Sunday, January 16, 2005
Exploding Kitchen Terrorist Attack
<>I try to have dinner ready when Scott gets home from his 6 p.m. class. Today, I was making stroganoff, which I love, even if it is a box mix on sale for $2.99. I put the Pyrex baking dish in the oven to cook, and took it out and laid it on the stovetop about 20 minutes before he was to get home. I went into the living room to watch Wheel of Fortune and I could not believe you did not see Winston-Salem, North Carolina in that puzzle what are you morons?! when a loud crash and the sound of glass shattering sent the dogs into a frenzy and almost sent me into labor.
Thinking someone was breaking in the apartment, I grabbed the closest weapon-like object - the iron - and leapt into the kitchen with a mighty “YAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” - and promptly fell over with glass sticking out of my bare feet. No one was breaking in. The stroganoff had exploded.
Glass shards and creamy, beefy noodles were strewn all over the room. The stove, the floor, the ceiling - hell, across the room behind the door and inside the dog kennel. The dogs had a field day licking up the food from the floor. Barkley even merrily crunched some glass in his mouth like it was ice cubes, or something, before I got myself together and pulled it out of his mouth.
I was lucky to be out of the room when it happened. I would have been studded with painful shrapnel. So I picked the glass out of my feet as best I could, corralled the dogs before they hurt themselves, and cleaned the vomitous-looking mess. When Scott got home, I was still shell-shocked, so he sent me out for fast food.
But before I hauled my pregnant ass off the floor to clean up the destruction, I sat for what must have been five minutes, looking around the room in amazement while the dogs frolicked, my feet bled, and I tried to make sense of the scene. I could come up with no explanation but one: al-Qaeda.
Long has the Department of Homeland Security warned about infiltration and contamination of our food and water supplies. This, I think, is just the beginning. We must protect the integrity of our freeze-dried, sodium-infused, cardboard-flavored food imitation box mixes. Or woe be unto us all. Woe be unto us all, my friends.
Thinking someone was breaking in the apartment, I grabbed the closest weapon-like object - the iron - and leapt into the kitchen with a mighty “YAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” - and promptly fell over with glass sticking out of my bare feet. No one was breaking in. The stroganoff had exploded.
Glass shards and creamy, beefy noodles were strewn all over the room. The stove, the floor, the ceiling - hell, across the room behind the door and inside the dog kennel. The dogs had a field day licking up the food from the floor. Barkley even merrily crunched some glass in his mouth like it was ice cubes, or something, before I got myself together and pulled it out of his mouth.
I was lucky to be out of the room when it happened. I would have been studded with painful shrapnel. So I picked the glass out of my feet as best I could, corralled the dogs before they hurt themselves, and cleaned the vomitous-looking mess. When Scott got home, I was still shell-shocked, so he sent me out for fast food.
But before I hauled my pregnant ass off the floor to clean up the destruction, I sat for what must have been five minutes, looking around the room in amazement while the dogs frolicked, my feet bled, and I tried to make sense of the scene. I could come up with no explanation but one: al-Qaeda.
Long has the Department of Homeland Security warned about infiltration and contamination of our food and water supplies. This, I think, is just the beginning. We must protect the integrity of our freeze-dried, sodium-infused, cardboard-flavored food imitation box mixes. Or woe be unto us all. Woe be unto us all, my friends.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Goodyear Blimp
I’ve had a relatively easy pregnancy. There have been some issues, but for the most part, they have been minor.
Not anymore.
They warn you early on that you may swell.They mean due to water retention. I’ve gone 9.5 months without it and now it’s hitting me all at once - that, or I have Elephantitis of the Ankles. None of my shoes fit. None of my clothes fit. I had to wrench my wedding and engagement rings off my fingers because I thought they might cut the circulation off.
I’m like one of the balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I need 20 handlers with ropes strapped to my body to keep me from bouncing into the surrounding buildings. I soar over the city, ridiculously benevolent smile etched permanently on my overinflated face, praying that high winds don’t blow me into the nearby power lines.
I’m afraid that in the middle of the night Scott will hear “skree... skreeeee.... skreeEEE.... BOOM!” and wake up, terrified, but unable to find me because I will have exploded from the pressure.
I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my life.
I’ve taken to torturing Scott with stupid crap I know will annoy him, but that I find funny as hell. Like, a tiny little baby spider dropped from the ceiling right in front of my face. I hate spiders, bugs, anything with an exoskeleton. So I whine for Scott to get it for me, and then - I swear - it bit me. I mean, I didn’t see it bite me. Or even land on me. But there was a sharp stabbing feeling on my ankle (yes, one of the swollen ones).
I spent about 20 minutes insisting that I was dying and demanding he suck out the venom, call poison control, call a doctor, anything. It was making me laugh, but he gets really worried about me so I had to stop before his head exploded.
I never understood those pregnant women who got angry with their husbands for assisting in getting them pregnant. But I’m so pissed off at Scott right now that I don’t even know where I am most of the time. I’ve told him to fuck off about 8 times in the last week, and I hate speaking to him that way. It’s not fair to him. But I want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming, blaming him. I know he’s spent 9 months worrying about me, taking care of me, and preparing for the baby in various ways.
HOWEVER, he’s also spent the last 9 months “trying” to quit smoking and drinking. I didn’t have nine months warning to work on it. I had to quit everything right away - not that I smoke all that often; like one a month, max. But he also hasn’t had to give up sushi, wine, feta cheese, deli meat, and 100 other small dietary considerations that seem tailor-made from the “Stacey’s Favorite Foods” list. He ordered a dozen raw oysters at Rhinehart’s on Sunday and proceeded to eat them right in front of me, knowing I can’t have any!
Then there’s all the physical things you hear about being pregnant that I have to suffer but he doesn’t: constipation, thirst, hunger, weight gain, back pain, abdominal pain, nausea, fatigue, mood swings, painful contractions... I had a bladdar infection and a sinus infection at the same time, and the antibiotics I took for them gave me a yeast infection, even though I ate about 20 containers of yogurt to help prevent it (sorry, boy readers).
What I’m saying is that I AM the irrational, horrible wife pissed off at my husband for the way I feel. I warned Scott that he should probably head for Canada when I go into labor. He laughed. I wonder if he noticed that I didn’t...
Not anymore.
They warn you early on that you may swell.They mean due to water retention. I’ve gone 9.5 months without it and now it’s hitting me all at once - that, or I have Elephantitis of the Ankles. None of my shoes fit. None of my clothes fit. I had to wrench my wedding and engagement rings off my fingers because I thought they might cut the circulation off.
I’m like one of the balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I need 20 handlers with ropes strapped to my body to keep me from bouncing into the surrounding buildings. I soar over the city, ridiculously benevolent smile etched permanently on my overinflated face, praying that high winds don’t blow me into the nearby power lines.
I’m afraid that in the middle of the night Scott will hear “skree... skreeeee.... skreeEEE.... BOOM!” and wake up, terrified, but unable to find me because I will have exploded from the pressure.
I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my life.
I’ve taken to torturing Scott with stupid crap I know will annoy him, but that I find funny as hell. Like, a tiny little baby spider dropped from the ceiling right in front of my face. I hate spiders, bugs, anything with an exoskeleton. So I whine for Scott to get it for me, and then - I swear - it bit me. I mean, I didn’t see it bite me. Or even land on me. But there was a sharp stabbing feeling on my ankle (yes, one of the swollen ones).
I spent about 20 minutes insisting that I was dying and demanding he suck out the venom, call poison control, call a doctor, anything. It was making me laugh, but he gets really worried about me so I had to stop before his head exploded.
I never understood those pregnant women who got angry with their husbands for assisting in getting them pregnant. But I’m so pissed off at Scott right now that I don’t even know where I am most of the time. I’ve told him to fuck off about 8 times in the last week, and I hate speaking to him that way. It’s not fair to him. But I want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming, blaming him. I know he’s spent 9 months worrying about me, taking care of me, and preparing for the baby in various ways.
HOWEVER, he’s also spent the last 9 months “trying” to quit smoking and drinking. I didn’t have nine months warning to work on it. I had to quit everything right away - not that I smoke all that often; like one a month, max. But he also hasn’t had to give up sushi, wine, feta cheese, deli meat, and 100 other small dietary considerations that seem tailor-made from the “Stacey’s Favorite Foods” list. He ordered a dozen raw oysters at Rhinehart’s on Sunday and proceeded to eat them right in front of me, knowing I can’t have any!
Then there’s all the physical things you hear about being pregnant that I have to suffer but he doesn’t: constipation, thirst, hunger, weight gain, back pain, abdominal pain, nausea, fatigue, mood swings, painful contractions... I had a bladdar infection and a sinus infection at the same time, and the antibiotics I took for them gave me a yeast infection, even though I ate about 20 containers of yogurt to help prevent it (sorry, boy readers).
What I’m saying is that I AM the irrational, horrible wife pissed off at my husband for the way I feel. I warned Scott that he should probably head for Canada when I go into labor. He laughed. I wonder if he noticed that I didn’t...
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Dopey Dog
“So, how were the ruffers today?” I ask Scott, referring to the dogs.
“They were fine. We all took a nap together about 1 o’clock. Then, Scrabble leaped up onto my chest and went ‘RRUUF!!!!’ for no reason. And, of course, Barkley followed him.”
“Barkley is so stupid," I laughed. "He’s worse than a lemming. You don’t have to lead him over a cliff. You could just say, ‘Hey, meet me at the bottom,’ and he’d be there.”
Scott laughs and nods: “I love it when he wanders into the room, looks at nothing - I mean, at the wall, or something - and goes ‘RRUUFF!!!’ and then looks at you like, ‘Did you see that?!’”
I laugh, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. Sometimes he runs from room to room, completely undone by some invisible predator, barking his fool head off and freaking me out.
“I think the reason he barks is because he too stupid to understand what’s going on around him, so he just gets frustrated,” I said.
Scott imitates Barkley, dopey look on his face, head cocked to the side: “Duhr, what’s going on? Who am I? What am I?”
I imitate him waving his paws in front of him in a panic: “What are these things at the end of my legs?!”
Incidentally, the baby is dropping, I’m measuring right on schedule with size and weight gain, and all of the other very personal, technical aspects of the process are where they’re supposed to be. Countdown: 21 days, if that. I had some contractions about 4 a.m. this morning. It was cool. I mean, it hurt, but it was still cool.
“They were fine. We all took a nap together about 1 o’clock. Then, Scrabble leaped up onto my chest and went ‘RRUUF!!!!’ for no reason. And, of course, Barkley followed him.”
“Barkley is so stupid," I laughed. "He’s worse than a lemming. You don’t have to lead him over a cliff. You could just say, ‘Hey, meet me at the bottom,’ and he’d be there.”
Scott laughs and nods: “I love it when he wanders into the room, looks at nothing - I mean, at the wall, or something - and goes ‘RRUUFF!!!’ and then looks at you like, ‘Did you see that?!’”
I laugh, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. Sometimes he runs from room to room, completely undone by some invisible predator, barking his fool head off and freaking me out.
“I think the reason he barks is because he too stupid to understand what’s going on around him, so he just gets frustrated,” I said.
Scott imitates Barkley, dopey look on his face, head cocked to the side: “Duhr, what’s going on? Who am I? What am I?”
I imitate him waving his paws in front of him in a panic: “What are these things at the end of my legs?!”
Incidentally, the baby is dropping, I’m measuring right on schedule with size and weight gain, and all of the other very personal, technical aspects of the process are where they’re supposed to be. Countdown: 21 days, if that. I had some contractions about 4 a.m. this morning. It was cool. I mean, it hurt, but it was still cool.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Man Make Fire
On News Channel 12’s evening news tonight, they were covering the story of a fire that totaled a home: “Investigators say that the fire started in a wood-burning stove.”
Isn’t that like saying the fire started in the fireplace? That’s what a wood-burning stove is for, dumbasses. To burn things. With fire, no less.
Isn’t that like saying the fire started in the fireplace? That’s what a wood-burning stove is for, dumbasses. To burn things. With fire, no less.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Out of the Mouths of Jackasses
I was talking to my brother about some quasi-racist statement that he made. I knew that to contradict him would start an argument.
Me: Well, I don't know that I necessarily agree with you on that.
Bro (defiantly): I think there's more evidence for it than against it.
If you contradict him, he gets pissed off. If you just decide it's not worth it to argue, he takes it as a weakness and comes after you anyway. There's no way to win, but I always try fruitlessly. So, here I go again.
Me: Well, perhaps anecdotal evidence, but the biological research doesn't support it, from what I understand.
See how I'm trying to be respectful? I leave room for his opinion, I take responsibility for the fact that I'm not an expert and may not know everything about the subject, and I acknowledge that there are valid supporting arguments for his perspective. Anecdotal evidence is often a solid foundation upon which reasonable hypotheses are built. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with it.
Bro: I don't trust people who do research. They think they know more than they do.
Jackass.
Me: Well, I don't know that I necessarily agree with you on that.
Bro (defiantly): I think there's more evidence for it than against it.
If you contradict him, he gets pissed off. If you just decide it's not worth it to argue, he takes it as a weakness and comes after you anyway. There's no way to win, but I always try fruitlessly. So, here I go again.
Me: Well, perhaps anecdotal evidence, but the biological research doesn't support it, from what I understand.
See how I'm trying to be respectful? I leave room for his opinion, I take responsibility for the fact that I'm not an expert and may not know everything about the subject, and I acknowledge that there are valid supporting arguments for his perspective. Anecdotal evidence is often a solid foundation upon which reasonable hypotheses are built. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with it.
Bro: I don't trust people who do research. They think they know more than they do.
Jackass.
Out of the mouths of babes
We took the sonogram video to my parents’ house on Dad’s birthday. Jacob, my seven-year-old nephew, was very excited, even though he really wanted her to be a boy.
We watched the grainy, black-and-white footage of the baby, looking for all the world like a Hollywood representation of a ghost. In other words, it’s really an outline, a shading, of the baby’s general features.
We had to point out feet, toes, fingers, nose, lips, etc. to people, to give them reference points for the image. “Oh!” they exclaimed. “Now we see it!” Jacob was more excited each time he saw a new feature - so I thought. Then I realized he was getting agitated. Suddenly he exclaimed, “She looks like an alien!” He thought that’s what the baby actually looks like!
You should have heard us trying to explain to him what he was actually seeing. I tried, “See, it’s not like a camera picture. It’s done through my skin with a thing that actually is recording sound waves.” He nodded in obviously feigned comprehension.
A scene from previews for the movie “Daredevil” came to mind and I tried to use that to explain it. “But I haven’t see it ‘cause my mommy wouldn’t let me.” Finally, I hit on dolphins. That got a cautious, uncertain nod.
Bats? That did it. “Oh, yeah,” he said authoritatively, clearly relieved to be on familiar ground. “I know all about how bats fly.” He proceedrf to describe it to me in such detail that I knew he knew nothing. But at least he was no longer upset.
We watched the grainy, black-and-white footage of the baby, looking for all the world like a Hollywood representation of a ghost. In other words, it’s really an outline, a shading, of the baby’s general features.
We had to point out feet, toes, fingers, nose, lips, etc. to people, to give them reference points for the image. “Oh!” they exclaimed. “Now we see it!” Jacob was more excited each time he saw a new feature - so I thought. Then I realized he was getting agitated. Suddenly he exclaimed, “She looks like an alien!” He thought that’s what the baby actually looks like!
You should have heard us trying to explain to him what he was actually seeing. I tried, “See, it’s not like a camera picture. It’s done through my skin with a thing that actually is recording sound waves.” He nodded in obviously feigned comprehension.
A scene from previews for the movie “Daredevil” came to mind and I tried to use that to explain it. “But I haven’t see it ‘cause my mommy wouldn’t let me.” Finally, I hit on dolphins. That got a cautious, uncertain nod.
Bats? That did it. “Oh, yeah,” he said authoritatively, clearly relieved to be on familiar ground. “I know all about how bats fly.” He proceedrf to describe it to me in such detail that I knew he knew nothing. But at least he was no longer upset.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Dog is my co-pilot
Seen on the license plate of a Toyota Highlander registered in Columbia County: “GODZSUV”
I’ve never had the urge to ram my car into the back of another one, but just then...
I’ve never had the urge to ram my car into the back of another one, but just then...
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Christmas with the Krankies
My husband's parents go to First Baptist Church. It’s not my favorite place to be. First of all, any church where the deacons get into fistfights is not my kind of place. Second of all, I detect a higher-than-average portion of people who attend for the publicity benefits, it being the largest church in Augusta. They can be seen being pious by the largest number of people at one time.
His parents want us to go to church with them on Christmas Eve. I pretend to slit my throat. For a moment, I almost give in to the hormone monster and pitch what I call a “dog-at-the-wedding” sized fit (after the fit my mother had when we told her we wanted Scrabble at the wedding). It takes me what feels like an eternity to get my inner child under control and refrain from lying down in the middle of the kitchen floor, drumming my heels and screaming.
Scott: I don’t want to go.
Me: I don’t either. I don’t see how we can get out of it.
By this morning, he has a plan.
Scott: We’ll tell them we can’t go because we’re going to Midnight Mass.
I look at him, amused, but clearly he is a moron.
Me: You’re not Catholic.
Scott: Yes, I am.
Me: No, you’re not! Besides, (I launch into an imitation of his mother’s very obviously cultivated coastal-high-plantation Southern accent) “Why can’t you go to church with us, and then go to mass later?” (Sounds like this: “Whhhi cahn’t yoo goe tuh chuhrch whheeith uhs, and theein goe tuh mahyass latuh?”)
Scott: You can’t go to church twice in one day.
Me: It’s Christmas! You can go as many times as you want! Honey, I haven’t been to church in so long that if I entered the door I’d probably burst into flames. God saves up smites for people like me.
Scott: You were in church two weeks ago!
We went to a wedding.
Me: I just don’t see how we can get out of it.
Scott: Well, you’re going to come down with something.
Me: We have to see them tonight!
Scott: You’ll get better after church.
Me: You are not going to blame this on me.
Scott: But I. Don’t. Want. To. Go.
Me: So tell them that.
Scott (grinning): Okay!
Crap. We’ll have to go twice next year.
His parents want us to go to church with them on Christmas Eve. I pretend to slit my throat. For a moment, I almost give in to the hormone monster and pitch what I call a “dog-at-the-wedding” sized fit (after the fit my mother had when we told her we wanted Scrabble at the wedding). It takes me what feels like an eternity to get my inner child under control and refrain from lying down in the middle of the kitchen floor, drumming my heels and screaming.
Scott: I don’t want to go.
Me: I don’t either. I don’t see how we can get out of it.
By this morning, he has a plan.
Scott: We’ll tell them we can’t go because we’re going to Midnight Mass.
I look at him, amused, but clearly he is a moron.
Me: You’re not Catholic.
Scott: Yes, I am.
Me: No, you’re not! Besides, (I launch into an imitation of his mother’s very obviously cultivated coastal-high-plantation Southern accent) “Why can’t you go to church with us, and then go to mass later?” (Sounds like this: “Whhhi cahn’t yoo goe tuh chuhrch whheeith uhs, and theein goe tuh mahyass latuh?”)
Scott: You can’t go to church twice in one day.
Me: It’s Christmas! You can go as many times as you want! Honey, I haven’t been to church in so long that if I entered the door I’d probably burst into flames. God saves up smites for people like me.
Scott: You were in church two weeks ago!
We went to a wedding.
Me: I just don’t see how we can get out of it.
Scott: Well, you’re going to come down with something.
Me: We have to see them tonight!
Scott: You’ll get better after church.
Me: You are not going to blame this on me.
Scott: But I. Don’t. Want. To. Go.
Me: So tell them that.
Scott (grinning): Okay!
Crap. We’ll have to go twice next year.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Hey, Jealousy...
<> My husband has always been fearless. While it hasn’t always served him well, I regret that I will never have stories that begin with “So, when I was 8, my grandfather decided it was time I learned how to drive,” and “Yeah, I think it was the ‘Kiss My Ass Fridays’ and the phone bill to Japan that got me fired."
Monday, December 20, 2004
Holly Jolly, by golly
Scott’s grandparents gave us a little Christmas angel salt-and-pepper shaker set. We don’t have any Christmas decorations because - well, because we’re not Christian. The shakers were cute in a Precious Moments kind of way - which is to say they made me nauseous - and we brought them home with us because I love his grandparents. It was a regift from a party, she said, but she wanted us to have it. She said, “We already have a set. They must have made millions of them, ‘cause I see them everywhere.” That made me laugh. She’s just a total straight shooter, no airs about her.
I expected Scott to throw them in a box somewhere. But at home, he tore them open, moved my cutie mini Japanese teapot, and displayed the shakers above the stove.
“Oh, do you like them?” I asked, surprised. Don’t I sound like a complete snob? I hate me.
“No, I don’t like them. But they’re Christmassy, so they can sit there for a little while. And next year we’ll trot them out again.”
I laugh at his characterization: “And thus are traditions born.
I expected Scott to throw them in a box somewhere. But at home, he tore them open, moved my cutie mini Japanese teapot, and displayed the shakers above the stove.
“Oh, do you like them?” I asked, surprised. Don’t I sound like a complete snob? I hate me.
“No, I don’t like them. But they’re Christmassy, so they can sit there for a little while. And next year we’ll trot them out again.”
I laugh at his characterization: “And thus are traditions born.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Dog Dilemma
Barkley, is out of control. He chews. He poops. He pees. I dog-proofed the house, take him outside more frequently... nothing changes.
Mainly, though, he barks at top volumne. We’ve tried telling him “No!” To which he replies “RrrrrUUUUUFF!” We’ve tried putting him in time-out in his kennel, to which he replies, “RRrf! Ruf! RufRuf!!Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf!...” you get the idea. We’ve tried popping him on the nose, to which he replies “Ruf!” (chomp on the nearest finger).
I finally got one of those collars that makes a high pitched noise when a dog barks that supposedly they hate and makes them not bark so much. Wrong. He didn’t even hear it, but it sure annoyed the hell out of us. I gave it to my mother for her dog.
Our last resort: a shock collar. I haven’t bought one yet, but I’ve located and priced them. The collar says it’s only a pinprick, which has to hurt less than Scott whacking him on the nose... I really don’t want to do it, but it seems the only way. If there’s anyone who has any suggestions, please let me know!
Mainly, though, he barks at top volumne. We’ve tried telling him “No!” To which he replies “RrrrrUUUUUFF!” We’ve tried putting him in time-out in his kennel, to which he replies, “RRrf! Ruf! RufRuf!!Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf!...” you get the idea. We’ve tried popping him on the nose, to which he replies “Ruf!” (chomp on the nearest finger).
I finally got one of those collars that makes a high pitched noise when a dog barks that supposedly they hate and makes them not bark so much. Wrong. He didn’t even hear it, but it sure annoyed the hell out of us. I gave it to my mother for her dog.
Our last resort: a shock collar. I haven’t bought one yet, but I’ve located and priced them. The collar says it’s only a pinprick, which has to hurt less than Scott whacking him on the nose... I really don’t want to do it, but it seems the only way. If there’s anyone who has any suggestions, please let me know!
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Underdog
The dogs' favorite things to eat are: toilet paper, paper towels, and the cardboard holders for those. Tonight, we finished eating dinner and Barkley was trying to get to the paper towel on Scott's tray table. A mere two feet away, the paper towel was yelling "Your muthaaaaahhh!" from atop its safe perch. Barkley was straining at the edge of the sofa, whining.
I turned to pick him up just as he launched himself at the tray table. I mean, he threw himself into the air for all he was worth, paws outstretched and head down, like he really thought he could fly.
The tray table went flying - glass, paper towel, and magazine hit the floor, and so did Barkley. I covered my face with my hands. Scott leapt to pick up the glass before it all spilled out while I collapsed, laughing. He grabbed Barkley and put him in his kennel for a time-out, while I tried to get myself under control.
"If you do that in front of our child, I am going to be so pissed off at you!" he exclaimed as he latched the kennel door and tried to keep from stumbling over Scrabble, who was confused and excited by the spectacle.
"He really thought he had it! I mean, that was some ambition!" I snorted from the couch.
"It was so bad!" he stomped back into the room, Scrabble scrambling in close behind him.
"Honey, he's a dog. You have to admire his determination!"
I turned to pick him up just as he launched himself at the tray table. I mean, he threw himself into the air for all he was worth, paws outstretched and head down, like he really thought he could fly.
The tray table went flying - glass, paper towel, and magazine hit the floor, and so did Barkley. I covered my face with my hands. Scott leapt to pick up the glass before it all spilled out while I collapsed, laughing. He grabbed Barkley and put him in his kennel for a time-out, while I tried to get myself under control.
"If you do that in front of our child, I am going to be so pissed off at you!" he exclaimed as he latched the kennel door and tried to keep from stumbling over Scrabble, who was confused and excited by the spectacle.
"He really thought he had it! I mean, that was some ambition!" I snorted from the couch.
"It was so bad!" he stomped back into the room, Scrabble scrambling in close behind him.
"Honey, he's a dog. You have to admire his determination!"
Friday, December 17, 2004
Not a Way To Get a Raise
Boss: I’ll be back shortly. They’re opening a new furniture store downtown, and I’m going to the ceremony.
Me: Are you going to cut the ribbon?
Boss: Uh, sure.
Me: Don’t forget your tiara.
Me: Are you going to cut the ribbon?
Boss: Uh, sure.
Me: Don’t forget your tiara.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Dunlap's disease
At last Wednesday's doctor visit, the OB detected an irregular heartbeat. Since Scott has a heart murmur, it was cause for concern. So I returned on Monday for three fun-filled hours of things shoved into my body (hey.. that's how I got this way!). What I don't understand is why doctors won't listen to me. I'm not claiming to have some preternatural control over my body, but - I mean, it is MY body.
For example, the doctor was trying to listen to the baby's heartbeat and couldn't find it.
Doctor (smearing jelly on my belly): Sorry about it being cold.
Me: That's cool. (heh. pun.)
Doctor (moving the wand over my belly): Hmmm.... (furrows brow)
She can't find the heart beat.
I wait.
She searches the same small area to the left of my belly button. I'm not one to tell doctors how to do their jobs, but...
Me: She likes to hang out over here.
I point to the right side of my belly, under my ribs.
Doctor (still searching same spot on the left): MmmHmm....
I wait.
Me: Really, I think she's over here.
Doctor (irritated look crossing her face): Well, let's see.
The second she puts the monitor where I pointed, the baby's heartbeat comes over the speaker. Her eyebrows go up.
Doctor: You know your baby!
How can I not know where a 9-pound mass of elbows and knees are smashing against my body?
For example, the doctor was trying to listen to the baby's heartbeat and couldn't find it.
Doctor (smearing jelly on my belly): Sorry about it being cold.
Me: That's cool. (heh. pun.)
Doctor (moving the wand over my belly): Hmmm.... (furrows brow)
She can't find the heart beat.
I wait.
She searches the same small area to the left of my belly button. I'm not one to tell doctors how to do their jobs, but...
Me: She likes to hang out over here.
I point to the right side of my belly, under my ribs.
Doctor (still searching same spot on the left): MmmHmm....
I wait.
Me: Really, I think she's over here.
Doctor (irritated look crossing her face): Well, let's see.
The second she puts the monitor where I pointed, the baby's heartbeat comes over the speaker. Her eyebrows go up.
Doctor: You know your baby!
How can I not know where a 9-pound mass of elbows and knees are smashing against my body?
Tai One On
We're planning a "serenity series" in the gardens, and my intern was calling around asking about yoga and tai chi instructors. She got a lady at an physical rehabilitation clinic who was rude and combative.
Lady: "So, you're going to have the classes... outside?"
Intern: "Yes."
Lady (scoffing): "Well, I don't think that's going to work."
In fact, one of the tenants of tai chi is that you should attempt to perform the exercises in natural surroundings. I was telling Scott about how rude she was.
"Damn," he said. "Don't mess with the tai chi people. They'll kick your ass."
"But, they're slow," I said. "So I can duck."
Lady: "So, you're going to have the classes... outside?"
Intern: "Yes."
Lady (scoffing): "Well, I don't think that's going to work."
In fact, one of the tenants of tai chi is that you should attempt to perform the exercises in natural surroundings. I was telling Scott about how rude she was.
"Damn," he said. "Don't mess with the tai chi people. They'll kick your ass."
"But, they're slow," I said. "So I can duck."
Fingers Too Frozen To Type
One of the visitor specialists at work neglected to turn on the heat before he left last night, so it's 48 degrees in the office. I've been working in a coat, scarf, and gloves all morning - and I can't feel my toes.
I called him at 8:30 to wake him up: "John, we need you to go ahead and come into to work now instead of at noon - oh, and wear shorts and a t-shirt."
It would have been more funny if I hadn't been talking to his voice mail.
I called him at 8:30 to wake him up: "John, we need you to go ahead and come into to work now instead of at noon - oh, and wear shorts and a t-shirt."
It would have been more funny if I hadn't been talking to his voice mail.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
I hate maternity clothes
Okay, I’ll admit it: I’ve never been cool. I can’t match clothes more complicated than Grrranimals. But why do maternity clothes “designers” get their inspiration from Volvo? I’m wearing this shirt - yes, the same one I bitched about earlier - and I feel like an idiot.
“It’s just a maternity shirt!” Keela said.
Whatever.
I feel like my grandma’s couch.
“It’s just a maternity shirt!” Keela said.
Whatever.
I feel like my grandma’s couch.
Buyer's regret
I bought a maternity shirt that fits well, and is as flattering as a maternity shirt can be. Now think the shirt looks like something polyester that my grandmother might wear. Scott insists that he really likes it. So I'm keeping it, and getting used to it. But this morning, when I put it on to go to work, I just felt so old.
Me: I feel like I'm wearing a carpet.
Scott (laughing): No, you're not.
Me: I look matronly.
Scott: No, you don't. You look motherly.
Me: Same thing!
Scott: No. Matronly is bad. Motherly is good.
I consider this for a minute. Maybe it's an identity thing. I've never really considered myself "mother" material. But I guess I have to get used to it now. Then it hits me...
Me: I don't want to look motherly. I want to look "milfily."
Scott (laughing): You do.
I glare at him because I am not a moron. What I look like is a beach ball with legs.
Me: I feel like I'm wearing a carpet.
Scott (laughing): No, you're not.
Me: I look matronly.
Scott: No, you don't. You look motherly.
Me: Same thing!
Scott: No. Matronly is bad. Motherly is good.
I consider this for a minute. Maybe it's an identity thing. I've never really considered myself "mother" material. But I guess I have to get used to it now. Then it hits me...
Me: I don't want to look motherly. I want to look "milfily."
Scott (laughing): You do.
I glare at him because I am not a moron. What I look like is a beach ball with legs.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
I'm just really mean at heart
<>So, Scott and I watch "Jeapardy!" a lot, because we're nerds. In fact, we're old, married nerds, which is even worse. Competing was a chick from Warrenton, Ga., which is right down the road from us. This lady was devoid of personality, wit, and charm. In addition, she had one of the most unattractive Southern accents I have ever heard.
Scott: Good LORD, that woman!
Me: I know.
Scott: How did she make it on this show?
Me: Well, she's not stupid. She's a newspaper editor in Tennessee.
Scott: Oh, really?
Me: It must be the Mountain Monthly Press.
Scott: Good LORD, that woman!
Me: I know.
Scott: How did she make it on this show?
Me: Well, she's not stupid. She's a newspaper editor in Tennessee.
Scott: Oh, really?
Me: It must be the Mountain Monthly Press.
