Monday, May 02, 2005
Dumbass
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?”
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?”
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Relief
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.
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.
Friday, April 29, 2005
By the Power of Greyskull
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Politics As Usual
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.
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.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Not Judging Their Beliefs, I Promise. I Just Always Sound Snarky.
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"
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"
o2grok1: Hmm.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Good parenting
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.
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.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Apologies, in advance, for the ranting
Jesus built my hotrod
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.
Monday, March 28, 2005
What we have here is a failure to communicate
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.
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.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Post-partum
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Stuffed Brains
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: "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."
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Diaper Duty
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.
“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.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Why is this so hard?
Scott’s parents stopped by the house while Erick and Becky were over with their son, Sammy. We were very happy to have some adult conversation. I didn’t realize how much until his parents offered to take Emerson for the night and Scott agreed.
I gave him a look that said, “How could you let them take her?” I mean, when she’s only a month old it just seemed - I don’t know... callous? Besides, I’d just spent my entire Saturday afternoon at work, and wasn’t able to spend time with them. He saw my face, and immediately retracted. But his mother was so disappointed, and Scott suddenly looked so tired and frazzled, that I realized he must really need a break.
Patsy and Jim wanted to make sure I was “comfortable” with them taking the baby. Of course I am. I married one of her five great kids, so I obviously have some confidence in her abilities to care for children. But there’s this noise Emerson makes when she’s eating, and another she makes when she’s settling comfortably into your arms to sleep, that just kill me.
I look forward to the 4 a.m. feedings because small things like make the hour and the loss of sleep well worth it. And she’s getting so much more alert and responsive every day. Yesterday she laid in her crib and watched her mobile for 10 minutes. That’s a long time for her, and she wasn’t just staring up. She was able to single out an animal and follow it with her eyes, turn her head when it moved out of her field of vision...
These things Scott sees all the time. And while I know it’s very stressful to be at home with a child all day, and I would be working no matter what (well, unless we were fabulously wealthy, in which case I’d just spend my time traveling and taking classes), I envy him the time he spends at home.
I overheard him last night telling Erick and Becky that I was itching to get back to work. Not true. I wanted my full 6 weeks maternity leave. But they were trying to reduce my position to part-time while I was on leave, so I HAD to go back to protect our income. I mean, it’s all well and good if I get to stay home with Emerson, but not if we have nothing to feed her.
I gave him a look that said, “How could you let them take her?” I mean, when she’s only a month old it just seemed - I don’t know... callous? Besides, I’d just spent my entire Saturday afternoon at work, and wasn’t able to spend time with them. He saw my face, and immediately retracted. But his mother was so disappointed, and Scott suddenly looked so tired and frazzled, that I realized he must really need a break.
Patsy and Jim wanted to make sure I was “comfortable” with them taking the baby. Of course I am. I married one of her five great kids, so I obviously have some confidence in her abilities to care for children. But there’s this noise Emerson makes when she’s eating, and another she makes when she’s settling comfortably into your arms to sleep, that just kill me.
I look forward to the 4 a.m. feedings because small things like make the hour and the loss of sleep well worth it. And she’s getting so much more alert and responsive every day. Yesterday she laid in her crib and watched her mobile for 10 minutes. That’s a long time for her, and she wasn’t just staring up. She was able to single out an animal and follow it with her eyes, turn her head when it moved out of her field of vision...
These things Scott sees all the time. And while I know it’s very stressful to be at home with a child all day, and I would be working no matter what (well, unless we were fabulously wealthy, in which case I’d just spend my time traveling and taking classes), I envy him the time he spends at home.
I overheard him last night telling Erick and Becky that I was itching to get back to work. Not true. I wanted my full 6 weeks maternity leave. But they were trying to reduce my position to part-time while I was on leave, so I HAD to go back to protect our income. I mean, it’s all well and good if I get to stay home with Emerson, but not if we have nothing to feed her.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
That's great
Me: “Okay, I’m going to Sam’s Club.”
Scott: “Okay.”
Me: “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
Scott: “No. My back really hurts, and my head hurts.”
Me: “Poor baby. If it makes you feel any better, I got baby poo under my fingernail this morning when I was changing Emerson.”
Scott: “You know, I do feel a little better.”
Me: “Great! If I can ease your suffering...”
Scott: “Okay.”
Me: “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
Scott: “No. My back really hurts, and my head hurts.”
Me: “Poor baby. If it makes you feel any better, I got baby poo under my fingernail this morning when I was changing Emerson.”
Scott: “You know, I do feel a little better.”
Me: “Great! If I can ease your suffering...”
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Looking forward to such things
My friends Gage and Jamie had their baby in early December, so Kerrigan is a little further along than Emerson. Jamie emailed me this description of their little sweetie’s development:
She’s getting interested in her hands, but hasn’t totally figured out that they’re her’s yet. The other day she was laying on the bed with her right hand up in the air, looking at it. Well, her hand slowly started to fall towards her belly, and she’s watching it as it gets closer. But as it gets closer, she starts giving it this suspicious look as if to say, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Then she picks her hand back up and looks at it like, “Good! You stay where you belong!” But then her hand starts falling back down and she starts looking at it all suspicious again. She just kept repeating that for about 5 minutes. And she’ll hold a rattle, but she inevitably smacks herself in the head with it and then promptly drops it. Or she’ll look at it a bit, then kinda forget about it. Then she’ll pick her hand up and see it and look all surprised as if to say, “Whoa! Where did that come from?!”
She’s getting interested in her hands, but hasn’t totally figured out that they’re her’s yet. The other day she was laying on the bed with her right hand up in the air, looking at it. Well, her hand slowly started to fall towards her belly, and she’s watching it as it gets closer. But as it gets closer, she starts giving it this suspicious look as if to say, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Then she picks her hand back up and looks at it like, “Good! You stay where you belong!” But then her hand starts falling back down and she starts looking at it all suspicious again. She just kept repeating that for about 5 minutes. And she’ll hold a rattle, but she inevitably smacks herself in the head with it and then promptly drops it. Or she’ll look at it a bit, then kinda forget about it. Then she’ll pick her hand up and see it and look all surprised as if to say, “Whoa! Where did that come from?!”
Monday, February 28, 2005
Have a cuppa
Scott hates rap. He sees no redeeming value in it. Well, except Outkast. But I’m always trying to point out that there is a redeeming quality to rap, if you understand the socio-cultural and historical placement. He insists it isn’t music.
Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The bassline makes him laugh.
“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”
Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The bassline makes him laugh.
“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”
Saturday, February 26, 2005
If you see this man, give him a hug
Scott decided to go to the store with both the dog and the baby. He must have had a head injury to do that. After he dropped Scrabble at Petsmart for a nail trim and flea bath, he went to Wal-Mart. Emerson helped him look for shoes by screaming the entire time.
"I finally went over to the baby section, tore open a package of pacifiers, and shoved on in her mouth. This pregnant lady was looking at me like I was desperate."
I wish I could follow him around with a video camera. It must be hysterical to watch.
"I finally went over to the baby section, tore open a package of pacifiers, and shoved on in her mouth. This pregnant lady was looking at me like I was desperate."
I wish I could follow him around with a video camera. It must be hysterical to watch.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Everyone Please Go Away
My husband was picking up dinners in 75-80 degree weather. Some old lady walked up to coo at Emerson and said, “Ohh. Did your daddy bring you outside without a hat?” Yes, but usually we just leave her head at home.
My mother-in-law came over to visit, and yelled at Scott every time he tried to touch his own daughter. “Wash your hands!” she shrieked. She called later to ask how things were, and he mentioned that they had picked me up at work. “Oh, no!” she cried. “You put Emerson in the car?!” No. We strapped her to the top.
Finally, we were at a birthday dinner and Allisonwas holding Emerson, who was being passed around and fed by about 10 different people - all the while Dot saying that she was eating too much. She usually drinks between two and four ounces - it depends on how she feels - and she was up to three. “If you want to feed her, see if she wants the rest of the bottle. She won’t drink it if she doesn’t want it.” Anyway, Allie didn’t burp her, and I wasn’t watching because I was talking. When she handed her back to Dot, Emerson spit up on her. “I knew you were feeding her too much!” Dot said, in a weirdly triumphant way. She went on while I apologized and offered to have her shirt dry-cleaned. She told me I was being ridiculous. But it was really annoying to have her go on about this like we were shoving the food down our daughter’s throat. I mean, the pediatrician said that she wasn’t eating enough.
My mother-in-law came over to visit, and yelled at Scott every time he tried to touch his own daughter. “Wash your hands!” she shrieked. She called later to ask how things were, and he mentioned that they had picked me up at work. “Oh, no!” she cried. “You put Emerson in the car?!” No. We strapped her to the top.
Finally, we were at a birthday dinner and Allisonwas holding Emerson, who was being passed around and fed by about 10 different people - all the while Dot saying that she was eating too much. She usually drinks between two and four ounces - it depends on how she feels - and she was up to three. “If you want to feed her, see if she wants the rest of the bottle. She won’t drink it if she doesn’t want it.” Anyway, Allie didn’t burp her, and I wasn’t watching because I was talking. When she handed her back to Dot, Emerson spit up on her. “I knew you were feeding her too much!” Dot said, in a weirdly triumphant way. She went on while I apologized and offered to have her shirt dry-cleaned. She told me I was being ridiculous. But it was really annoying to have her go on about this like we were shoving the food down our daughter’s throat. I mean, the pediatrician said that she wasn’t eating enough.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Crossed Words
I’m back at work from maternity leave (2.5 weeks later; must be a record) and I miss Scott and Emerson so much it’s painful. When I get home after my second day, Scott gives me a play-by-play on what they did that day.
Scott: We slept in the bed together, we had a bottle, and we did the crosswords together.
Me: You did the crosswords together?
Scott: Yep.
Me: How many did Emerson get right?
Scott: Oh, she didn’t get any right.
Me: None?
Scott: Well, none of the clues were “eh!”
Scott: We slept in the bed together, we had a bottle, and we did the crosswords together.
Me: You did the crosswords together?
Scott: Yep.
Me: How many did Emerson get right?
Scott: Oh, she didn’t get any right.
Me: None?
Scott: Well, none of the clues were “eh!”
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
The Exorcist
Our normally complacent infant has been screaming her head off all day. After 5 straight hours of nap-free fussiness, during which I cannot manage to take a shower or walk the dog due to the ravings of my little hellmonkey, Scott comes home and offers to take her off my hands.
“Please!” I sigh, relieved that she’ll be bursting someone else’s eardrums for a while. Instead, she immediately settles down in his arms and goes to making great big goo-goo eyes at him.
Just when I’m about to threaten him with divorce if he ever pulls a trick like that again, Emerson erupts like Vesuvius, spewing formula all over the front of Scott’s jacket.
Ha!
“Please!” I sigh, relieved that she’ll be bursting someone else’s eardrums for a while. Instead, she immediately settles down in his arms and goes to making great big goo-goo eyes at him.
Just when I’m about to threaten him with divorce if he ever pulls a trick like that again, Emerson erupts like Vesuvius, spewing formula all over the front of Scott’s jacket.
Ha!
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Baby Signs
We’re Emerson on simple baby sign language like “mama” (a hand brushing her cheek) and “dada” (tapping your hand to your temple). Normally in sign language the sign for an individual is the first letter of their first name, which you make the sign for and tap against your chin.
We’ve decided not to do that. Instead, we’re going to teach her more appropriate, individualized signs. Such as the following suggestions we’re kicking around:
Granny (my mother): devil horns
Aunt Kelli: rotating index finger at your temple (the sign for “crazy”)
Uncle JD: holding your nose like you smell something bad
Nona (Scott’s mother): picking your nose
Feel free to make suggestions!
We’ve decided not to do that. Instead, we’re going to teach her more appropriate, individualized signs. Such as the following suggestions we’re kicking around:
Granny (my mother): devil horns
Aunt Kelli: rotating index finger at your temple (the sign for “crazy”)
Uncle JD: holding your nose like you smell something bad
Nona (Scott’s mother): picking your nose
Feel free to make suggestions!
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Mominator
Mom: “So Target next?”
Me: “No, I forgot the gift card. We’re going to use it for some Baby Einstein toys for Emerson.”
Mom: “Some what?”
Me: “Baby Einstein toys.”
Mom: “Oh! Well, as long as they’re not Baby Frankenstein toys...”
Me: “No, I forgot the gift card. We’re going to use it for some Baby Einstein toys for Emerson.”
Mom: “Some what?”
Me: “Baby Einstein toys.”
Mom: “Oh! Well, as long as they’re not Baby Frankenstein toys...”
Friday, February 04, 2005
New Baby Smell
Me: She spits up a lot.
Scott: I changed into my Queen shirt because she knows not to spit up on it.
Me: Really? What’s that on your shoulder?
Scott (checking out the whitish stain on the black shirt):“Uh... Spit up. Dammit.
Scott: I changed into my Queen shirt because she knows not to spit up on it.
Me: Really? What’s that on your shoulder?
Scott (checking out the whitish stain on the black shirt):“Uh... Spit up. Dammit.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Ooh, Baby I Love Your Way
We had the baby, but I wouldn't have known unless someone told me. I don't remember it.
She was late. I went for my now-weekly Wednesday checkup, hoping to be rushed to the hospital in dramatic fashion by the doctor. "Get the I.V.! Outta the way! Moveitmoveitmoveit!"
"Well, two centimeters dilated. You want to come back next week?"
"No," I said. "Can I have her now?"
She looked up in surprise. I didn't care; man, I was tired. I'd been having contractions for two weeks, pretty much continuously. It kept me awake, tired me out at work, freaked out my husband - and it hurt. I guess she saw it in my face.
She returned a few minutes later: "Tomorrow night at six, ma'am. Check in and I'll see you Friday morning to induce."
I nodded, wearily, and met my husband outside.
"What did she say?" he asked.
"She said to have me at the hospital by 6 p.m. tomorrow," I said, as I struggled to stretch the seat belt. I glanced at him and saw that he had paled noticeably. I smiled, secretly. It was hitting him, too.
My parents met me at work at the next day, and I left at 4 p.m. with a merry, "See you tomorrow!" Ha ha. We all went and scarfed a big Mexican dinner and checked in. THEN came the I.V.'s, the poking, the prodding, the "No, you cannot have some water." Dang, woman! I'm thirsty!
When Nurse Ratchett and her cronies left, Scott sneaked in some Chick-fil-A and we reveled in our secret stash. Then I sent him home to get his last night of sleep for 18 years.
After some argument, I agreed to take a sleeping pill I didn't want. Big mistake. Sometime around 2 a.m., I went into labor in my own. I don't know what possessed them, but they gave me a shot of Demoral. I do not do well with opiates, and my husband was instructed to intervene. But he wasn't there. For some reason, they gave me another not too long after. Then they came in and tried to do an epidural.
Let's do the math: 1 sleeping pill, 2 shots of Demoral = 0 control over my own body. When the epidural-doctor-man sat me up for the needle, I fell over on the floor... on my face.
Somewhere around 9 a.m. I realized Scott was feeding me ice chips. Apparently, he had been for some time because my lips were frozen. I asked him to stop, but he didn't hear me. He was watching my girl-parts. Please, let my husband watch the previously enjoyable parts of his wife's body expand until he could yodel inside of them. Hoorah.
At some point, I was commanded to push. I tried.
"Am I pushing?" I asked. I couldn't feel anything.
"Oh, yeah!" the nurse exclaimed.
Cool. Thanks, yoga.
"Stop!"
"Really? Am I done?"
"No, we're waiting for the doctor."
"Can't you catch?"
But she was gone.
The ice chips, however, were ever-present.
"Honey, my head is frozen."
"Huh? Oh, sorry."
About a half hour later, the doctor shows up. Nice to see her, and all, but we've done just about everything there is to do.
"Okay, push!"
I do. I look up at Scott, and he has gone completely white. All I see are red hair and freckles. The rest of him blends in with the sterile walls.
"Okay, dad, cut the cord!"
Scott reaches out to take the scissors. His hands are shaking and I'm afraid he'll cut the wrong thing, but before I can protest, it's over. They clean her up, Scott gets all in the way with the photography, and I drift in and out. Suddenly I notice the room is silent.
"Um, how is she?" I ask.
There is still silence. I know they are doing an Apgar score. I wonder what it is. Finally, I hear a weak cry and see the nurse hand our little girl to Scott. He holds her and marvels. I smile and nod back off.
"Here, sweetheart," he whispers, and tries to hand me the baby. I do not want to hold the baby. I want to sleep.
"That's okay. I'll hold her later."
Through my opiate induced fog, I see something in his face I do not like - a mixture of fear, anger, and disappointment.
"Hold. Your. Daughter."
Okay.
Oh, yeah. This is good. Teeny baby, just 7 lbs? Give it to the drugged out lady. Under normal circumstances, this would be considered endangerment. I hold her, try to focus my eyes. I do not remember her face. The nurses sense it is time to take her away. I am grateful... but I already missed her.
I awaken in a room surrounded by relatives. God knows what I was doing in my sleep. Snoring? Talking? Drooling? Farting? I do not ask, but I am told that when they were wheeling me down to the new room I kept saying, "Wheeeeeee!"
I drifted in and out for a good 14 hours. They brought Emerson Renee McGowen Hudson in and she didn't go back until the relatives left. Then they brought her back and she slept on my chest all night.
I didn't go home for four blissful days. People brought drugs right to my bedside. I was not required to shower or change. I ordered every meal from a menu.
The downside is that random hospital employees kept coming in to check my stitches all the time. I think there might have been a janitor mixed in there somewhere, but you get so used to people looking at your hoo-ha that you just stop asking. Finally, they kicked us out. They didn't even ask us to be nice to her.
We took her down in her car seat.
I marveled at the clean car, the car seat, and the baby while Scott pulled out of the parking space.
"Honey, how does it stay in?" I asked, thoroughly confused.
"What?" He was intent on the traffic on the road outside the parking lot.
"The car seat - what holds it in?"
He glanced back: "Oh, shit!"
I giggled nervously, hysterically, while he affixed the seat belt to the car seat.
We were off to a great start.
She was late. I went for my now-weekly Wednesday checkup, hoping to be rushed to the hospital in dramatic fashion by the doctor. "Get the I.V.! Outta the way! Moveitmoveitmoveit!"
"Well, two centimeters dilated. You want to come back next week?"
"No," I said. "Can I have her now?"
She looked up in surprise. I didn't care; man, I was tired. I'd been having contractions for two weeks, pretty much continuously. It kept me awake, tired me out at work, freaked out my husband - and it hurt. I guess she saw it in my face.
She returned a few minutes later: "Tomorrow night at six, ma'am. Check in and I'll see you Friday morning to induce."
I nodded, wearily, and met my husband outside.
"What did she say?" he asked.
"She said to have me at the hospital by 6 p.m. tomorrow," I said, as I struggled to stretch the seat belt. I glanced at him and saw that he had paled noticeably. I smiled, secretly. It was hitting him, too.
My parents met me at work at the next day, and I left at 4 p.m. with a merry, "See you tomorrow!" Ha ha. We all went and scarfed a big Mexican dinner and checked in. THEN came the I.V.'s, the poking, the prodding, the "No, you cannot have some water." Dang, woman! I'm thirsty!
When Nurse Ratchett and her cronies left, Scott sneaked in some Chick-fil-A and we reveled in our secret stash. Then I sent him home to get his last night of sleep for 18 years.
After some argument, I agreed to take a sleeping pill I didn't want. Big mistake. Sometime around 2 a.m., I went into labor in my own. I don't know what possessed them, but they gave me a shot of Demoral. I do not do well with opiates, and my husband was instructed to intervene. But he wasn't there. For some reason, they gave me another not too long after. Then they came in and tried to do an epidural.
Let's do the math: 1 sleeping pill, 2 shots of Demoral = 0 control over my own body. When the epidural-doctor-man sat me up for the needle, I fell over on the floor... on my face.
Somewhere around 9 a.m. I realized Scott was feeding me ice chips. Apparently, he had been for some time because my lips were frozen. I asked him to stop, but he didn't hear me. He was watching my girl-parts. Please, let my husband watch the previously enjoyable parts of his wife's body expand until he could yodel inside of them. Hoorah.
At some point, I was commanded to push. I tried.
"Am I pushing?" I asked. I couldn't feel anything.
"Oh, yeah!" the nurse exclaimed.
Cool. Thanks, yoga.
"Stop!"
"Really? Am I done?"
"No, we're waiting for the doctor."
"Can't you catch?"
But she was gone.
The ice chips, however, were ever-present.
"Honey, my head is frozen."
"Huh? Oh, sorry."
About a half hour later, the doctor shows up. Nice to see her, and all, but we've done just about everything there is to do.
"Okay, push!"
I do. I look up at Scott, and he has gone completely white. All I see are red hair and freckles. The rest of him blends in with the sterile walls.
"Okay, dad, cut the cord!"
Scott reaches out to take the scissors. His hands are shaking and I'm afraid he'll cut the wrong thing, but before I can protest, it's over. They clean her up, Scott gets all in the way with the photography, and I drift in and out. Suddenly I notice the room is silent.
"Um, how is she?" I ask.
There is still silence. I know they are doing an Apgar score. I wonder what it is. Finally, I hear a weak cry and see the nurse hand our little girl to Scott. He holds her and marvels. I smile and nod back off.
"Here, sweetheart," he whispers, and tries to hand me the baby. I do not want to hold the baby. I want to sleep.
"That's okay. I'll hold her later."
Through my opiate induced fog, I see something in his face I do not like - a mixture of fear, anger, and disappointment.
"Hold. Your. Daughter."
Okay.
Oh, yeah. This is good. Teeny baby, just 7 lbs? Give it to the drugged out lady. Under normal circumstances, this would be considered endangerment. I hold her, try to focus my eyes. I do not remember her face. The nurses sense it is time to take her away. I am grateful... but I already missed her.
I awaken in a room surrounded by relatives. God knows what I was doing in my sleep. Snoring? Talking? Drooling? Farting? I do not ask, but I am told that when they were wheeling me down to the new room I kept saying, "Wheeeeeee!"
I drifted in and out for a good 14 hours. They brought Emerson Renee McGowen Hudson in and she didn't go back until the relatives left. Then they brought her back and she slept on my chest all night.
I didn't go home for four blissful days. People brought drugs right to my bedside. I was not required to shower or change. I ordered every meal from a menu.
The downside is that random hospital employees kept coming in to check my stitches all the time. I think there might have been a janitor mixed in there somewhere, but you get so used to people looking at your hoo-ha that you just stop asking. Finally, they kicked us out. They didn't even ask us to be nice to her.
We took her down in her car seat.
I marveled at the clean car, the car seat, and the baby while Scott pulled out of the parking space.
"Honey, how does it stay in?" I asked, thoroughly confused.
"What?" He was intent on the traffic on the road outside the parking lot.
"The car seat - what holds it in?"
He glanced back: "Oh, shit!"
I giggled nervously, hysterically, while he affixed the seat belt to the car seat.
We were off to a great start.
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.
Bad Mommy
So I bought the shock collar.
I put it on Barkley and Scott and I waited. He RUFFED around the house for a few hours before I finally said, "Honey, I don't think it's working." Turns out the battery was in wrong. More waiting.
Then, it was time to go potty. Once outside, Scrabble spotted a squirrel, his arch-nemesis. He couldn't hate them more if they were midget ninjas attacking at our back door. He took off after them, running and barking at the top of his lungs. Barkley, a follower of the lemming category, said to himself, "Yeah, me, too!" and leapt forward with a merry "RRRRRUUFF!" ...
and promptly fell over squealing like a pig!
He scrambled up and ran around for a minute, yelping, until he realized that just made it worse. Then he stood there, confused and pissed and a little breathless, while Scrabble nosed him and whined sympathetically - and set the damn collar off again. God! It was painful to watch - and funny as hell. I chased after him, crying and laughing, until I was choking and had to stop. It's not supposed to effect him that way, but there is a Saint Bernard on the collar's package, and he's so teeny tiny that it probably wasn't meant for him.
He spent the rest of the day clinging to me and hiding under chairs. Poor baby. But it's been a unusually quiet couple of days.
Scott decided to try it out. He put the collar on his neck and gave a tentative bark. "Ruf!"
Nothing happened. I snickered.
"Honey, you're going to hurt yourself."
"RufRuf!" He barked some more.
Nothing. I laughed out loud.
"Stop it, for real."
He grinned.
"RUF! RUF! RUF! RUF!"
To watch a 33-year-old grown man with a dog collar on, devilish look in his eye, yelling "ruf! ruf! Ruf!" in an uncanny imitation of an eight-pound Jack Russell puppy... oh, man. I was laughing and crying until I couldn't breathe, covering my face with the pillow and squealing "Stop it! You're going to knock yourself unconscious and I can't lift you!" He kept up, getting louder until finally he jerked the collar away from his neck.
"Whoa. It got me that time," he said.
"Really?" I gasped.
"Yeah. But it wasn't bad. It was more annoying than anything."
I was relieved but I'm still a rat-bastard for shocking my dog.
I put it on Barkley and Scott and I waited. He RUFFED around the house for a few hours before I finally said, "Honey, I don't think it's working." Turns out the battery was in wrong. More waiting.
Then, it was time to go potty. Once outside, Scrabble spotted a squirrel, his arch-nemesis. He couldn't hate them more if they were midget ninjas attacking at our back door. He took off after them, running and barking at the top of his lungs. Barkley, a follower of the lemming category, said to himself, "Yeah, me, too!" and leapt forward with a merry "RRRRRUUFF!" ...
and promptly fell over squealing like a pig!
He scrambled up and ran around for a minute, yelping, until he realized that just made it worse. Then he stood there, confused and pissed and a little breathless, while Scrabble nosed him and whined sympathetically - and set the damn collar off again. God! It was painful to watch - and funny as hell. I chased after him, crying and laughing, until I was choking and had to stop. It's not supposed to effect him that way, but there is a Saint Bernard on the collar's package, and he's so teeny tiny that it probably wasn't meant for him.
He spent the rest of the day clinging to me and hiding under chairs. Poor baby. But it's been a unusually quiet couple of days.
Scott decided to try it out. He put the collar on his neck and gave a tentative bark. "Ruf!"
Nothing happened. I snickered.
"Honey, you're going to hurt yourself."
"RufRuf!" He barked some more.
Nothing. I laughed out loud.
"Stop it, for real."
He grinned.
"RUF! RUF! RUF! RUF!"
To watch a 33-year-old grown man with a dog collar on, devilish look in his eye, yelling "ruf! ruf! Ruf!" in an uncanny imitation of an eight-pound Jack Russell puppy... oh, man. I was laughing and crying until I couldn't breathe, covering my face with the pillow and squealing "Stop it! You're going to knock yourself unconscious and I can't lift you!" He kept up, getting louder until finally he jerked the collar away from his neck.
"Whoa. It got me that time," he said.
"Really?" I gasped.
"Yeah. But it wasn't bad. It was more annoying than anything."
I was relieved but I'm still a rat-bastard for shocking my dog.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Munch
Scott: You're just too easy. Like that lady at Petsmart that day. I would have turned around and said, "Shut up!"
Me: Yeah, I couldn't believe that (mimicking lady in line, huffy and patronizing): "I can't believe you docked your dog's tail!" (returning to my normal voice): I didn't dock his tail, lady. He came like that.
Scott: I would have knocked that dog food she was buying right out of her hands.
Me: Well, honey, it was her lunch for the next day.
He spits beverage, laughing: That was wrong.
I shrug: Nah.
Me: Yeah, I couldn't believe that (mimicking lady in line, huffy and patronizing): "I can't believe you docked your dog's tail!" (returning to my normal voice): I didn't dock his tail, lady. He came like that.
Scott: I would have knocked that dog food she was buying right out of her hands.
Me: Well, honey, it was her lunch for the next day.
He spits beverage, laughing: That was wrong.
I shrug: Nah.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I fret constantly over the semi-permanence of the physical changes a pregnancy brings on. I didn’t know how vain I was until lately. I worry that I’ll never lose the 20 lbs I’ve gained, that Scott will no longer find me attractive, that the stretch marks that appear after you have the baby will make me look like one big elephant’s knee.
Scott laughs it off, insisting that he will always find me attractive.
“Besides, once you have the baby, you’ll have your old body back,” he assures me. I mull this over for a second, examining my stomach - well, what I can see of it.
“No,” I sigh. “I’ll have someone’s old body, but it won’t be mine.”
Scott laughs it off, insisting that he will always find me attractive.
“Besides, once you have the baby, you’ll have your old body back,” he assures me. I mull this over for a second, examining my stomach - well, what I can see of it.
“No,” I sigh. “I’ll have someone’s old body, but it won’t be mine.”
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Dinner party x 2
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.
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
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.
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.”
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.
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
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.”
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.
“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...
"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.
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.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Romanticizing the Renaissance
Scott asked me to write him a paper for his medieval studies class about the South Carolina Renaissance Festival. Foolish Man.
Romanticizing the Renaissance
The term Renaissance usually refers to a period in European history between the years of 1350 to 1600, during which there was a flowering of art, literature, and scientific exploration. It’s too bad that none of this exists at your local Renaissance festival – or even the one that’s three hours away. As far as I can tell, the appeal of these festivals arises from some kind of group delusion during which participants romanticize the era in three ways: societal simplicity, mental and emotional escapism, and outward expression of ego.
At these festivals, history and Dungeons & Dragons fans crawl blearily from their darkened homes to a façade of a wooded village where the air is filled with verbal and musical merriment, the smell of port-a-potties, and the ethereal chime of cash registers. “Merriment,” in Renaissance-speak, must have been defined as “merciless taunting.” Every failed actor hired by the festival shouts insults and come-ons at patrons to give them an authentic Renaissance experience. No wonder everyone carried swords. A few well-timed public beheadings were the only way to shut up these bastards.
The “privies,” as they were so lightly termed by the site’s owners, are disgusting – but they’re still cleaner than most mothers’ kitchens in the Renaissance. Nowhere in the festival is there any mention of marauding raiders, rampant disease, nearly universal poverty, and early death – the infant mortality rate was a healthy 50 percent. Finally, fans though they may be, most of the participants are pretty ignorant of the real history and culture the festivals celebrate. They think, despite the reality of history, that medieval and Renaissance England (one and the same thing to most festival-goers) was a cheerful, verdant theme park filled with only high-class (never peasant class) Hobbits and Heroes… Then they dress like them, and that is the reason the male patrons have never seen a real vagina.
Finally, for those who have not experienced a festival of this type, I recommend before you leave that you mortgage your home and sell your blood. The cost of admission, food, drinks, and crafts explain why malnutrition and homelessness were rampant in this time in Europe, considering that adjusted for inflation, a turkey leg cost approximately the same for peasants as an Xbox, and who can afford to buy three $200 squares a day? Also, because authentic nerds created the merchandise, and nerds are smarter than me, they have perfected the art of how to make me want pappy crap I would never be able to use in the real world. Case in point: a $110 checkered skirt that they had cleverly disguised as a “kilt” – from which my wife, Stacey, had to drag me kicking and screaming. Thank god Stacey had possession of the bankcard, but she left it unattended shortly after we returned and now my hallway and dining table are clad in plaid because I intended to make my own kilt. Since I don’t know the first thing about sewing, I may have a new tablecloth. I hope my wife likes it.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Helloween
We’re having a Halloween party, and costumes are preferred. I hear Scott on the telephone: “My wife and I are both dressing up.”
I look at him incredulously.
“Oh, really? What am I going to be, honey? A beach ball?”
Later, as I’m lounging half naked on the couch, a vision of myself materializes in my mind.
“Hey, honey, I figured out what we could do for Halloween costumes.”
“Oh, what?”
“I can be Jabba the Hut, and you can be Princess Leia.”
He spits smoke out the door, laughing.
“No, I don’t think so.”
I look at him incredulously.
“Oh, really? What am I going to be, honey? A beach ball?”
Later, as I’m lounging half naked on the couch, a vision of myself materializes in my mind.
“Hey, honey, I figured out what we could do for Halloween costumes.”
“Oh, what?”
“I can be Jabba the Hut, and you can be Princess Leia.”
He spits smoke out the door, laughing.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Monday, October 25, 2004
(blushing)
I hear Alicia walk in the house. The last time she wandered in I was taking a nap, naked, in the bedroom.
“Are you home? Are you naked?” she calls.
“No, I’m not naked!” I reply from my computer chair.
“Damn!” she says. I laugh.
“I’m very pregnant. You don’t want to see that naked.”
Scott walks in behind her.
“The most beautiful thing in the world is a pregnant woman.”
Yeah, he’s a keeper.
“Are you home? Are you naked?” she calls.
“No, I’m not naked!” I reply from my computer chair.
“Damn!” she says. I laugh.
“I’m very pregnant. You don’t want to see that naked.”
Scott walks in behind her.
“The most beautiful thing in the world is a pregnant woman.”
Yeah, he’s a keeper.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
It's a Dog Bark Life For Us...!
I think everyone should have a theme song. It makes life more enjoyable. You can be tromping along, having a bad day, hating life and all the people in it. But if you write a really excellent theme song for yourself, and you remember to sing it at your challenging times, the whole day seems better.
One of my most challenging times is when I have to clean up yet another steaming pile of "I-Gotcher-Housebroken-Right-Here" Barkley's or "Hey-Barkley-Did-It-First" Scrabble's dog poop. He's catching on, but verrrrrrryy slooooooowly. So I wrote a theme song for the moments when I want to rename one of them Jimmy Dean and send him to the sausage factory.
Scrabble's is sung to the tune of "Modern Major General" from "Pirates of Penzance"
I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
I chew and then I poo I tell you I am not a dabbler
I run and hide and jump and scratch
And then I try to smell your snatch
I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
And when it rains I refuse to become a doggie drabbler
And happily eschew the potty training of my handler
And I will not learn to play catch
For tricks and such I am mismatched
I am the very model of a modern doggie Scrabbler
Barkley's is sung to the tune of "Old Man River" from "Showboat," because he has sad eyes and whiskers like an old man.
There's an ol' man called Barkley
That's the ol' man I'd like to be
What does he care if the world's got troubles?
He only cares if his food bowl's empty
Ol' Man Barkley
That Ol' Man Barkley
He don't know nuthin
But keeps on barkin
He just keeps rompin'
He keeps on stompin' along
He don't chase squirrels
He don't catch mouses
And them that gets 'em
Don't have dog houses
But Ol' Man Barkley
He just keeps rompin' along
One of my most challenging times is when I have to clean up yet another steaming pile of "I-Gotcher-Housebroken-Right-Here" Barkle
Scrabble's is sung to the tune of "Modern Major General" from "Pirates of Penzance"
I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
I chew and then I poo I tell you I am not a dabbler
I run and hide and jump and scratch
And then I try to smell your snatch
I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
And when it rains I refuse to become a doggie drabbler
And happily eschew the potty training of my handler
And I will not learn to play catch
For tricks and such I am mismatched
I am the very model of a modern doggie Scrabbler
Barkley's is sung to the tune of "Old Man River" from "Showboat," because he has sad eyes and whiskers like an old man.
There's an ol' man called Barkley
That's the ol' man I'd like to be
What does he care if the world's got troubles?
He only cares if his food bowl's empty
Ol' Man Barkley
That Ol' Man Barkley
He don't know nuthin
But keeps on barkin
He just keeps rompin'
He keeps on stompin' along
He don't chase squirrels
He don't catch mouses
And them that gets 'em
Don't have dog houses
But Ol' Man Barkley
He just keeps rompin' along
Appetite for Consumption
I was reading the "Expectant Fathers" book I gave to Scott for his birthday. Men think facts, figures, and stats are crucial, so it's chock-full of how bigs, how longs, what volumes, and how much time kinds of information. Anyway, the book told me that, right now, the baby is a foot long.
Made me want a hot dog.
Made me want a hot dog.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Band Aid
Scott is all excited about his new band. They've written a few songs, and are practicing. I haven't heard them all play together, but I've heard one of their new songs with just Scott and Riley, and it's pretty. He came up with a name for the band and pitched it to me: "Triple Screw." He said it was something about early 20th century maritime boat speed rankings. I said it sounded like porn, a cocktail, or a Lynard Skynard cover band. He said it did not, that it had several meanings, and that people would think about it. But when he pitched it to the band, Riley said, "Like porn." Ha. Why does anyone even bother to question me?
Actually, the band liked it.
Actually, the band liked it.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
The House Mouse
There’s a mouse in our house
And I don’t mean to grouse
But he munches the dog food for Scrabble.
He scratches and steals
All the poor doggie’s meals
And runs off to feed all the rabble.
The mouse in our house
Well, he’s cute when he’s roused
And he skittles across the floor, addled.
Though he hardens like steel
When he hears the mouse squeal
He’s frightened, our poor little Scrabble.
There’s a mouse in our house
- thinks he lives here, the louse -
And it may sound like crazed psychobabble,
But he has an appeal
Though he stays mostly concealed
And the thought of him leaves me quite rattled.
Against the mouse in our house
I must espouse
I haven’t put up a real battle.
He has an appeal
This thief of dog meals
And I can’t call the landlord to tattle
And I don’t mean to grouse
But he munches the dog food for Scrabble.
He scratches and steals
All the poor doggie’s meals
And runs off to feed all the rabble.
The mouse in our house
Well, he’s cute when he’s roused
And he skittles across the floor, addled.
Though he hardens like steel
When he hears the mouse squeal
He’s frightened, our poor little Scrabble.
There’s a mouse in our house
- thinks he lives here, the louse -
And it may sound like crazed psychobabble,
But he has an appeal
Though he stays mostly concealed
And the thought of him leaves me quite rattled.
Against the mouse in our house
I must espouse
I haven’t put up a real battle.
He has an appeal
This thief of dog meals
And I can’t call the landlord to tattle
Monday, September 27, 2004
Trapped
So, we got this new cafe table/chair set to go in the kitchen, because the washer/dryer take up too much space for the big wooden bench and table. I’m sitting in one of the chairs, doing the crossword, when Scrabble bolts out the back door. I start to get up.
“I’ll get him!” Scott calls as he dashes out after him - and suddenly I find myself struggling to keep my balance.
I let out a yelp as I almost fall down. I try to get up again, only to realize that my belt loop had somehow gotten entangled in the scrollwork on the metal chairback. I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t see or feel how it was tangled. I was trapped in the chair, and it was too heavy to stand up.
I sat there, alone and feeling pretty goddamn retarded, until Scott came trotting back in with Scrabble.
“Here we are! Bad dog!” he said, and put the dog down on the linoleum floor. He smiled at me. I struggled to get up.
“Um, honey... I’m stuck,” I said. He burst into laughter, and untangled the belt loop as we both laughed.
“That’s going in my journal!” He crowed. “That’s too hysterical.”
“I was afraid you were going to hop in the car and go to the store,” I said. That made him laugh harder.
“I heard you yelp, but I thought you were just saying ‘thank you,’” he said.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“I’ll get him!” Scott calls as he dashes out after him - and suddenly I find myself struggling to keep my balance.
I let out a yelp as I almost fall down. I try to get up again, only to realize that my belt loop had somehow gotten entangled in the scrollwork on the metal chairback. I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t see or feel how it was tangled. I was trapped in the chair, and it was too heavy to stand up.
I sat there, alone and feeling pretty goddamn retarded, until Scott came trotting back in with Scrabble.
“Here we are! Bad dog!” he said, and put the dog down on the linoleum floor. He smiled at me. I struggled to get up.
“Um, honey... I’m stuck,” I said. He burst into laughter, and untangled the belt loop as we both laughed.
“That’s going in my journal!” He crowed. “That’s too hysterical.”
“I was afraid you were going to hop in the car and go to the store,” I said. That made him laugh harder.
“I heard you yelp, but I thought you were just saying ‘thank you,’” he said.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Showing my ass
I’m getting ready to go to work, running around quasi late. The dog, seeing me putting on my shoes and grabbing my purse and keys, endeavors to stop me from leaving. Daddy’s asleep, so he knows it will be hours before anyone plays with him. I step over him, around him, and try to lose him several times. He is undeterred.
Suddenly, I am on my face on the hardwood floor, stunned. I feel a breeze from the ceiling fans and realize my ass is exposed. I sit up, cautiously. The dog runs a quick figure-8 around me, into the nursery, and back. He takes hold of my skirt, and I get it. He pulled my skirt down with his teeth and tripped me. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react. But here I am: on the floor, half naked, with a throbbing cheekbone. Incredible. I suppress the urge to use him as a football and partially shut him in the living room with Scott. It will take him just long enough to escape that I can make MY escape. I leave, rubbing my face and checking the position of my skirt.
It’s probably going to be a long day
Suddenly, I am on my face on the hardwood floor, stunned. I feel a breeze from the ceiling fans and realize my ass is exposed. I sit up, cautiously. The dog runs a quick figure-8 around me, into the nursery, and back. He takes hold of my skirt, and I get it. He pulled my skirt down with his teeth and tripped me. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react. But here I am: on the floor, half naked, with a throbbing cheekbone. Incredible. I suppress the urge to use him as a football and partially shut him in the living room with Scott. It will take him just long enough to escape that I can make MY escape. I leave, rubbing my face and checking the position of my skirt.
It’s probably going to be a long day
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Shit
I’m sitting at the computer, replying to emails, when Scrabble waddles up to me, propelled by his rapidly wagging tail. He’s carrying something in his mouth he’s very excited about. I’m sure it’s yet another random piece of plastic he’s found on the floor.
“Hey, boy!”
He wags harder.
“Whatcha doin’ sweetie pie?”
He yelps a little, and waddles closer. I reach down and scratch behind his ears.
“What a good boy! Whatcha got there. Scrabble?”
He nudges my hand with his nose, and drops his prize into my hand.
“Oh, thank you!”
I scratch him again, and look at the object. It is a dark, hard, cylindrical-shaped object.
“What’s this, sweetie?”
And then I realize. Oh, crap. It’s crap. It’s a nasty, dried-out piece of dog poo. Aw. How loved I feel.
“Hey, boy!”
He wags harder.
“Whatcha doin’ sweetie pie?”
He yelps a little, and waddles closer. I reach down and scratch behind his ears.
“What a good boy! Whatcha got there. Scrabble?”
He nudges my hand with his nose, and drops his prize into my hand.
“Oh, thank you!”
I scratch him again, and look at the object. It is a dark, hard, cylindrical-shaped object.
“What’s this, sweetie?”
And then I realize. Oh, crap. It’s crap. It’s a nasty, dried-out piece of dog poo. Aw. How loved I feel.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Now We're Married. 'Bout Time
Patsy and Jim DID NOT send in our marriage license. Instead, they marched themselves down to the Augusta-Richmond County Courthouse and hand delivered it - but not before they demanded that the probate officer change (in the computer records; the document itself is already set) the city of origin for Scott's father. Does the phrase "None of your business" ever enter her mind?
Nevermind. I know it doesn't.
Nevermind. I know it doesn't.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Politics. Yay. Fun.
<>Joe: I still think the war was the right thing to do.
Me: I don’t think you should use the words “war” and “right” in the same sentence.
Joe: No, seriously, we have to take these guys out. We had to go to war. But I still love you guys, no matter who you vote for.
Scott: Well, my vote for Kerry is going to cancel your vote for Bush out, and Stacey’s voting for Kerry, so we win.
Me: Wait a minute, now, I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Scott: Really?!
Joe: She’s gonna vote for Nadar! Alllright! Then we really will win!
Me: No, I’m not voting for Nadar. But I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Joe: Well, since I’m here, let me convince you -
Me: I’m not voting for Bush. But I haven’t decided to vote for Kerry, either.
Joe: What other viable candidate is there?
Me: Well, the Libertarian Party’s candidate is viable. Their -
Joe: They want to legalize crack, heroin, and cocaine!
Me: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Scott: That was a very astute political observation.
Me: What?
Scott: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Me: Well, the problem with political discussion is that everyone depends on hyperbole. And it doesn’t accomplish anything. Anyway, I might vote for Kerry. I just haven’t decided.
Joe: Kerry got a scratch on the knee and three purple hearts! The bullet ricocheted off like three different things and scratched his knee and he got sent home!
Me: I don’t know anything about that, but what’s your point? I mean, he still has more experience in battle than Bush.
Joe: He can’t win this war.
Me: We’re not at war.
Joe: What? How can you say that?
Me: Oh, we went to war. We marched in, triumphant, and there was much rejoicing, and the statues came tumbling down. And then we sat back and waited. We fortify our positions while they find ways through ‘em. I don’t know much about tactics, but I do know that wars aren’t won from defensive positions.
Joe: But we got Saddam!
Me: So? Saddam isn’t Hitler. Baghdad isn’t Berlin. We’re still fighting as though this is World War II, and it’s not.
Joe (shaking his head): But we had to get Saddam! We have to take these guys out!
Me: Saddam was a dictator. Hitler was a charismatic leader. There’s a difference in how the effects the troops and government. There’s no centralized, top-down kind of structure in Baghdad. It’s a grassroots movement.
Joe: Still, we had to get these guys.
Me: Why did we have to do it?
Joe: Because - I mean, okay, like, the French were totally in bed with the Iraqis.
Me: No argument there.
Joe: So that’s why they didn’t support us. That’s why we didn’t go in with French troops.
Me: Yeah? We didn’t go in with a squadron of kazoo players, either. The French didn’t matter.
Joe: That’s true. That’s true. But Kerry still can’t win this war.
Lord. I’ll just drop it. I was hoping for a more two-way discussion on the war, but Joe was just too drunk already. Besides, he’s a die-hard Republican, and I don’t like any of the political parties. I don’t know if the war was justified. I just know that we didn’t go about it the right way.
Me: I don’t think you should use the words “war” and “right” in the same sentence.
Joe: No, seriously, we have to take these guys out. We had to go to war. But I still love you guys, no matter who you vote for.
Scott: Well, my vote for Kerry is going to cancel your vote for Bush out, and Stacey’s voting for Kerry, so we win.
Me: Wait a minute, now, I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Scott: Really?!
Joe: She’s gonna vote for Nadar! Alllright! Then we really will win!
Me: No, I’m not voting for Nadar. But I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Joe: Well, since I’m here, let me convince you -
Me: I’m not voting for Bush. But I haven’t decided to vote for Kerry, either.
Joe: What other viable candidate is there?
Me: Well, the Libertarian Party’s candidate is viable. Their -
Joe: They want to legalize crack, heroin, and cocaine!
Me: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Scott: That was a very astute political observation.
Me: What?
Scott: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Me: Well, the problem with political discussion is that everyone depends on hyperbole. And it doesn’t accomplish anything. Anyway, I might vote for Kerry. I just haven’t decided.
Joe: Kerry got a scratch on the knee and three purple hearts! The bullet ricocheted off like three different things and scratched his knee and he got sent home!
Me: I don’t know anything about that, but what’s your point? I mean, he still has more experience in battle than Bush.
Joe: He can’t win this war.
Me: We’re not at war.
Joe: What? How can you say that?
Me: Oh, we went to war. We marched in, triumphant, and there was much rejoicing, and the statues came tumbling down. And then we sat back and waited. We fortify our positions while they find ways through ‘em. I don’t know much about tactics, but I do know that wars aren’t won from defensive positions.
Joe: But we got Saddam!
Me: So? Saddam isn’t Hitler. Baghdad isn’t Berlin. We’re still fighting as though this is World War II, and it’s not.
Joe (shaking his head): But we had to get Saddam! We have to take these guys out!
Me: Saddam was a dictator. Hitler was a charismatic leader. There’s a difference in how the effects the troops and government. There’s no centralized, top-down kind of structure in Baghdad. It’s a grassroots movement.
Joe: Still, we had to get these guys.
Me: Why did we have to do it?
Joe: Because - I mean, okay, like, the French were totally in bed with the Iraqis.
Me: No argument there.
Joe: So that’s why they didn’t support us. That’s why we didn’t go in with French troops.
Me: Yeah? We didn’t go in with a squadron of kazoo players, either. The French didn’t matter.
Joe: That’s true. That’s true. But Kerry still can’t win this war.
Lord. I’ll just drop it. I was hoping for a more two-way discussion on the war, but Joe was just too drunk already. Besides, he’s a die-hard Republican, and I don’t like any of the political parties. I don’t know if the war was justified. I just know that we didn’t go about it the right way.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Despite the wedding, we're still not married
Patsy and Jim have not yet mailed our marriage license (which means that we are not yet legally married). They did, however, OPEN THE ENVELOPE, read the contents,
and decide not to send it, based on the grounds that Scott gave the wrong city of birth for his father.
Hell, I probably gave the wrong city of birth for dad. I didn't know they were going to ask, and I blanked out, and the lady at the Probate Court said, "It's not important. Just guess." So I said "Well, it's either San Antonio or Tulsa. Maybe. I guess just put San Antonio, since he's a Texan at heart," at which she laughed.
Scott's father was adopted, and he didn't know where he was born, so he guessed Portland, where he had been raised. Apparently, he was born in Troy, Alabama. Well, who wants to be from Troy, Alabama, anyway?
So Patsy called yesterday and said she was going to photocopy the document, white out the incorrect information, write in the correct information, and then send it in. I was incredulous. It's a legal document, notorized and stamped. What is she thinking? Besides, it's none of her business what our legal documents say. But apparently Scott defiled the memory of his dead father, or something.
After about 15 minutes of Scott saying, "Mother, it doesn't matter. They just told us to guess. I didn't know where he was born, and I didn't know they were going to ask that... No, I couldn't call you, we were at the Probate Court... No, mother, we don't need a cell phone..." and so on. I finally said, "Tell Patsy that I'd like to be legally married before the end of the week, and if she can't put the damn thing in the mail, I'll be there in 15 minutes to get it." And Scott said, "Stacey said to tell you to stop being a butthead and send it in." Gee, thanks, Scott. That helped. Scott finally got Jim on the phone and made him promise to send it in today.
Hell, I probably gave the wrong city of birth for dad. I didn't know they were going to ask, and I blanked out, and the lady at the Probate Court said, "It's not important. Just guess." So I said "Well, it's either San Antonio or Tulsa. Maybe. I guess just put San Antonio, since he's a Texan at heart," at which she laughed.
Scott's father was adopted, and he didn't know where he was born, so he guessed Portland, where he had been raised. Apparently, he was born in Troy, Alabama. Well, who wants to be from Troy, Alabama, anyway?
So Patsy called yesterday and said she was going to photocopy the document, white out the incorrect information, write in the correct information, and then send it in. I was incredulous. It's a legal document, notorized and stamped. What is she thinking? Besides, it's none of her business what our legal documents say. But apparently Scott defiled the memory of his dead father, or something.
After about 15 minutes of Scott saying, "Mother, it doesn't matter. They just told us to guess. I didn't know where he was born, and I didn't know they were going to ask that... No, I couldn't call you, we were at the Probate Court... No, mother, we don't need a cell phone..." and so on. I finally said, "Tell Patsy that I'd like to be legally married before the end of the week, and if she can't put the damn thing in the mail, I'll be there in 15 minutes to get it." And Scott said, "Stacey said to tell you to stop being a butthead and send it in." Gee, thanks, Scott. That helped. Scott finally got Jim on the phone and made him promise to send it in today.
