Re-launched, but still slightly under construction. :-)

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Potty Break

I am adrift in the land of Nod, clinging to that last hour of sleep like a drowning man to a lifeboat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel the dogs begin to stir. They walk around on the bed, avoiding my husband (he’ll knock them off the bed), and trying to decide if they’re getting up, or just changing their sleeping positions. At some point, Barkley makes his decision, and begins a dialogue with himself: Potty time. Mommy sleep. Mommy no like wake before beep-beep monster make us to howl. I no go potty in house... I no go potty on bed.

nudge!
She roll over.
nose in ear!
She pull covers over head.
nose in butt!
Ouch. How she hit without wake up?
can’t wait! what to do! I have to - !

(yomp)

Blearily, I open my eyes. Why, Hello, Barkley... um, are those your teeth on my nose? He’s holding my nose with his teeth! Just holding, not biting, and panting excitedly. I get the message.

Monday, November 29, 2004

Thanksgiving

It’s my first married Thanksgiving and I am thankful for a lot:
  • I am thankful for the generosity of my friends and family, who have filled our nursery with clothes enough for our daughter’s entire first year.
  • I am thankful for the time I got to spend with my family. It wasn’t enough, but I enjoyed it while it lasted.
  • I am thankful for 1/2 price sales on nursing bras and short, organized lines at the day-after sale.
  • I am thankful for the lack of need I feel. Not just my raised financial threshhold, but the absence of what my mother called “The Iwannas.”
  • I am thankful that my husband likes my family, and vice versa. He enjoys spending time with them.
  • I am thankful that the macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and sweet potato souflee I made for Thanksgiving dinner were good, well-liked, and that there were plenty of leftovers. The creamed collards... well, no one is perfect.
  • I’m thankful for Smooth Dissolve Tums, Oatmeal Soaking Baths and Anti-Itch Cream for my poison ivy (darn dogs).
  • I’m thankful for my darn dogs, Scrabble and Barkley. They are a constant source of comfort, companionship, and laughter.
  • I am thankful for a relatively uneventful pregnancy, the sound of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor, the ability to see her on the sonogram, and that Medicaid that will pay for her without us spending a dime.
  • I’m thankful that Scott and I are able to calmly talk about baby names.
  • I’m thankful that when I had a meltdown in the driveway as we were pulling out for my parents’ house about leaving the dogs behind for almost three days, Scott got back out of the car, broke down the kennel, and took the dogs with us - and that he didn’t smash in my face, like I deserved.
  • I am thankful for light traffic, a short car ride (I’m never bored with Scott), a safe trip, and that the kennel fits in the car in such a way that it creates a “holding pool” for the dogs that allows us to see them, pet them, and that allows them to watch the world go by, but keeps them from jumping around the car like the complete imbecils they are.
  • I’m thankful for my degree, for my job, for my apartment, for the space heater that heats my apartment, for the baby’s room that serves as a touchstone when I’m feeling disconnected from the pregnancy (which is sometimes necessary in lieu of frustration, given how uncomfortable it often is), for the love that my husband displays in so many little ways - stopping to kiss the top of my head while walking past me at my parents’ house; telling me that I’m beautiful every day; not murdering me no matter hormonal I get; spending quality time with my family because I really, really want to see them; sitting up in bed in the middle of the night to ask me how I’m doing when he knows I’m not feeling well; bending over to pick things up for me when my pregnant belly gets in the way.
I would like to go on, but my retarded dog, Barkley, is living up to his name and running his big fat mouth to what I’m sure is extreme enjoyment on the part of my neighbors. And I have dinner to cook. It’s been a very good couple days... weeks... months. I’m very lucky and very happy. It’s the best time of my life so far, and I’m looking forward to many more years of happiness with Scott.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Dinner party x 2

Wednesday, November 17, 2004 By , No comments

I was excited to have dinner with two professors’ families this weekend, becuase I tend to think of professors’ families in terms of Oscar Wilde. This is not true. Some are just boring academics with no personalities. But I forget. I was so bored at the (courtesy edit) that I thought I was going to have to moon someone. If I hadn’t had a great time at DvT's house - which I did - the ass was coming out, I tell you! But, then, I knew more than just one person, and we were talking about PR and journalism and our jobs, not politics in the Honors Department and what contributed to the South’s loss in the Civil War.

A sample conversation from Friday:
Pompous ass 1: “No, the bolt-action rifle had nothing to do with the end of the war!”
Pompous ass 2: “Well, (so-and-so historian) would beg to differ! The North’s manufacturing of the weapon turned the tide of later battles.”
PA1: “But the North already had more soldiers, better equipped and trained! It was just a matter of time.”
PA2: “But the South had better military minds, and the North sustained much greater casualties because of it. The outcome of the war wasn’t certain until the bolt-action rifle was introduced.”
Me: zzzzZZZZZzzzzzzz

Sample conversation from Saturday night (Disclaimer: DvT is a church representative. When a congregation has problems, they call her in to mediate. Any former student of hers knows that should strike fear into their souls.):

DVT: “So the deacons at this one church, instead of saying, ‘We’re a congregation; let’s act like one, sit down, and discuss this with the pastor,’ instead decided to fire him. He was not in violation of his contract; they were. So now, they have to come up with $186,000 a year more to cover both the former pastor’s salary and the new pastor’s salary. AND, they think the interim minister is only there for 6 months, but we’re not going to let them hire another permanent minister for four years because they don’t know how to behave as a congregation. They just aren’t listening, and we’re expecting them to fire the interim pastor, too.”
Me: “That’s hysterical.”
Jody: “Well, that’s what happened at First Baptist, too. A couple of the really big guys – the ones who donate millions of dollars a year – didn’t like the pastor and got him fired. The deacons actually got into a fistfight over it.”
Dawn: “What?!”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. The police were called and everything. It was in the Chronicle.”
Me: “And now they’re in the same boat as the Presbyterian church?”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. But his salary is even higher than that because the church has 5,000 members.”
DVT: “See, I have no sympathy. No, you can’t hire another minister! You screwed up. Suffer! Suffer! Suffer!”
(laughter)

I am glad I went to both parties. I’ve been kind of homebound, not feeling well, etc. But if you’re going to have people over for a meal, you shouldn’t beat them into unconsciousness with your boorish personalities. It makes us want to hurt you, like with a bolt-action rifle, whatever that is.

Vomitorious Circumstances

Wednesday, November 17, 2004 By , No comments

Sunday, I met with a potential bride at 2 p.m. I had been working at my computer at home, and I raced down there at about 1:45. The meeting went fine, but when I got back home, I was crazy thirsty. Diet Coke? No. Water? Boring. Milk? Blech. Ooh, wait... I have some Diet Sprite left over from earlier. I toddle into the living room and swig from the 20 oz. bottle.

Something. Is. Not. Right. What is that disgusting taste?! As my stomach starts its irrevocable turn, I look inside the bottle. There are cigarette butts floating in it!

I don't even make it to the hallway before the liquid resurfaces. Most of it hits the toilet, but there is a trail of Diet Sprite from the living room doorway to the bathroom.

"What happened?!" Scott exclaims from the bathroom door. I am intent on my vomit, thank you very much, and I don't have time for this conversation. When I don't respond, he asks again, and waits a few moments. He doesn't want to watch me vomit, but he doesn't want to ignore my plight, either.

"You put out[retch] your fucking cigarettes[retch] in my Sprite!" (you asshole!)

I probably could have gotten some new jewelry out of him after that, but I tried to laugh it off. It worked for a little while, but about 20 minutes later I got really pissed off, and had to go sit on the porch and read the paper while I calmed down. That was the most disgusting thing that has happened to me in a long time.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Joe is a racist

Joe tells some racist-ass jokes that he insists aren’t racist “because they’re funny.” What’s long and hard on a black man? Answer: The third grade.

That’s a racist joke and it's not funny because it is a racist joke.

It extremely difficult for me to enjoy being around him. Also because I don’t want him around my daughter. But we go to the Fair with him anyway because - well, because Scott invited him without consulting me first. Two days in one week with Joe is 1 and 1/2 days too many.

We’re munching a funnel cake before we leave - Scott’s been craving one for weeks - and I make some comment like, “Goddamn, I can’t eat another bite.” Joe freezes, puts his hands up in front of him like: “Hey, now, watch the language. Did you just say G.D.?” I look up, confused. “Yeah...” He shakes his head. “So you can take the Lord’s name in vain, but I can’t tell a joke?”

I glare up at him. “Well, I don’t believe the Lord exists. But I do believe black people exist. So I guess that’s about right.”

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Men are really really stupid creatures

So I'm stuck at the front desk again, helping customers, because there is no Visitor Specialist scheduled on Mondays, and the other two employees are just too damn important (in their own minds) to lend a hand in helping either answer phones or deal with customers. That I'm doing two jobs, and this task puts me into a third job category, does not concern them.

Two older men lumber around the gift shop for awhile, making flirtatious small talk, as men of their generation often when away from their wives. Having waited tables so long that I have permanent pinch-marks embedded in my ass, I'm accustomed to this. So I laugh and do my best to keep them from noticing that my skin is actually crawling - like, away from them. Off my body.

I focus on something else that I know men generally like: football. One of the men has on Green Bay Packers socks, so I compliment him. His eyebrows wiggles. "I also have Packers skivvies." I laugh, a little less convincingly. He makes a joke about having an elephant, do I want to see his trunk? I pretend to hear the fax machine go off and run behind the filing cabinets to check it.

When I return, he says, "I don't want to seem like I'm leering, but I see you have a tattoo. What does it say?" The tattoo is on the lower left portion of my chest. It didn't used to be on my boob, but my boobs have gotten bigger since I got pregnant. I grin and reply, "It says, 'Don't get a tatoo until you're at least 30, because at 19 you don't know what you're doing.'" He stares at the tattoo - my fault for placing it there, so I really can't complain - and then at my face. "How old are you?" he asks. "I'm 31," I reply, reluctantly. "You got that tattoo when you were 19?!" he exclaims. "Wow, there's no sag to it at all."

Blogger's Note: Yes, I let them live, but after reviewing this post nearly a year later, I can't believe I did.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Delusions

Wednesday, November 10, 2004 By , No comments

I am 7 months pregnant, and I am becoming more dependent upon Scott. It’s not entirely fair to him, but there are things I’m slowly less able to do for myself, like, bend over. It’s becoming humorously difficult. And since I work all day, he cooks dinner every night. If he didn’t, I would just eat whatever fell into my mouth, and it would probably not be very healthy.

So we’re outside yesterday, or the day before, and Michael, our next door neighbor calls out
: “How’re you doing?”
“Oh, I’m feeling very pregnant today, but fine. How about you?”
There is a pause.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant!”
I look down at my belly. It seems pretty obvious to me...
“Um, yeah, ‘bout 7 months.”
“Wow! Congratulations!”
“Thanks.”
“What are you having?”
“A little girl.”
“aww...” he coos.

Later, as Scott and I are corralling the dogs to take them back inside, I mention this to Scott.
“How can he not tell that I’m pregnant?”
“You’re only showing a little bit.”
I stare at him, look down at my belly, and back at him.
“Are you nuts?”
“No.”
“Honey, I’m huge.”
“No, you’re not. And, you told me not to talk about it like that.”
“Okay, smoothing over the situation is one thing. But ignoring it entirely is just crazy.”
He laughs, and pats my belly.
“Okay, you’re definitely pregnant.”
“Okay, then.”
“But you’re not huge.”
“Thanks.”

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

It's official. I'm huge.

The doctor listened to the baby’s heartbeat today.
“Is she moving around?” she asked.
“All the time. She almost knocked me off the couch last night.”
(she laughs) “That’s good. She was very active the last time you were here.” (listening)
The baby’s heartbeat pulsates in the air around us. It is strong, rapid. She smiles and nods.
“That’s a healthy baby. Good, strong heartbeat.”
I grin and look down at my belly. She don’t know the half of it.
“She is. She responds to my husband’s voice, and to the dogs.”
“Really?!” she smiles.
She acts just as though no pregnant woman has ever said this to her before. Of course they have, but I don’t care. It’s my baby, and everything is new. She takes out a tape measure and stretches it over my belly, from pelvic bone to just under my ribs. Her eybrows raise.
“That’s a big baby!” she exclaims.
I glare down at my belly. I knew it! I’m a heifer!
“Am I gaining too much weight? I mean, I do eat like a maniac, but I’m always hungry! I try to be reasonable, and my husband -”
She’s shaking her head.
“No,” she laughs. “That’s all baby. You’ve only gained 19 pounds. Most women gain 45 pounds.”
Wait, I think. I still have 12 weeks to go.
“So, how big is the baby?”
“You’re 4 cm bigger than is normal at this stage, so I’d say about 4 pounds.”

Dios Mio. I’m going to have a Tyrannosaurus.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Why I Don't Buy Intelligent Design

During the 10-11 hour on Sunday, a WJBF NewsChannel 6 commercial came on. A helicopter hovered low over a grassy field. A woman's voice announces over the video:

"A body is found in Columbia County, and police are calling it a death investigation. News at 11!"

A death investigation. Into a body. You don't say...

Friday, November 05, 2004

No Such Thing as "a Little Pregnant"

So I’m 7 months pregnant with about 11 weeks to go. As of a couple of weeks ago, I’d only gained 18.5 pounds. That’s pretty good, considering the “normal range” of weight gain in pregnancy at the end is:

Baby: 7 1/2 - 8 1/2
Placenta: 1 - 3
Amniotic Fluid: 2
Uterus: 2 - 2 1/2
Increased Body Fluid, Blood: 3 1/2 - 7
Increased Body Fat, Breast Tissue: 10 - 12
For a total of: 25-35 pounds

I was proud of the relatively low weight gain, until Halloween. Scott bought white chocolate Reese’s cups and miniature Kit-Kats. There were about 40 of the little packages left.

If you’ve never been pregnant, you don’t know what a temptation food is. First, there’s the inhuman, famine-like hunger. Second, there’s the fact that everyone - and I mean everyone - becomes either a Food Nazi, or a Food Fairie. Third, there’s the mental justification. It’s real easy. Let's play!

They’re MINI Kit-Kats. So you think, “It’s only a little bit. I can have one.” And then, a couple of hours later, the munch bug hits again. So you have another. I mean, it’s been hours since you had the little bite of chocolate. The problem is that there are 24 hours in a day. And for 18 of them, pregnant women are hungry. I mean it wakes you up in the middle of the night with a hurting, growly stomach. You try to ignore it. You have a big glass of water. You crawl back in bed and try to go to sleep.

But before long, there are only 20 of the little devils left in the freezer, and your pants are a little tighter. What happened, you ask. Well, I’m pregnant, you answer. Hell, no. You had 20 Kit-Kats in 4 days. That’s what happened, you moron.