Momnesia

We’re sitting at the Vortex in L5P talking about random stuff, and somehow the story Douglas Adams (author of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) told at his lecture in Athens came up. I love this story.

So Douglas Adams (or, "Doug," as I like to call him, you know, us being BFF, and all) goes to take a trip from London by train. Switching trains at a station, he has about an hour layover.

To pass the time, he buys a package of biscuits, a cup of tea, and a newspaper, finds the sole empty table, has a seat, and takes out his newspaper. While he is waiting for his tea to cool, a man sits down across from him. They nod politely to each other. They go back to their respective newspapers.

After a while, the man reaches across the table, opens the package of biscuits, and eats one. Aghast, Doug is too “English” to say anything: “We’re not known for being assertive.” To reassert his ownership, however, he reaches to the middle of the table, takes a biscuit, and eats it. Not too long afterwards, the man reaches across and takes another of his biscuits and eats it. This goes on until the biscuits are gone. The man leaves when his train is called. Doug (BFF!) continues to fume in silence until his train is called a short time later. As he gets up and folds his paper, he sees his package of biscuits on the table.

It’s a great story, but also a nice metaphor on perception/perspective. I heard it when I was 22, and since then, whenever I find myself in a situation where I’m butting heads based primarily on perspective, I try to tell myself, “It’s just a package of biscuits.”

Emerson cannot go to sleep without her pacifier, but once she falls asleep, her mouth goes slack and the pacifier falls out. She immediately notices a distinct lack of rubbery goodness in her mouth and lets out a mighty scream.

We go in, put the pacifier (which is obviously made of crack and will henceforth be named the Crackifier) back in her yowling maw, and watch as she squirms over onto her side and mutters to herself: “ayayayayayaya...”

I think that’s baby-talk for: “These stupid parents of mine with their total incompetence. Where’d they get their training - K-Mart? Can’t keep a little thing like a pacifier under control. Do I ask for much? Hell, no. Just keep my ass dry, don’t let me get too hot or too cold, and throw me a bottle now and then. Is it so much to ask for a pacifier? I ask you: Is that so WRONG?!”

This has gone on for about an hour tonight. After the third time in a row getting up from in front of the computer to replace the crackifier, I heard her winding up again.
“Your turn!” I called merrily to my husband.
“I know,” he said, and continued to read.
She hollered suddenly from the crib.
“Look, honey, just - where is the SuperGlue?” I asked. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t fall out again.”

Me: We can go see a movie tomorrow?
Scott: Yeah.
Me: Do you want to see “The Ring 2?” It’s at the $1 theatre.
Scott: But, we have the tickets.
Me: But it won’t be at the theatre much longer.
Scott: No, we’ll go see a movie at the big theatre.
Me: Really? Like grownups?
Scott: That’s fine.
(pause)
Me: No, that’s not a movie. I mean, like WE are grownups.
Scott: ....oh.

“...We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.” I Corinthians 15:51

Scott’s mother is cooing at Emerson, who is grinning up at her from her stroller.
Patsy: “Nona loves you! You are the most beautiful baby in the world!”
Me: “She is.”
Patsy: “Oh, did you know that? You’re the most beautiful baby in the world. They broke the mold when they made you.”
Me: “It sure felt like it.”

The complete and utter disregard by some people for ethical and moral guidelines never ceases to amaze me. A former coworker has been impersonating me online. To what end? I don’t know that I have enough darkness in my soul to even hazard a guess. It would just never occur to me to - no, wait. I did once have someone IM me thinking I was someone else, and I IM’ed back: “Woo hoo! I love my pants! They’re on my head!”

But no one could possibly take that seriously, and I identified myself at the end.

I’m trying to get the house clean before my parents visit. It’s not easy because our dog sheds like mad, and it piles up under the bookcases.

I sweep, but it’s not enough. I think I’m slick and I pull out the Swiffer that my mother bought us. I start in the bathroom and push it around the floor. It just pushes the dirt around (although very neatly).

“What the - ” I move into the hallway. I chase the dog with it (he’s scared of cleanng products, probably because he sees them so rarely). I try it in the bedroom.

“This thing is a piece of crap!” I call to my husband, who is feeding the baby. I lift it up to glare at it. “How is this rubber thing suppsed to...” I stop myself, and laugh. There’s no cloth on the bottom. What was I expecting the rubber pad to do, erase the dirt?

It’s been an amazing 3-month journey from our tiny, unresponsive-unless-she’s-crying little shitmonster to this incredibly interactive experiment in behavioral psychology.

Now she’s trying to roll over. She’s discovered that she likes to sleep on her side, and has a unique way of rolling over to get there. Instead of twisting her body to position herself on her side, she kicks her legs out in front of her and lets the weight of them pull her over. It’s deliciously comical: she puts her legs together, thrusts them into the air and a little to the right, then mutters “ayayayayaya” to herself while waiting for gravity to do its thing. It’s like she’s chanting while concentrating on the process.

But once she’s steadily on her side, she snuggles herself into a comfy sleeping position and sucks violently on her pacifier to soothe herself to sleep. The whole process is so adorable I could just eat her up.

I probably won't, though.

We’re out on the back deck, and I’ve been walking around in my underwear since Scott got home.

Me: “So, you haven’t even asked me why I’m walking around without pants on.”
Scott: “Why are you walking around with no pants on?”
Me: “You know the chair that I always get my beltloop caught on?”
Scott (smirking): “Yeah...”
Me: “Well, I was sitting in it at the computer, and it did it again. You weren’t here and I couldn’t get the loop unstuck. I had to slide out of them to escape.”
(pause)
Scott: “That is incredible.”
Me: “Isn’t that great?”

I’m changing Emerson, and she has her feet up to her chest. I take them and put them in my mouth. She giggles and lets out a mighty fart. I press the soles of her feet to her cheeks and say in a silly voice: “Oh, noooooo!” And she opens her mouth wide and lets out a short guffaw like I’ve never heard from her before.

It’s astonishing. It’s been kind of like living with a really pissy mime: the only noises she really makes are when she’s upset about something. So this is new. I almost tear up. I take her feet and do it again. “Oh, noooo!” She laughs!

It’s addictive, this laughter. It’s like every time I hear it, I instantly lose 5 pounds - of Mommy-Guilt. You know, that obnoxious part of yourself that second guesses every decision you make, even though you know you make it with the best of intentions and sound research.

She’s grasping my fingers now with her tiny little hands. I lift her up a little. She holds on. I lift her up more, gripping her hands firmly. She opens her eyes wide and makes an “O” with her mouth. I lift her up over my head - “wheeeeee!” - and set her back down on her feet. Up from her tiny little tummy came the cutest belly laugh, complete with snorting. I laugh so hard I startle her and I almost drop her. I stop laughing and grin at her. She grins back. I lift her again. She grins wider, and as I set her back on her feet, belly laughs again.

This is like crack! I lift her over and over until she bores of the game and looks around the room for something else to do. It kills me that she has such a short attention span, and I spend all day long trying to get her interested in it again. No luck, but that’s okay. I have every day for the rest of our lives.

Scott: “My back hurts so bad.”
Me: “I’m sorry. Is it worse or better?”
Scott: “I don’t know.”
(pause)
Me: “Maybe it’s one of those things where it hurts a lot but then gets stronger like Superman. Maybe you’ll get X-ray vision.”
Scott: “You know, I already felt like I could see things with my back.”
Me: “Really? And soon you’ll be able to shoot laser beams from your ass.”

President Bush was on TV last night. I don’t care about his politics. I just can’t stand to hear the man speak. A monkey could do a better job.

So I went to take a bath. I relaxed in the water. I washed, scrubbed, shaved, and moisturized. But I could still hear the president’s yapping.

I added more hot water to the mix. I deep conditioned my hair. Meh, he was still talking. I stayed in.

I talked to myself. I wondered where my new book had gotten off to. I hoped Scrabble didn’t eat it, like he does Scott’s socks. Soon I looked down at the now lukewarm bath water and noticed it was an unattractive grey color. The bottom of the tub had grown gritty with almond shells, or whatever exfoliant I had used. I shivered a little.

But I could still hear the president talking. If he weren’t talking, I would get out of the tub. Suddenly, I realized I was involved in a one-woman protest.

It must be against dirty politics.

o2grok1: What does Pentecostal mean? five something? Five what?
Ptrend: I know what Pentecost was...but not the etymology...sorry
o2grok1: what was it?
Ptrend: Here we'll hear from Merriam Webster

Etymology: Middle English, from Old English pentecosten, from Late Latin pentecoste, from Greek pentEkostE, literally, fiftieth day, from pentEkostos fiftieth, from pentEkonta fifty, from penta- + -konta (akin to Latin viginti twenty) -- more at VIGESIMAL
1 : SHABUOTH
2 : a Christian feast on the seventh Sunday after Easter commemorating the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles -- called also Whitsunday

o2grok1: Okay, but that doesn't explain why they call themselves that.
Ptrend: Because they are a group that believes all their meetings require or call down a charismatic possession of the holy spirit just as was experienced by the apostles that first time
o2grok1: oh.
o2grok1: oooOOOOOhhhh..
o2grok1: Thus the speaking in tongues and epileptic fits
Ptrend: exactly
Ptrend: I actually have been to a Pentecostal funeral once and seen the alleged speaking in tongues. Very weird! not my cup of tea
Ptrend: I like writing to you in Times...I think I'll try that for a while.
o2grok1: except I don't recall the apostles doing that in the Bible. Does is say something like "And lo, John was visited by the holy spirit and he did pick up a serpent and drink its venom, and Jesus spake: 'Ye shall ingest venom and it shall not kill you, though nonbelievers will think you nuts,' and Paul said, 'Lord, why hast thou forsaken us,?' and Jesus replied, 'Wherever there is a gathering of two or more, there shall I be, and there shall be fainting and ye shall froth at the mouth.'"
Ptrend: ha...yep I think you missed that Book of Viper Kissers
o2grok1: Your typing is very large. What's up with that?
Ptrend: Sorry....
anyway...the way the rest of us Christians usually interpret Pentecost is pretty simple.... the city was a crossroads of the world, cosmopolitan Romish city state stuff and all that... so God suddenly gave the apostles the ability to speak in the various languages of the people there so that they could hear and understand the gospel and spread it among lots of nations etc...
Ptrend: how about this font
o2grok1: gorgeous
Ptrend: or this one
o2grok1: they look like the same font to me.
o2grok1: was that it? the thing about the various languages? that's the explanation?
o2grok1: how about I write in this one? That's a more daring font choice
Ptrend: got it
o2grok1: so is that it? cause the way you explained it, people could actually understand them. What changed? It's not like they're speaking Aramaic
Ptrend: that's my question too. Now they say they are speaking in "heavenly languages only our spirits know"

Overheard at an education tour for 2nd graders:

Little girl (jumping and shrieking): "Caitlyn took some candy!"
Mother: Heather, no one is interested in your tattling. Caitlyn will make her own choices, good or bad.

That's going in my "things to say" parenting file.

To the person with the nasty commentary today: I wish it had been directed at me. I would like to have bound you, gagged you, and told you this.

There is room on this planet for all faiths. There is no proof of the existence of any God, much less the single one in which you believe. I respect your beliefs. I admire anyone who is able to commit to something intangible. Myself, I need a spreadsheet of progress, a balance of cost vs. income, some hard proof of efficiency. Basically, I want a religious system of gold stars for good behavior. The night sky just isn't enough for me.

Kudos to those who have found a faith that fulfills. But let's be clear that it is what it is. It is faith. A system of belief not founded in fact. If a god is what the word implies, he or she defies facts. I can dig that, and that is why I remain open to religion, despite my skepticism.

However, when you spout off Bible verses to nonbelievers in an attempt to prove to them that they have chosen either the wrong course of action or (and I wouldn't be surprised if you picked an argument with your VCR user's manual) picking the right course of action for the wrong reason, you come from the point of belief that the Bible is a sacred work written by man, directed by God. Note that I said the point of belief, not the point of proof. Not everyone believes this is true. To many, it is much like saying: "My Aunt Edna says..." You give a certain amount of credence to the statement out of respect, but with the knowledge that everything Aunt Edna says doesn't always make sense.

There is nothing inherently wrong with religiosity, and I am not one of those people who buys into the subjectivity of morality. I think there is a certain value in evaluating others' conduct and finding it lacking - respectfully, of course. Like you, I believe in a universal code of conduct, and not just to avoid a "Lord of the Flies" kind of society. It is because I believe in (though I cannot prove) the existence of the concepts of "right" and "wrong."

But I know that my belief in the rightness or wrongness of an action is still rather nebulous for me to define. There are qualifiers. Murder - usually wrong - can be justified (just try to get near my daughter to hurt her). Charity - usually right - can encourage laziness in someone unable to find their own independence. But I take on faith that my personal code (which, admittedly, I have violated with poor judgment from time-to-time) is adequate, and in fact, right.

It is a leap of faith, and that faith is tested when people who act in a manner I find abhorrent seem to prosper and succeed. We use the phrase "leap of faith" so easily, in such a casual way. But Kierkegaard (ack! My kingdom for a spellchecker with that name in it) coined the phrase in talking about something much more profound. He was talking about the spiritual, intellectual, and emotional leap from the edge of the cliff of factual analysis into the pure, clean air of the faithful. He was talking about taking a real risk with your soul, with your emotional stability, and with your sanity.

Does that mean that I truly believe in my tiny simple little list of rights and wrongs when I am so upset by others' non-adherence to my system? And that is what you, Mr. and Mrs. Traffic Cop in the Highway of Life, must ask yourself. How much faith do you have that it makes you nuts when someone else chooses another set of beliefs?

I doubt that you have the propensity for that kind of questioning, although I suspect that at one point in your life you did. It is primarily the "born-again" who react with such vitriol, studies have shown. I don't know that the studies have answered why that is. Perhaps embarrassment at what you see as years ill-spent. Maybe fear that those years have doomed you... although why you would then choose Christianity is beyond me, given its system of forgiveness... unless you don't truly believe in it, and then don't get me started on hypocrisy. Anyway, this anger and venom you show - is it really directed at others, or are you talking to the parts of you that still crave sinful behavior? Regardless, here is my final inquiry: Do you, Fishers of Men, honestly think anyone is attracted to Christianity after watching you, red-faced and sneering, intentionally try to insult, intimidate, and frighten another person? Do you really believe you are bringing more lambs to the fold?

I call bullshit on you. You represent everything I find repulsive about church. Nothing has ever been less attractive to me than your invitation to join you at your church. I hope that if I ever find what you call "truth" that I am a happier person for it. Knowledge of the nature of god and insight into the order of the universe should bring joy, serenity, and peace.

Now I will untie you, and let you be on your less-than-merry way. I hope one day that you find faith that makes your life worth living, and subtracts the impulse you heed to make others' lives less enjoyable.

I work at a tourist attraction, and we often have people in from out of town asking what to do, where to stay, where to eat, etc...

Me: So my favorite place downtown is The Bees Knees, and -
Man: The what?
Me: The Bees Knees. Anyway, it -
Man: The Bees Knees?
Me: Yes, sir. It's -
Man: Do you know what that means?
(stop. interruping. me.)
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Man: Do you know what that means?
Me: What what means?
Man: I'll take that as a no.
(why don't you take this up your...)
Me: Sorry?
Man: You're too young to know what the bees knees means.
Me: I thought it meant "the best." Like, that cheesecake was "the Bee's Knees!"
Man: Ohh, you DO know!
Me: Yeah, I've watched a few movies.
Man: The ones from my day, well, they don't make it like them anymore.
(You mean silent?)
Me: Right. So, anyway, the restaurant is a tapas bar -
Man: A what?!
Me: A tapas bar, and -
Man: No, it's not.
Me (confused): Yes, it is. Have you been there?
Man: NO! We just got into town!
Me: Okay...
Man: Is it really a tapas bar?
Me: Yes, sir.
Man: Well, how do you get to it?
(we walk outside so that I can show them which street to turn down. His wife comes out of the bathroom and follows us as I recommend the goat cheese bruschetta and the calamari)
Wife: What kind of restaurant is this?
Me: A tapas bar with a kind of world fusion cuisine served in the Spanish style.
Man (looking at me suspiciously: Are you serious?
(I'm getting really frustrated with this man.)
Me: Yes, sir.
(I hand the wife a coupon for 1/2 off a tapas with the purchase of any tapas)
Wife: WHAT kind of restaurant is it?
Me: A tapas bar.
Man: Are you messing with us?
Me: Why would you think that?
Man: This is a topless bar?!
(I stare for a moment and then start laughing)
Me: Tapas! Tah-pahs!
(The couple looks at the coupon in confusion, and then both burst into laughter)
Wife: We thought you were saying "topless!"

Um, no. We don't generally consider them to be one of the city's finest tourist attrations.

We found out Friday that Scott's best friend, Duane, and his girlfriend, Lori Beth, are 6 weeks pregnant. We went over to congratulate and bring them a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," and we were sitting around chatting about pregnancy, etc. They mentioned post-partum depression, and Scott asked, "Stacey, did you have any of that?"
I stared at him: "Honey, I'm in the middle of it."

I'm cheered that he had to ask. It means I'm not the horrible, overbearing, bitchy, nasty, man-eating ogre I'd viewed myself as. (Can someone put that sentence in a grammatically correct form? I can't move the preposition.) But, to be honest, there have been a few times I've been tempted to throw myself into traffic. Mostly, the experience of being a new mother is overwhelming. I mean, they REPEATEDLY TELL YOU it's a 24-7 job, and you think, "Okay, already. I get it. But it can't be worse than being pregnant." Then you have the baby, and you realize that they lied to you. It's a 48-hour a day job, 8 days a week. Although I am filled with love, pride, and amazement at our little girl 10 times a day, I am also overwhelmed with how much she needs.

Would I change it, had I the chance to do it all over again?
No. Emerson is the one thing in my life that I know I haven't screwed up (yet).

But the hormone rollercoaster is a rough ride and I don't know how to get off. I try to grin and bear it, maintain a sense of humor about things (like the spit-up on my sweater that I didn't notice before my meeting with a bride this morning), and keep myself in check when I want to scream. I also try to remind myself that Scott has probably had a harder time because he's home with her all day long. And it seems to be fooling people, at least. But I don't know if it's working for me.

We're talking about how the baby responds to the world around her now that she's almost 6 weeks old.

Scott: "She's absolutely fascinated with Scrabble."
Me: "Well, she can see him. He's so high contrast."
The dog is a black and white rat terrier with crazy-big banana leaf ears.

Scott: "Yeah. She loves it when he licks her."
Me: "Plus he's all soft and cuddly. He's like a walking stuffed animal."
Scott: "He is."
(pause)
Me: "Wait. That didn't even make sense. Of course he's like a fucking stuffed animal. He is an animal."

Scott and I are both suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Emerson doesn’t want to sleep at night, but the daytime is just dandy. We’ve both been struggling to function - I poured Scott a glass of lemonade, put it in the fridge, and brought him the pitcher instead, for example - but Scott wins (so far).

“I was changing her diaper on the bed, right? So I take off the diaper, clean her up, put the diaper back on her.... and then I thought, ‘Shit!’ And had to do it all over again.”

I haven’t put a dirty diaper back on the child yet, but I did wash her bottle, make her bottle, and then pour it out and clean it again before I realized what I had done.