had to hit him harder. Just hard enough so he’d almost wake up. Because if he didn’t almost wake up, he wouldn’t stop anymore. And if he didn’t stop, I couldn’t sleep. And if I don’t sleep, I might not be hitting him in bed where no one can see and only in places where the bruises don’t show…I might just start beating him for real for real. And that would be his fault too.
For years I’ve been telling him that if he’d just get some help, I could stop hitting him. And he never listens. Some mornings he wakes up complaining of a headache or a sore shoulder. I assure him if he’d see a sleep specialist, he wouldn’t get the oxygen headaches anymore. And I’m sure the shoulder is sore from all that nerdy computer gaming he does late into the night.
See, like most of the abused, he doesn’t think there’s a problem. Like most of the abused, he doesn’t realize the problem is his. If only he’d listen once in awhile.
I make sure he doesn’t quite wake up so he doesn’t have to live with the shame of knowing how terrible he is to me. Like most abusers, I only do it because I love him so much.
You’re welcome, Unsupportive Louse, you’re welcome.
*Lorena Bobbit is another antiquated “current” event that I have faith all my readers will remember anyway, or google to get the joke. Pretty much the entire story is here though, so you don’t really need to.
I know, I know, that’s what they all say, but in my case, it’s true! Besides, if the Unsupportive Louse just listened occasionally, I would HAVE to hit him anymore.
You don’t believe me, I see it in your eyes. You’re horrified. But listen, you have to hear my side of the story. By the end, you’ll side with me just like you sided with Lorena Bobbit* after she cut off that cheating bastard’s faithless piece of anatomy. Taught him! (Quick advice interjection here – you can use Ms Bobbit’s knife to teach your own Mr. Bobbit a lesson. Go public with your opinion on her (whether it’s your real opinion or not.) Your willie is MINE, buddy.)
But to get back to the very deserving Unsupportive Louse…at first, as is true with all relationships, he was perfect. Or rather, we didn’t have kids to wake us up in the middle of the nigh to make me realize just how imperfect he was.
But then, post Energizer Bunny, in the middle of the night, it started to keep me up. Constantly. His major imperfection.
At first, I just flicked him a bit. Nothing big, not even noticeable really.
But then, it started to annoy me that he didn’t notice. So I’d flick him a bit harder. Or maybe whack him a bit on the shoulder. Or the back. Or his head. Just a bit. Then a bit more. Just until he rolled over. Because at first, rolling over helped.
But then it stopped helping. Instead of stopping, he’d just start snoring louder. And he doesn’t just snore loud, you see, he snores imperfectly. Every snore is different from the last. Like snowflakes, except without the pretty part.
So then, I had to hit him harder. Just hard enough so he’d almost wake up. Because if he didn’t almost wake up, he wouldn’t stop anymore. And if he didn’t stop, I couldn’t sleep. And if I don’t sleep, I might not be hitting him in bed where no one can see and only in places where the bruises don’t show…I might just start beating him for real for real. And that would be his fault too.
For years I’ve been telling him that if he’d just get some help, I could stop hitting him. And he never listens. Some mornings he wakes up complaining of a headache or a sore shoulder. I assure him if he’d see a sleep specialist, he wouldn’t get the oxygen headaches anymore. And I’m sure the shoulder is sore from all that nerdy computer gaming he does late into the night.
See, like most of the abused, he doesn’t think there’s a problem. Like most of the abused, he doesn’t realize the problem is his. If only he’d listen once in awhile.
I make sure he doesn’t quite wake up so he doesn’t have to live with the shame of knowing how terrible he is to me. Like most abusers, I only do it because I love him so much.
You’re welcome, Unsupportive Louse, you’re welcome.
*Lorena Bobbit is another antiquated “current” event that I have faith all my readers will remember anyway, or google to get the joke. Pretty much the entire story is here though, so you don’t really need to.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Dimpled Balls and the Number Two Reason I'm Too Tired to Post a Blog
The Unsupportive Louse has dimpled balls.
He hasn't always had dimpled balls, but now he does. When one looks at a pair of hairy, wrinkly balls, one does not instantly think "cute," but I'd say the dimples are pretty cute. Not cute like Baby, another category of cute altogether, but cute none-the-less.
And apparently when one has cute, newly dimpled balls, one wants one's wife to look at said cute dimpled balls and really...do Mother's of tiny babies have TIME to look at cute dimpled ball sacs? The answer, my friends, is no.
You see, having a baby will not ruin your social life, it will not ruin your body, it will not ruin your sex life. Having a SECOND baby...will. Everything you thought was a myth about the first baby after you had him or her; all those things that you thought you could throw back into under-educated and ill-informed parents faces; all that inner boasting you'd done...it's all come back to haunt you.
Because there's TWO of them now. There's no nap time phone calls to catch up with long lost friends, no easy runs with the immobile baby strapped into a jogging stroller, no afternoon quickie while the baby sleeps. Long lost friends? Forget you ever knew them. Jogging? A waste of time anyway. Quickie? Quickie what? No, really...what?
And even if, by some crazy chance, both of the product of your loins ARE sleeping at the same time, the LAST thing you're going to want to do is check out a couple scars between your husbands legs. Sleep would probably be the first choice.
Facebook the second, of course.
He hasn't always had dimpled balls, but now he does. When one looks at a pair of hairy, wrinkly balls, one does not instantly think "cute," but I'd say the dimples are pretty cute. Not cute like Baby, another category of cute altogether, but cute none-the-less.
And apparently when one has cute, newly dimpled balls, one wants one's wife to look at said cute dimpled balls and really...do Mother's of tiny babies have TIME to look at cute dimpled ball sacs? The answer, my friends, is no.
You see, having a baby will not ruin your social life, it will not ruin your body, it will not ruin your sex life. Having a SECOND baby...will. Everything you thought was a myth about the first baby after you had him or her; all those things that you thought you could throw back into under-educated and ill-informed parents faces; all that inner boasting you'd done...it's all come back to haunt you.
Because there's TWO of them now. There's no nap time phone calls to catch up with long lost friends, no easy runs with the immobile baby strapped into a jogging stroller, no afternoon quickie while the baby sleeps. Long lost friends? Forget you ever knew them. Jogging? A waste of time anyway. Quickie? Quickie what? No, really...what?
And even if, by some crazy chance, both of the product of your loins ARE sleeping at the same time, the LAST thing you're going to want to do is check out a couple scars between your husbands legs. Sleep would probably be the first choice.
Facebook the second, of course.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Number One Reason Why I'm Too Tired To Post A Blog This Week
I have a baby.
Do I really have to say any more?
Really, yes, I do. I always need to say more, otherwise this whole blog thing wouldn't be nearly as entertaining. When the whole blog thing actually happens, that is. And for as often as that is these days, it'd better be damned entertaining. So, yes, I will say more.
I have a baby. And that baby is the sweetest, most darling little creature I've ever set my eyes on. Even at 1am. And 2:15. And 3:07. And 4:23. And 5:19am. Of the same night. By 6:34 she may have moved to second place. But probably not. Because she really just is friggin' adorable.
Especially when *I* am the only thing she really wants. And I know I'm the only thing she wants because I've begun abandonning her EVERY DAY to the EVILS that are DAYCARE so I can go do something completely unexplanable and unimportant to a tiny precious baby like her.
Guilt has taken me a long way in life...but I confess this is the best guilt trip I've ever gotten. If only cuteness came caffeinated.
Do I really have to say any more?
Really, yes, I do. I always need to say more, otherwise this whole blog thing wouldn't be nearly as entertaining. When the whole blog thing actually happens, that is. And for as often as that is these days, it'd better be damned entertaining. So, yes, I will say more.
I have a baby. And that baby is the sweetest, most darling little creature I've ever set my eyes on. Even at 1am. And 2:15. And 3:07. And 4:23. And 5:19am. Of the same night. By 6:34 she may have moved to second place. But probably not. Because she really just is friggin' adorable.
Especially when *I* am the only thing she really wants. And I know I'm the only thing she wants because I've begun abandonning her EVERY DAY to the EVILS that are DAYCARE so I can go do something completely unexplanable and unimportant to a tiny precious baby like her.
Guilt has taken me a long way in life...but I confess this is the best guilt trip I've ever gotten. If only cuteness came caffeinated.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Don't You Hate Those People?
Who forget about the really important things in life? Like blogs?? What could be more frustrating than finding a good blog to read and then having the author run off and have a baby or some shit? If you're going to start a blog, you should give your readers or potential readers the benefit of your entire existense. Are you with me on this? Huh? Really?
In unrelated news, I've returned to work since having my baby and STILL cannot get my priorities straight (inform world of hilarious and/or heinous events first, calm screaming baby second.) But, never fear, I have made a pact to ammend this problem! Because the world needs to know about my life! Oh yes, they do!
So, if you don't see a new blog on here every week, you are welcome to come to my house, bang on my door, pull my out of bed and stand over my shoulder while I groggily type up some random BS to post on public access internet. Really.
So...see you next Friday! Just...try, not to wake the baby, would you?
In unrelated news, I've returned to work since having my baby and STILL cannot get my priorities straight (inform world of hilarious and/or heinous events first, calm screaming baby second.) But, never fear, I have made a pact to ammend this problem! Because the world needs to know about my life! Oh yes, they do!
So, if you don't see a new blog on here every week, you are welcome to come to my house, bang on my door, pull my out of bed and stand over my shoulder while I groggily type up some random BS to post on public access internet. Really.
So...see you next Friday! Just...try, not to wake the baby, would you?
Monday, January 3, 2011
2010 New Year’s Resolutions in Review
As decreed at the beginning of 2010, I am holding myself completely accountable for my New Year’s Resolutions. I have given myself simple pass or fail grades, but as you must realize, a failure at one silly little resolution may not really be ALL my fault and often can be explained… As it turns out, I did pretty awesome.
Resolution #1. Arriving at work on time. Initial Grade: FAIL.
I wholeheartedly blame my pregnancy for the capitol letters in the word fail – it is beyond impossible to get enough sleep while in either the first trimester or the third trimester, or a vast number of days during the second trimester, to actually not only be able to get up on time but WANT to as well. I can say with a fair amount of confidence that I not only did I NOT arrive at work on time the majority of my pregnancy, but that I could actually probably count on my fingers the number of days I DID arrive at work on time for that really very small portion of the year that was taken up by my pregnancy.
Of course pregnancy related lateness is completely forgivable, and I must only focus on the three months before pregnancy occurred to REALLY grade myself. And for those three months, I will blame the Unsupportive Louse and his terrible unsupportiveness for my chronic lateness. I mean come on, how selfish can a husband be that he is more concerned with his thesis than with the amount of sleep his wife is able to achieve?
Ultimate Grade: Excused.
Resolution #2. Decreasing my Facebook Addiction. Initial Grade: FAIL.
Not only has my Facebook addiction not decreased, it has undoubtedly worsened. Perhaps exponentially. But in my defense, I completely forgot this was a resolution. Who the hell would make such a dumbass resolution? And really, there are so many more people on Facebook now, and so many more of them are utterly addicted than before, leading to a massive increase in daily status updates, picture uploads and wall postings that it’s hardly my fault. I didn’t allow it to interfere with my work (to a noticeable extent), nor my social life (one could certainly argue it only helped in this category) and almost never checked it at all from home – which proves it’s really hardly an addiction at all. Not only that, I actually don’t have a smartphone from which I can log on, which means my “addiction” is most likely far less than the rest of the addicted population.
Ultimate Grade: Excused.
Resolution #3: $20 minimum balance in my checking account at all times. Initial Grade: PASS!!!
Go Penney, you’re fricking awesome! And not only did I pass, I actually passed without using my built-in pass protector. I actually could give credit to the Unsupportive Louse’s new high-paying job (which is still significantly less than mine, PhD or not…) but really, we have separate accounts, what does his money have to do with me? Besides, it’s way more fun to give myself all the credit.
Ultimate Grade: A+++
Resolution #4: Contributing to my savings account monthly. Initial Grade: pass.
The first few months, I did put a little bit in the savings every month, so I started off perfectly fine. Then the tenant in our beautiful but poorly purchased, un-refinanceable, and over-mortgaged condo decided to stop paying her rent. Not only did I have to stop putting money in savings, I had to start taking money OUT of savings. This, however, is clearly not my fault and is completely forgivable. AND we also made a great big, huge, massive, ginourmous contribution to the Energizer Bunny’s college fund this year, so I feel that counts for a lot. And there’s always the pass protection clause added in to the resolution which allows my automatic retirement fund/college savings plan contributions to count towards savings account contributions in case of failure to deposit monies in ACTUAL savings account, and since those in fact are automatic, they always occurred and allowed me to pass this resolution despite the perceivable failure.
Ultimate Grade: B.
Resolution #5: Pay off my last credit card. Initial Grade: fail.
But it’s close, it’s SOOO close. Way closer than at the end of last year. Under 100 bucks close. I could just write the check now and you wouldn’t even know that I’d lied and hadn’t actually paid it off in 2010 close. In fact, I’m writing the check right now. And pretending I sent it last week. Done.
Ultimate Grade: A!
Resolution #6: Yelling a little itty bit less at the Unsupportive Louse. Initial Grade: FAIL.
But come on, dude, I’m pregnant, how can anyone expect a pregnant woman to yell LESS at her unsympathetic, encouragement-incapable, unassistive husband?? It would be unfair to even begin to expect such a thing.
Ultimate Grade: A. Seriously, the guy’s lucky he’s alive. If it weren’t for this resolution, he might have been.
Resolution #7: Being nicer to the Walking Guilt Trip. Initial Grade: Fail.
See #6. Also, I was WAY better before she chose to exert her passive aggressive tendencies regarding a slight propensity of mine to arrive late to engagements. Then she pissed me the f”*& off and I think it is completely understandable that I couldn’t treat her any better than she was treating me; after all, I am only as good as I was raised.
Ultimate Grade: Forgiven. Who could blame me?
Resolution #8: Eat fewer desserts. Initial Grade: Pass. Ish.
While I may have in fact eaten more desserts, I WAS, after all, eating for two for the majority of the year. And I most definitely put extra effort into baking any homemade desserts healthier, which I think may have been the most important factor in my list of options - after all, if I’d just bought cookies instead of making them on my own with some whole wheat flour and maybe some dried fruits, I would have not only been eating less healthy I would also have not had the great exercise of standing on my feet while doing the baking. Plus, I almost always stole any desserts for the baby while no one was looking, which means they didn’t count, which means my dessert consumption most likely decreased, even if we’re NOT counting the healthier bit.
Ultimate Grade: A.
Resolution #9: End the year 5lbs lighter than I began it. Initial Grade: fail.
First of all, I had a baby 3 weeks ago, so let’s just give me a flipping break here. Second of all, when I wrote these damn resolutions, I actually thought I might be pregnant AT THE TIME, which would have meant I had over 3 months to go from my pregnancy weight back down to a reasonable size. As it turned out, the Unsupportive Louse’s sperm were not nearly so potent as we once believed and it took him a few extra months. But let’s not blame him, after all he IS getting old. And since I did just push a baby out of my uterus and have not yet stopped bleeding and therefore can’t yet exercise intensely enough to actually lose any weight, I’d say the 15lbs less weight I have on me today than 3 weeks ago is enough to pass this stupid resolution anyway.
Ultimate Grade: Discarded. But if it had been kept, it would have been an A.
Resolution #10: Writing lots. Inital Grade: fail.
Unless you count solely Facebook status updates, then it’s a Pass with a capital P. But I actually really did write lots for the first 9 whole months of the year. Lots of blogs and lots of e-mails and even the real writing that this resolution was actually intended for: my book. Then my stomach became so massive that my laptop could no longer sit anywhere near my former body and my arms actually could not reach the keyboard and my back could not actually support the excess weight so that even sitting up caused spasms and my bladder became so squashed that I literally had to get up once an hour to pee even overnight which combined with everything else meant I had to spend 12hrs in bed a night to come even remotely close to getting enough sleep, which all led to a complete lack of time, patience or ability to write anything at all during the last few miserable months of my pregnancy. Which means, once again, it could hardly be blamed on me that I did not accomplish all I had hoped to accomplish in those last few months of 2010.
Ultimate Grade: A-. I could have written a few more blogs, yeah? Yeah. I’ll do better this year…promise.
Resolution #1. Arriving at work on time. Initial Grade: FAIL.
I wholeheartedly blame my pregnancy for the capitol letters in the word fail – it is beyond impossible to get enough sleep while in either the first trimester or the third trimester, or a vast number of days during the second trimester, to actually not only be able to get up on time but WANT to as well. I can say with a fair amount of confidence that I not only did I NOT arrive at work on time the majority of my pregnancy, but that I could actually probably count on my fingers the number of days I DID arrive at work on time for that really very small portion of the year that was taken up by my pregnancy.
Of course pregnancy related lateness is completely forgivable, and I must only focus on the three months before pregnancy occurred to REALLY grade myself. And for those three months, I will blame the Unsupportive Louse and his terrible unsupportiveness for my chronic lateness. I mean come on, how selfish can a husband be that he is more concerned with his thesis than with the amount of sleep his wife is able to achieve?
Ultimate Grade: Excused.
Resolution #2. Decreasing my Facebook Addiction. Initial Grade: FAIL.
Not only has my Facebook addiction not decreased, it has undoubtedly worsened. Perhaps exponentially. But in my defense, I completely forgot this was a resolution. Who the hell would make such a dumbass resolution? And really, there are so many more people on Facebook now, and so many more of them are utterly addicted than before, leading to a massive increase in daily status updates, picture uploads and wall postings that it’s hardly my fault. I didn’t allow it to interfere with my work (to a noticeable extent), nor my social life (one could certainly argue it only helped in this category) and almost never checked it at all from home – which proves it’s really hardly an addiction at all. Not only that, I actually don’t have a smartphone from which I can log on, which means my “addiction” is most likely far less than the rest of the addicted population.
Ultimate Grade: Excused.
Resolution #3: $20 minimum balance in my checking account at all times. Initial Grade: PASS!!!
Go Penney, you’re fricking awesome! And not only did I pass, I actually passed without using my built-in pass protector. I actually could give credit to the Unsupportive Louse’s new high-paying job (which is still significantly less than mine, PhD or not…) but really, we have separate accounts, what does his money have to do with me? Besides, it’s way more fun to give myself all the credit.
Ultimate Grade: A+++
Resolution #4: Contributing to my savings account monthly. Initial Grade: pass.
The first few months, I did put a little bit in the savings every month, so I started off perfectly fine. Then the tenant in our beautiful but poorly purchased, un-refinanceable, and over-mortgaged condo decided to stop paying her rent. Not only did I have to stop putting money in savings, I had to start taking money OUT of savings. This, however, is clearly not my fault and is completely forgivable. AND we also made a great big, huge, massive, ginourmous contribution to the Energizer Bunny’s college fund this year, so I feel that counts for a lot. And there’s always the pass protection clause added in to the resolution which allows my automatic retirement fund/college savings plan contributions to count towards savings account contributions in case of failure to deposit monies in ACTUAL savings account, and since those in fact are automatic, they always occurred and allowed me to pass this resolution despite the perceivable failure.
Ultimate Grade: B.
Resolution #5: Pay off my last credit card. Initial Grade: fail.
But it’s close, it’s SOOO close. Way closer than at the end of last year. Under 100 bucks close. I could just write the check now and you wouldn’t even know that I’d lied and hadn’t actually paid it off in 2010 close. In fact, I’m writing the check right now. And pretending I sent it last week. Done.
Ultimate Grade: A!
Resolution #6: Yelling a little itty bit less at the Unsupportive Louse. Initial Grade: FAIL.
But come on, dude, I’m pregnant, how can anyone expect a pregnant woman to yell LESS at her unsympathetic, encouragement-incapable, unassistive husband?? It would be unfair to even begin to expect such a thing.
Ultimate Grade: A. Seriously, the guy’s lucky he’s alive. If it weren’t for this resolution, he might have been.
Resolution #7: Being nicer to the Walking Guilt Trip. Initial Grade: Fail.
See #6. Also, I was WAY better before she chose to exert her passive aggressive tendencies regarding a slight propensity of mine to arrive late to engagements. Then she pissed me the f”*& off and I think it is completely understandable that I couldn’t treat her any better than she was treating me; after all, I am only as good as I was raised.
Ultimate Grade: Forgiven. Who could blame me?
Resolution #8: Eat fewer desserts. Initial Grade: Pass. Ish.
While I may have in fact eaten more desserts, I WAS, after all, eating for two for the majority of the year. And I most definitely put extra effort into baking any homemade desserts healthier, which I think may have been the most important factor in my list of options - after all, if I’d just bought cookies instead of making them on my own with some whole wheat flour and maybe some dried fruits, I would have not only been eating less healthy I would also have not had the great exercise of standing on my feet while doing the baking. Plus, I almost always stole any desserts for the baby while no one was looking, which means they didn’t count, which means my dessert consumption most likely decreased, even if we’re NOT counting the healthier bit.
Ultimate Grade: A.
Resolution #9: End the year 5lbs lighter than I began it. Initial Grade: fail.
First of all, I had a baby 3 weeks ago, so let’s just give me a flipping break here. Second of all, when I wrote these damn resolutions, I actually thought I might be pregnant AT THE TIME, which would have meant I had over 3 months to go from my pregnancy weight back down to a reasonable size. As it turned out, the Unsupportive Louse’s sperm were not nearly so potent as we once believed and it took him a few extra months. But let’s not blame him, after all he IS getting old. And since I did just push a baby out of my uterus and have not yet stopped bleeding and therefore can’t yet exercise intensely enough to actually lose any weight, I’d say the 15lbs less weight I have on me today than 3 weeks ago is enough to pass this stupid resolution anyway.
Ultimate Grade: Discarded. But if it had been kept, it would have been an A.
Resolution #10: Writing lots. Inital Grade: fail.
Unless you count solely Facebook status updates, then it’s a Pass with a capital P. But I actually really did write lots for the first 9 whole months of the year. Lots of blogs and lots of e-mails and even the real writing that this resolution was actually intended for: my book. Then my stomach became so massive that my laptop could no longer sit anywhere near my former body and my arms actually could not reach the keyboard and my back could not actually support the excess weight so that even sitting up caused spasms and my bladder became so squashed that I literally had to get up once an hour to pee even overnight which combined with everything else meant I had to spend 12hrs in bed a night to come even remotely close to getting enough sleep, which all led to a complete lack of time, patience or ability to write anything at all during the last few miserable months of my pregnancy. Which means, once again, it could hardly be blamed on me that I did not accomplish all I had hoped to accomplish in those last few months of 2010.
Ultimate Grade: A-. I could have written a few more blogs, yeah? Yeah. I’ll do better this year…promise.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Many UN-expected Joys of Pregnancy
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.
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.
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.
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