I am learning how to live on a lot less sleep, and have even managed to cook a meal once or twice. Life is returning to normal…ish. Plus, you know, a baby. My return to work date is looming, and I am both excited for it and dreading it. I miss my co-workers and using that part of my brain. I also do not want to relinquish the care of my precious baby to anyone whose name does not rhyme with Yumasaurus. But it must be done, and thus we have begun the fascinating and grueling process of finding a nanny.
We have posted a couple of ads, and the response has been varied. Some are easy to weed out. One of my first questions is, “Are you allergic to cats?” because, hi, those are our other babies. You cannot avoid the cat fur and love in our house. I’ve had one or two people tell me they’d be o.k. as long as they don’t touch the cats. And I must respond with “How about if they touch you?” because Tatum is very jealous of the baby, and demands equal attention and rubs all over you constantly if you deign to hold the baby and not him.
I also am not interested in smokers, which is pretty common among new moms. And while the correct answer to the question, “Do you smoke?” is “No” that no must be honest. I had one lady tell me, “Oh, no.”
…
“But if I do have a cigarette, it’s only at night. Socially. I would never smoke in front of the kids.”
Needless to say I didn’t invite her over for an in-person interview.
The grandmother who was unable to furnish any references besides her daughter was also rejected, as were all the university students who think they’d be a perfect fit for my 9-5 job, except they are in class during the day so they are only available on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM, except on the second Tuesday of every month when they have their drum circle that they are absolutely dedicated to and couldn’t possibly give up.
So far the front-runner for me is a Tibetan woman who says she likes to cook traditional Tibetan and Indian food. (Note we are not asking the nanny to cook, she was just talking about what she likes to do in her free time.) I was drooling, while The Funasaurus, who has a real issue with food that is mushy, looked on in horror. He, meanwhile, has a strong preference for the hot, young, yoga instructor who looks like Katie Holmes circa the post-Dawson’s Creek but pre-Tom Cruise era. Except skinnier. And Toned-er. Never mind that she is only available through August, those could be a glorious eight months or so.
We continue to interview.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Update on Some Very Bad Cats
Thank you for all the supportive comments. I am glad to hear from multiple sources that it gets easier. These days I’m just trying not to be too jealous of a swing…currently my daughter seems to prefer being in it than in my arms. This is both frustrating and also very convenient for getting other things done.
I had big plans to tell you all about the Ordeal of Tatum, but I am tired, so the abbreviated version is: the little poophead disappeared about a week after we brought Miss Thang home from the hospital. We were pretty sure he got outside somehow, and for five days I would sob hysterically on the couch at 3:00 in the morning as I listened to the coyotes howl just outside our front door, convincing myself that I was truly unfit to be a mother if I couldn’t even keep a cat safe. Tatum is cute but dumb, and I believe any sort of survival skills have been bred right out of him. It is also getting cold in Colorado, and Tatum does not possess much fur, so I was sure he had turned into a kitty popsicle for added coyote nibbling pleasure.
We all mourned the little stinker, even Sugar, who started crying at the door whenever we left, which was a habit she had back in the day that convinced us to get her a playmate in the first place. She would never admit it, but she missed Tatum a lot. I was…more open about my distress. The Funasaurus was sent out to troll the neighborhood whistling and offering faux mice to the wind many times.
On the fifth night, around 3:00AM, I thought I heard him cry as I was feeding Miss Thang. I made The Funasaurus get up and check outside. The night was apparently cold, but Tatum-less. Around 6:00AM I was SURE I heard him. So I sprang out of bed half-naked, with Miss Thang still attached, and ran all over calling him. (As fast as one can run with a newborn attached to your boob.) He was in the basement, just sitting on the other side of the door, all, “What took you so long?” He then proceeded upstairs where he snarfed some food and promptly demanded a mouse.
I called the 24-hour vet to see if we needed to bring him in for dehydration, and she asked if he was refusing food or acting lethargic. I moved out of Sugar’s way as Tatum chased her up the stairs, and decided we probably didn’t need to go in.
So he is home, safe, loved, and obnoxious as ever. He’s also quite jealous of Miss Thang, and has developed this habit where he demands to be held whenever she is being held. Fortunately, my parents have been down to help me out a lot, and while my mom helps with diapers and burping, my dad carries Tatum around (when he’s not throwing faux mice for him) and everyone feels useful and loved.
Now we just need to convince Sugar that when the baby finally goes to sleep we all need to go to sleep. Currently she sees it as her opportunity to cuddle with her very poke-y claws.
I had big plans to tell you all about the Ordeal of Tatum, but I am tired, so the abbreviated version is: the little poophead disappeared about a week after we brought Miss Thang home from the hospital. We were pretty sure he got outside somehow, and for five days I would sob hysterically on the couch at 3:00 in the morning as I listened to the coyotes howl just outside our front door, convincing myself that I was truly unfit to be a mother if I couldn’t even keep a cat safe. Tatum is cute but dumb, and I believe any sort of survival skills have been bred right out of him. It is also getting cold in Colorado, and Tatum does not possess much fur, so I was sure he had turned into a kitty popsicle for added coyote nibbling pleasure.
We all mourned the little stinker, even Sugar, who started crying at the door whenever we left, which was a habit she had back in the day that convinced us to get her a playmate in the first place. She would never admit it, but she missed Tatum a lot. I was…more open about my distress. The Funasaurus was sent out to troll the neighborhood whistling and offering faux mice to the wind many times.
On the fifth night, around 3:00AM, I thought I heard him cry as I was feeding Miss Thang. I made The Funasaurus get up and check outside. The night was apparently cold, but Tatum-less. Around 6:00AM I was SURE I heard him. So I sprang out of bed half-naked, with Miss Thang still attached, and ran all over calling him. (As fast as one can run with a newborn attached to your boob.) He was in the basement, just sitting on the other side of the door, all, “What took you so long?” He then proceeded upstairs where he snarfed some food and promptly demanded a mouse.
I called the 24-hour vet to see if we needed to bring him in for dehydration, and she asked if he was refusing food or acting lethargic. I moved out of Sugar’s way as Tatum chased her up the stairs, and decided we probably didn’t need to go in.
So he is home, safe, loved, and obnoxious as ever. He’s also quite jealous of Miss Thang, and has developed this habit where he demands to be held whenever she is being held. Fortunately, my parents have been down to help me out a lot, and while my mom helps with diapers and burping, my dad carries Tatum around (when he’s not throwing faux mice for him) and everyone feels useful and loved.
Now we just need to convince Sugar that when the baby finally goes to sleep we all need to go to sleep. Currently she sees it as her opportunity to cuddle with her very poke-y claws.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Queen for a Day..and then Another Day
Hi hi. I am still here. Barely. I got four consecutive hours of sleep last night, which is the most sleep I’ve gotten in a month, and so I am feeling fabulous and productive this morning.
Motherhood is kicking my ass. We started a blog for family and friends with pictures of Miss Thang. I try to remain optimistic and light there, since we are not trying to strike fear into the hearts of our loved ones. But I plan on being a little more candid here. Overall, I think we’re doing pretty good. And each day IS getting a little easier, if only a tiny bit so. But it’s really fucking hard, too. There are so many decisions that have to be made while running on a nominal amount sleep and major amount stress. Who is it o.k. to whip out a boob in front of? Should I try and force this itty-bitty shirt over my screaming child’s head, or risk letting her freeze to death? Can I keep my mouth shut when yet another random person tries to give me advice that I already have heard fourteen times? Is it o.k. to try and grab a bite to eat when I’m starving if my child is still sobbing hysterically? Should I bother to try and clean the mold off of the dishes that are piling up in the sink, or just invest in paper plates someday when I make it back to the grocery store?
See what I mean? Candid. I am not open to criticism, thanks anyway.
Meanwhile, apparently the world outside continues to turn, but I am not really aware of it. I have lost track of days, but I am happy I get ten weeks of maternity leave to invest in this baby. Each day I learn a little more, and get a little closer to this tiny person. I do not know how women go back to work sooner. Really, my hat is off to you if you have done that. Also, I have a newfound respect for single mothers. That is an inconceivable notion to me. I do not think I could have physically or mentally gotten this far without The Funasaurus. Seriously, if you were raised by or know a single mom, perhaps you should buy her something very expensive and sparkly for Thanksgiving. And then again for Chanukah and Christmas. Also perhaps a crapload of liquor.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, we are actually hosting this year. And by “hosting” I mean, “we will unlock the door to our house and let my mom come in with all the supplies and cook in our kitchen.” Of course, we have a new gas stove, and we are smelling quite a bit of natural gas when we turn the oven on. The Funasaurus and I have blissfully gone about cooking (mostly chocolate chip cookies) in our exhausted new-parent stupor, but my mom is somewhat concerned about the natural gas. She has these silly concerns about blowing up our new little family, apparently that’s not part of her Thanksgiving day plan. So I have tried to call the builder, who told me to call the gas company, who told me to call this other number, who have told me they’d call back sometime to schedule a day to come out and test our oven.
I have doubts about whether this will happen before Thanksgiving. In which case, I am starting to wonder if we are going to have to just start popping little Cornish game hens one by one into our toaster oven starting around Miss Thang’s 3:00AM feeding on Thursday morning. That should be awesome.
Next up, the story of Tatum, the little shit we can’t live without.
Motherhood is kicking my ass. We started a blog for family and friends with pictures of Miss Thang. I try to remain optimistic and light there, since we are not trying to strike fear into the hearts of our loved ones. But I plan on being a little more candid here. Overall, I think we’re doing pretty good. And each day IS getting a little easier, if only a tiny bit so. But it’s really fucking hard, too. There are so many decisions that have to be made while running on a nominal amount sleep and major amount stress. Who is it o.k. to whip out a boob in front of? Should I try and force this itty-bitty shirt over my screaming child’s head, or risk letting her freeze to death? Can I keep my mouth shut when yet another random person tries to give me advice that I already have heard fourteen times? Is it o.k. to try and grab a bite to eat when I’m starving if my child is still sobbing hysterically? Should I bother to try and clean the mold off of the dishes that are piling up in the sink, or just invest in paper plates someday when I make it back to the grocery store?
See what I mean? Candid. I am not open to criticism, thanks anyway.
Meanwhile, apparently the world outside continues to turn, but I am not really aware of it. I have lost track of days, but I am happy I get ten weeks of maternity leave to invest in this baby. Each day I learn a little more, and get a little closer to this tiny person. I do not know how women go back to work sooner. Really, my hat is off to you if you have done that. Also, I have a newfound respect for single mothers. That is an inconceivable notion to me. I do not think I could have physically or mentally gotten this far without The Funasaurus. Seriously, if you were raised by or know a single mom, perhaps you should buy her something very expensive and sparkly for Thanksgiving. And then again for Chanukah and Christmas. Also perhaps a crapload of liquor.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, we are actually hosting this year. And by “hosting” I mean, “we will unlock the door to our house and let my mom come in with all the supplies and cook in our kitchen.” Of course, we have a new gas stove, and we are smelling quite a bit of natural gas when we turn the oven on. The Funasaurus and I have blissfully gone about cooking (mostly chocolate chip cookies) in our exhausted new-parent stupor, but my mom is somewhat concerned about the natural gas. She has these silly concerns about blowing up our new little family, apparently that’s not part of her Thanksgiving day plan. So I have tried to call the builder, who told me to call the gas company, who told me to call this other number, who have told me they’d call back sometime to schedule a day to come out and test our oven.
I have doubts about whether this will happen before Thanksgiving. In which case, I am starting to wonder if we are going to have to just start popping little Cornish game hens one by one into our toaster oven starting around Miss Thang’s 3:00AM feeding on Thursday morning. That should be awesome.
Next up, the story of Tatum, the little shit we can’t live without.
Monday, November 09, 2009
OMG
I am somebody's mother.
Introducing Miss Thang.
I'm sorry posting has been light. (read: nonexistant.) Parenting has been as hard as I expected. It's rewarding in unexpected ways, and this little person is amazingly time-consuming for being all of seven pounds plus change.
More to come, I just wanted to let you know I survived labor (mostly) and there is a new princess in town. I'm not even sorry to share the title.
Introducing Miss Thang.
I'm sorry posting has been light. (read: nonexistant.) Parenting has been as hard as I expected. It's rewarding in unexpected ways, and this little person is amazingly time-consuming for being all of seven pounds plus change.
More to come, I just wanted to let you know I survived labor (mostly) and there is a new princess in town. I'm not even sorry to share the title.
Friday, October 09, 2009
One Track...zzzzzzzzz
My brain is dead, making me kind of incompetent at things like walking, let alone writing. I do still want to write, but every time I get the slightest inkling the pregnant corner (is there a corner? I think it might have taken over the whole thing more like a supreme dictator) part of my brain goes, “Or you could nap.” And, really, napping is so amazing it is better than any drug you could ever possibly imagine. I love it so much.
Everything around here is also babybabybaby, and I didn’t really like those people before I got pregnant, so I’ve been reluctant to put it out on the interwebs that I am, indeed, that person now. I am all about the BabyCenter chat rooms, the pediatrician interviews, the measuring my cervix doctor appointments, the buying/borrowing plastic shit that I don’t really comprehend but apparently cannot raise a baby without, the packing my bags for the hospital, etc. I am also trying to stay employed, which is harder than it sounds when you factor in the aforementioned brain deadness, napping, and all-consuming baby lifestyle.
I feel like these are very first-world problems. Whaaa, I still can’t have brie and cabernet. Life is so hard. Also, how do you feel about cloth diapering?
Meanwhile The Funasaurus left for Seattle this morning for work, and I feel like we are perhaps tempting the universe just a little bit by sending him hundreds of miles away when I am less than two weeks away from my due date (and we know how much the universe likes to accommodate my plans) so I am trying not to panic and just squeezing my legs together really tightly for the next three days.
Last night I changed the sheets on our bed, and decided to put down a garbage bag underneath the sheet on my side in an attempt to save our mattress should my water break while I am sleeping. It could happen. I sleep a lot these days. I think I might have mentioned…? Anywhos, I woke up around 1:45 AM, sure that my water had broken, given that my hip (I can only sleep on my side now) was rather damp. I woke up, excited to tell The Funasaurus that his trip was cancelled. Also we were having a baby. But then I got up and walked and felt oddly dry everywhere else besides my hip and thigh. I did not quite understand what was going on, plus it was the middle of the night so I was only semi-conscious, so I decided to go back to bed to see what would happen. I woke up again three hours later, again with a wet hip and thigh, but nothing else, and suddenly a little lightbulb flashed in my brain and I realized that my water was probably still intact, but that I was drenched in sweat because I was sleeping on a plastic bag under nice, warm covers, OMG I AM AN IDIOT.
So the bag was removed and I remained dry for the rest of the night and The Funasaurus left and now I’m wondering what to eat for dinner that has the least likelihood of causing labor. Any suggestions?
Everything around here is also babybabybaby, and I didn’t really like those people before I got pregnant, so I’ve been reluctant to put it out on the interwebs that I am, indeed, that person now. I am all about the BabyCenter chat rooms, the pediatrician interviews, the measuring my cervix doctor appointments, the buying/borrowing plastic shit that I don’t really comprehend but apparently cannot raise a baby without, the packing my bags for the hospital, etc. I am also trying to stay employed, which is harder than it sounds when you factor in the aforementioned brain deadness, napping, and all-consuming baby lifestyle.
I feel like these are very first-world problems. Whaaa, I still can’t have brie and cabernet. Life is so hard. Also, how do you feel about cloth diapering?
Meanwhile The Funasaurus left for Seattle this morning for work, and I feel like we are perhaps tempting the universe just a little bit by sending him hundreds of miles away when I am less than two weeks away from my due date (and we know how much the universe likes to accommodate my plans) so I am trying not to panic and just squeezing my legs together really tightly for the next three days.
Last night I changed the sheets on our bed, and decided to put down a garbage bag underneath the sheet on my side in an attempt to save our mattress should my water break while I am sleeping. It could happen. I sleep a lot these days. I think I might have mentioned…? Anywhos, I woke up around 1:45 AM, sure that my water had broken, given that my hip (I can only sleep on my side now) was rather damp. I woke up, excited to tell The Funasaurus that his trip was cancelled. Also we were having a baby. But then I got up and walked and felt oddly dry everywhere else besides my hip and thigh. I did not quite understand what was going on, plus it was the middle of the night so I was only semi-conscious, so I decided to go back to bed to see what would happen. I woke up again three hours later, again with a wet hip and thigh, but nothing else, and suddenly a little lightbulb flashed in my brain and I realized that my water was probably still intact, but that I was drenched in sweat because I was sleeping on a plastic bag under nice, warm covers, OMG I AM AN IDIOT.
So the bag was removed and I remained dry for the rest of the night and The Funasaurus left and now I’m wondering what to eat for dinner that has the least likelihood of causing labor. Any suggestions?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Once Upon a Funasaurus Marrying a Princess Pregnancy Idiot
Today The Funasaurus and I celebrated two years of marriage (when did that happen?) by eating burgers and chocolate cookies for dinner. We like to stay sophisticated like that.
Remember how I told you that my child seems to favor Beyonce, particularly the “Single Ladies” song? That was well-proved again after watching tonight’s episode of Glee, and its many iterations of that song, making my child sit up and wiggle each time the uh-oh-oh comes on. (Yes, I totally watch that show, just like everyone else. It is unexpectedly living up to the hype. Way to make musical theater mainstream, Fox. Who knew you could pull it off?) Apparently my child is not the only one.
I seriously cannot get enough of this video. Feel like my child is doing more or less the same thing on my bladder these days. I only hope she is that cute.
Speaking of the child…I am 36 weeks along. I am due in late-ish October, but potentially she could come sooner. Since we haven’t gotten around to getting a car seat yet (I hear we might want one of those) I’m hoping she continues to just stay where she is, abusing my bladder, for just a little bit longer.
The symptoms only get worse from here on out, though, including my pregnancy brain. The thing which led me to believe that it would be a good idea to try and catch a wasp that was in my house and save its little life by putting it outside today. Let me just tell you now so that you do not make such a silly assumption, wasps are indeed fucking ungrateful little bastards. Ungrateful little bastards with very pointy, venomous butts.
The full story starts with Sugar making some very excited noises in the stairwell today, and after a few minutes, I got curious as to what had made her excited enough to leave the Pooping Pigeon Show for such an extended amount of time. I find her and Tatum staring and pawing excitedly at the stairwell where a wasp is casually wandering along like he owns this ‘hood. As trips to the emergency vet clinic danced through my head, I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and decided to try and capture the thing and release it outside. The capture went well, the cats’ disappointment was palatable, and I waddled quickly to the front door, where I shook the towel…but nothing fell out. Feeling fairly badass by this point, I blithely looked around the towel instead of running for cover like one should know to do when one has captured, terrified, pissed-off, and forcibly removed a wasp from its ‘hood. Naturally, the little fucker was still clinging to the towel, looking for someone upon whom to unleash his rage.
Look no further, wasp! I am here, bloated and stupid and poking my sausage-like finger nearly in your face. Merry Christmas.
So that stung a lot. The towel is still outside, and I panicked, sure that I had somehow damaged my unborn child forevermore. I called the doctor, but only got a voicemail. So I called urgent care, but they said they couldn’t help unless I came in. I wasn’t sure if I was dying or perhaps overreacting just a little. I called my pediatrician friend, left a I’m-trying-to-be-cool-but-please-help! voicemail, and finally turned to Google, who assured me that unless I was having an allergic reaction, I, and my baby, were probably fine. Love u, Google.
This evening I went outside to collect the towel, and I’ll be darned, but the wasp’s corpse was still on the thing! So I tried to wipe it off, but wasp corpses are very clingy. Except it’s not really a corpse, because it suddenly sprang to life, not very excited about being wiped against the cement step.
Pregnancy brain is a very real thing, folks. It makes you something beyond moronic. Even morons tend to understand the concept of “once bitten, twice shy.” Take note. Also, please send Benadryl.
Remember how I told you that my child seems to favor Beyonce, particularly the “Single Ladies” song? That was well-proved again after watching tonight’s episode of Glee, and its many iterations of that song, making my child sit up and wiggle each time the uh-oh-oh comes on. (Yes, I totally watch that show, just like everyone else. It is unexpectedly living up to the hype. Way to make musical theater mainstream, Fox. Who knew you could pull it off?) Apparently my child is not the only one.
I seriously cannot get enough of this video. Feel like my child is doing more or less the same thing on my bladder these days. I only hope she is that cute.
Speaking of the child…I am 36 weeks along. I am due in late-ish October, but potentially she could come sooner. Since we haven’t gotten around to getting a car seat yet (I hear we might want one of those) I’m hoping she continues to just stay where she is, abusing my bladder, for just a little bit longer.
The symptoms only get worse from here on out, though, including my pregnancy brain. The thing which led me to believe that it would be a good idea to try and catch a wasp that was in my house and save its little life by putting it outside today. Let me just tell you now so that you do not make such a silly assumption, wasps are indeed fucking ungrateful little bastards. Ungrateful little bastards with very pointy, venomous butts.
The full story starts with Sugar making some very excited noises in the stairwell today, and after a few minutes, I got curious as to what had made her excited enough to leave the Pooping Pigeon Show for such an extended amount of time. I find her and Tatum staring and pawing excitedly at the stairwell where a wasp is casually wandering along like he owns this ‘hood. As trips to the emergency vet clinic danced through my head, I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and decided to try and capture the thing and release it outside. The capture went well, the cats’ disappointment was palatable, and I waddled quickly to the front door, where I shook the towel…but nothing fell out. Feeling fairly badass by this point, I blithely looked around the towel instead of running for cover like one should know to do when one has captured, terrified, pissed-off, and forcibly removed a wasp from its ‘hood. Naturally, the little fucker was still clinging to the towel, looking for someone upon whom to unleash his rage.
Look no further, wasp! I am here, bloated and stupid and poking my sausage-like finger nearly in your face. Merry Christmas.
So that stung a lot. The towel is still outside, and I panicked, sure that I had somehow damaged my unborn child forevermore. I called the doctor, but only got a voicemail. So I called urgent care, but they said they couldn’t help unless I came in. I wasn’t sure if I was dying or perhaps overreacting just a little. I called my pediatrician friend, left a I’m-trying-to-be-cool-but-please-help! voicemail, and finally turned to Google, who assured me that unless I was having an allergic reaction, I, and my baby, were probably fine. Love u, Google.
This evening I went outside to collect the towel, and I’ll be darned, but the wasp’s corpse was still on the thing! So I tried to wipe it off, but wasp corpses are very clingy. Except it’s not really a corpse, because it suddenly sprang to life, not very excited about being wiped against the cement step.
Pregnancy brain is a very real thing, folks. It makes you something beyond moronic. Even morons tend to understand the concept of “once bitten, twice shy.” Take note. Also, please send Benadryl.
Friday, September 18, 2009
September? When Did That Happen?
Fucking pigeons and their pooping habits. I have enough pink onsies, if someone would like to send me a BB gun as a baby gift, I will gladly accept it. Currently the pigeons seem to enjoy taunting my cats, and are pooping at least once an hour on my window and it makes me throw up a little every time it happens.
Speaking of windows, we still do not have window coverings. I wear a baseball cap to work, now, because the glare from the windows behind my computer is so bright. I also am still not so fond of showering (although to his credit, The Funasaurus did apply window frosting to our bathroom windows, so we are no longer giving nudie shows to potential neighbors every time we shower, so there goes that excuse for lack of hygiene) and between that, the baseball cap, and the three t-shirts I have in rotation that still fit over my enormous midsection, I am a sexy, sexy sight to behold. I am also so bloated that I had to wrench my wedding ring off because of circulation issues, and while I am very emotional about not getting to wear those right now, The Funasaurus really has nothing to fear as far as my lack of marital status symbol goes, for the few times a week I do venture out into public.
Meanwhile at work my boss has given her two week notice, and they have brought on a new director to our division, so I am subtly trying to ingratiate myself to him (fortunately, he lives in another state, or I might have baked him cookies) because I feel like taking off several weeks and delegating my work to other competent people is kind of spectacularly crappy timing right when there are huge shifts in management going on. At least there’s still work to do.
On that note, I should probably get back to it. That and/or a strawberry popsicle. Work and popsicles are (happily) not mutually exclusive concepts.
Speaking of windows, we still do not have window coverings. I wear a baseball cap to work, now, because the glare from the windows behind my computer is so bright. I also am still not so fond of showering (although to his credit, The Funasaurus did apply window frosting to our bathroom windows, so we are no longer giving nudie shows to potential neighbors every time we shower, so there goes that excuse for lack of hygiene) and between that, the baseball cap, and the three t-shirts I have in rotation that still fit over my enormous midsection, I am a sexy, sexy sight to behold. I am also so bloated that I had to wrench my wedding ring off because of circulation issues, and while I am very emotional about not getting to wear those right now, The Funasaurus really has nothing to fear as far as my lack of marital status symbol goes, for the few times a week I do venture out into public.
Meanwhile at work my boss has given her two week notice, and they have brought on a new director to our division, so I am subtly trying to ingratiate myself to him (fortunately, he lives in another state, or I might have baked him cookies) because I feel like taking off several weeks and delegating my work to other competent people is kind of spectacularly crappy timing right when there are huge shifts in management going on. At least there’s still work to do.
On that note, I should probably get back to it. That and/or a strawberry popsicle. Work and popsicles are (happily) not mutually exclusive concepts.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Blogging. That Thing I Used to Do.
I know, I suck, it’s been weeks since my last entry. At first I was procrastinating writing because a sudden glitch came up with our new house. Our lender almost blew the whole deal for us, and I was a bundle of superstitious nerves and decided not to share with the internets, lest it jinx our plans.
Then the loan did go through, and suddenly it was like, oh, hey, we need to pack an entire house. Naturally work blew up for both of us at that exact moment as well, so we have been super busy. Plus, I don’t move as quickly as I used to, what with the enormous growth in my midsection. As a neighbor kid recently pointed out I am “GETTING REALLY FAT!” and I think I would have bitten his head off and eaten it had I been able to waddle over there fast enough. But then I decided to forgive him because the kid doesn’t seem to own pants. I’ve only ever seen him in oversized adult t-shirts that he likes to wear as dresses. Middle school’s going to be rough enough on him, I’m afraid.
We spent last weekend moving, and it was a process of organizing boxes, mediating between my mother and mother-in-law who…are very different people, and trying to ignore hearing the movers say, “Just risk it!” in Spanish, as they lifted my desk over the top of the stairs. Happily, my desk, computer, and files made it, the family is more or less in tact, and I did not go into early labor, which all bodes very well for our future in the new house.
The pigeons, on the other hand, are less awesome. They like to poop. A lot. Right onto my office window. Which I’ve had to keep open because we don’t have air conditioning and it’s fricking hot, especially upstairs. I’ve given up nursing a healthy paranoia of H1N1, and have reverted to the more retro Avian Bird Flu, as I’m sure that if it exists in any form in Colorado, it’s smeared in greenish-yellow gobs on my window screen. And Sugar has licked it.
Sometimes I fantasize about curling up in a ball under a clean, soft blanket with a bucket of organic chocolate ice cream and perhaps a bottle of antibacterial soap for the rest of my pregnancy.
I also fantasize about curtains, because we don’t have window coverings yet, so every morning is a bit of an adventure getting showered and dressed in our spacious new home with tons of oversized windows. Fortunately, the house right outside the windows of our bedroom and bathroom happens to be vacant, but it’s always a bit of Russian roulette with when the open house tours starts for the day.
On that note, I should probably go to bed. Or I will be tempted to sleep in in the morning. … I say, as though I am not tempted to sleep in every morning. I really hope this baby will continue to let me sleep 10+ hours a night when she is out of my womb. That would be nice.
Then the loan did go through, and suddenly it was like, oh, hey, we need to pack an entire house. Naturally work blew up for both of us at that exact moment as well, so we have been super busy. Plus, I don’t move as quickly as I used to, what with the enormous growth in my midsection. As a neighbor kid recently pointed out I am “GETTING REALLY FAT!” and I think I would have bitten his head off and eaten it had I been able to waddle over there fast enough. But then I decided to forgive him because the kid doesn’t seem to own pants. I’ve only ever seen him in oversized adult t-shirts that he likes to wear as dresses. Middle school’s going to be rough enough on him, I’m afraid.
We spent last weekend moving, and it was a process of organizing boxes, mediating between my mother and mother-in-law who…are very different people, and trying to ignore hearing the movers say, “Just risk it!” in Spanish, as they lifted my desk over the top of the stairs. Happily, my desk, computer, and files made it, the family is more or less in tact, and I did not go into early labor, which all bodes very well for our future in the new house.
The pigeons, on the other hand, are less awesome. They like to poop. A lot. Right onto my office window. Which I’ve had to keep open because we don’t have air conditioning and it’s fricking hot, especially upstairs. I’ve given up nursing a healthy paranoia of H1N1, and have reverted to the more retro Avian Bird Flu, as I’m sure that if it exists in any form in Colorado, it’s smeared in greenish-yellow gobs on my window screen. And Sugar has licked it.
Sometimes I fantasize about curling up in a ball under a clean, soft blanket with a bucket of organic chocolate ice cream and perhaps a bottle of antibacterial soap for the rest of my pregnancy.
I also fantasize about curtains, because we don’t have window coverings yet, so every morning is a bit of an adventure getting showered and dressed in our spacious new home with tons of oversized windows. Fortunately, the house right outside the windows of our bedroom and bathroom happens to be vacant, but it’s always a bit of Russian roulette with when the open house tours starts for the day.
On that note, I should probably go to bed. Or I will be tempted to sleep in in the morning. … I say, as though I am not tempted to sleep in every morning. I really hope this baby will continue to let me sleep 10+ hours a night when she is out of my womb. That would be nice.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Cross-Wired
Today I called a service that I like to call StupidCast to set up a new phone and internet line at our new house. It was a typical conversation with them, involving lots of emphatic NOs from me, lots of uncertain math by them, and a general desire to poke out my brains with a blunt object through my right eyeball by the end of it all.
Somewhere in the middle of that gawdawful conversation we had to come up with an installation date, and it just so turned out to be the same day as the birthday of the daughter of the lady I was talking with.
Her daughter is turning 13.
Fine.
She still acts like a little girl.
Fine. Can we talk about what eight-hour time span I can expect a technician to show up and butcher our wiring?
She still has kittens on her walls.
FINE, did you remember to include my precious DVR in that order?
She just got her first period.
Fi...WTF?
It’s about time to have THAT talk with her. You know, the one where…
YES, I KNOW. The things we don’t think about when we decide to have a baby, ha ha. (Except for now I am thinking about it. Thinking about talking to my unborn child about bleeding and mood swings and teenage pregnancy and OMG I really need a fucking rock to crawl under about now.)
In less-traumatic news, I have been hearing about people who play their kids classical music. Early start learning and all that. There is much controversy over volume levels, are earphones on the stomach effective, and the advantages of Mozart over Beethoven. I have chosen to eschew all of the above, and instead, when I rediscovered my iPod the other day, had myself and my engorged belly a little dance party to “Put a Ring on It” by the classic artist, Beyonce. Tonight, when Beyonce’s song “Halo” came on, the kiddo started kicking. Possibly coincidence, possibly my influence condemning her to a lifetime of poppy hip-hop. Here’s hoping she’ll have a little more rhythm than her mom.
Also, if you are looking for a very awesome baby gift, look no further: Sushi Booties. You’re welcome.
Somewhere in the middle of that gawdawful conversation we had to come up with an installation date, and it just so turned out to be the same day as the birthday of the daughter of the lady I was talking with.
Her daughter is turning 13.
Fine.
She still acts like a little girl.
Fine. Can we talk about what eight-hour time span I can expect a technician to show up and butcher our wiring?
She still has kittens on her walls.
FINE, did you remember to include my precious DVR in that order?
She just got her first period.
Fi...WTF?
It’s about time to have THAT talk with her. You know, the one where…
YES, I KNOW. The things we don’t think about when we decide to have a baby, ha ha. (Except for now I am thinking about it. Thinking about talking to my unborn child about bleeding and mood swings and teenage pregnancy and OMG I really need a fucking rock to crawl under about now.)
In less-traumatic news, I have been hearing about people who play their kids classical music. Early start learning and all that. There is much controversy over volume levels, are earphones on the stomach effective, and the advantages of Mozart over Beethoven. I have chosen to eschew all of the above, and instead, when I rediscovered my iPod the other day, had myself and my engorged belly a little dance party to “Put a Ring on It” by the classic artist, Beyonce. Tonight, when Beyonce’s song “Halo” came on, the kiddo started kicking. Possibly coincidence, possibly my influence condemning her to a lifetime of poppy hip-hop. Here’s hoping she’ll have a little more rhythm than her mom.
Also, if you are looking for a very awesome baby gift, look no further: Sushi Booties. You’re welcome.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Down the Rabbit Hole
We have started attending baby classes at the hospital. There’s a special kind of birth control! So far we’ve learned about the many, many things that can go wrong, and this is all well-before the kid’s old enough to start lighting up in the bathroom shrouded in an ever-subltle cloud of incense and patchoulli.
In one exercise the instructor had all the expectant mothers get together and write a list of the best and worst parts about being pregnant. We made a valiant effort to come up with a few things for the “Best” side, so that the paper wouldn’t be completely uneven. Our “Worst” side was definitively longer. Although one smug woman looked up over her perfectly round little belly and finally admitted, “Gee, I just haven’t experienced any of that. I was never sick, I still sleep through the night, and I haven’t had any heartburn at all.” I thought the fact that the rest of our little group managed to not attack her for that little comment like a pack of savage heartburned dogs shows just how civil our society has become. There’s hope for our children.
Then we got back with our partners and the instructor read off their list of “Best Things About Pregnancy.” It began with “Huge boobs.” Hope may have faded just a little.
I have also started having yet another completely new symptom of pregnancy. It feels almost like…longing. For…
wait.
for.
it…
running.
So I know I am officially crazy. I have jogged, off and on, for about 15 years. Never once have I really felt a sense of enjoyment from it. I was not built to run, I never got endorphins or whatever that good stuff is that you atheletic-y types speak of. It was shit the whole time. Jogging was convenient, free, and something I could force myself to do before I had completely woken up, and therefore it stuck. Not for any sense of feeling good about it. And now, all of a sudden, seven months into pregnancy and lumpy and bloated and waddle-y, I am like, Hey. Remember when I used to be thin and could move quickly? That was kind of…nice.
WHO HAVE I BECOME?
I am chalking it up to Restless Leg Syndrome. We now have two body pillows in between me and The Funasaurus to help keep his shins intact through the night. This’ll all be easier when the baby comes, right?
In one exercise the instructor had all the expectant mothers get together and write a list of the best and worst parts about being pregnant. We made a valiant effort to come up with a few things for the “Best” side, so that the paper wouldn’t be completely uneven. Our “Worst” side was definitively longer. Although one smug woman looked up over her perfectly round little belly and finally admitted, “Gee, I just haven’t experienced any of that. I was never sick, I still sleep through the night, and I haven’t had any heartburn at all.” I thought the fact that the rest of our little group managed to not attack her for that little comment like a pack of savage heartburned dogs shows just how civil our society has become. There’s hope for our children.
Then we got back with our partners and the instructor read off their list of “Best Things About Pregnancy.” It began with “Huge boobs.” Hope may have faded just a little.
I have also started having yet another completely new symptom of pregnancy. It feels almost like…longing. For…
wait.
for.
it…
running.
So I know I am officially crazy. I have jogged, off and on, for about 15 years. Never once have I really felt a sense of enjoyment from it. I was not built to run, I never got endorphins or whatever that good stuff is that you atheletic-y types speak of. It was shit the whole time. Jogging was convenient, free, and something I could force myself to do before I had completely woken up, and therefore it stuck. Not for any sense of feeling good about it. And now, all of a sudden, seven months into pregnancy and lumpy and bloated and waddle-y, I am like, Hey. Remember when I used to be thin and could move quickly? That was kind of…nice.
WHO HAVE I BECOME?
I am chalking it up to Restless Leg Syndrome. We now have two body pillows in between me and The Funasaurus to help keep his shins intact through the night. This’ll all be easier when the baby comes, right?
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Le Cinema
It’s Friday already—hooray! Too bad I still have a lot of work to do. But! If you don’t have anything else going on this weekend, I highly suggest going to see 500 Days of Summer. The Funasaurus and I saw it last weekend, and we both really enjoyed it. For some reason it was only playing in the indie movie theater around here. I didn’t really understand that, there are previews for it all over regular television channels. And it had a very similar feel to Juno and Nick & Nora’s Infinite Playlist, which were both very hipster and whatnot, but still major motion pictures. In any case, I am not complaining. I love a chance to go to a slightly gothic theater that serves alcohol (even if I cannot partake in said alcohol) and stand in line with people who are obviously much cooler than I am.
There was a torrential downpour coming down when we came out of the theater last weekend, which would have been very romantic had I not been feeling so pregnant and cranky and cold. But we made it home, soggy but pleased with ourselves for having ventured outside the neighborhood for the first time in what felt like a very long time.
This weekend I was kind of hoping to see another movie. I heard Up was good but sad. I am not sure my very pregnant nerves can take intentionally sad. Any other recommendations?
There was a torrential downpour coming down when we came out of the theater last weekend, which would have been very romantic had I not been feeling so pregnant and cranky and cold. But we made it home, soggy but pleased with ourselves for having ventured outside the neighborhood for the first time in what felt like a very long time.
This weekend I was kind of hoping to see another movie. I heard Up was good but sad. I am not sure my very pregnant nerves can take intentionally sad. Any other recommendations?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Speedy Summer
The move is looking more and more official, which is both awesome and completely overwhelming. I do not care to pack while I am pregnant. Come to think of it, I do not care to pack even when I am not pregnant. Pregnancy is just an awesome excuse for everything. Fortunately, though, once our massive amounts of crap are collected into boxes, those boxes can go into our new basement (WHOOHOO) and stay there, unpacked, forevermore, should I so chose. Or should apathy so chose. Whichever.
I am so excited for a basement I cannot even tell you. The views of the mountains and two sinks in the bathroom are also very awesome.
Yesterday I got to go to the doctor and drink what basically tasted like the syrup form of Tang to test my body to see how well it could process sugar, and thus see if I was at risk for diabetes. Happily, my body processed it fine. At least my pancreas did. The sugar kind of went to my head and I got wretchedly light-headed, so I got to spend a pleasant forty minutes resting horizontally on a little table in a doctor’s exam room, trying not to faint. Just how I like to spend MY Monday mornings. But, as I said, no sign of diabetes, so I had an ice cream sundae to celebrate last night.
Tatum has become disgruntled as the amount of space on my lap seems to be dwindling, though that doesn’t stop him from still trying to sleep there. Today he got a kick in the face through my stomach, which woke him up. While it wasn’t that much force, (I’m not sure he bothered to open his eyes completely) I was kind of excited. Get him, little girl! He plans on chewing on you when you get here, so I say it’s never too early to learn to kick him in the face.
Otherwise, life is much the same as usual. The Funasaurus is playing a lot of volleyball, Sugar is too good for the rest of us, and the liquor store seems to be managing to stay open, even without my weekly withdrawals of chardonnay. Now if the tornado sirens would just stay off for a couple of days….
I am so excited for a basement I cannot even tell you. The views of the mountains and two sinks in the bathroom are also very awesome.
Yesterday I got to go to the doctor and drink what basically tasted like the syrup form of Tang to test my body to see how well it could process sugar, and thus see if I was at risk for diabetes. Happily, my body processed it fine. At least my pancreas did. The sugar kind of went to my head and I got wretchedly light-headed, so I got to spend a pleasant forty minutes resting horizontally on a little table in a doctor’s exam room, trying not to faint. Just how I like to spend MY Monday mornings. But, as I said, no sign of diabetes, so I had an ice cream sundae to celebrate last night.
Tatum has become disgruntled as the amount of space on my lap seems to be dwindling, though that doesn’t stop him from still trying to sleep there. Today he got a kick in the face through my stomach, which woke him up. While it wasn’t that much force, (I’m not sure he bothered to open his eyes completely) I was kind of excited. Get him, little girl! He plans on chewing on you when you get here, so I say it’s never too early to learn to kick him in the face.
Otherwise, life is much the same as usual. The Funasaurus is playing a lot of volleyball, Sugar is too good for the rest of us, and the liquor store seems to be managing to stay open, even without my weekly withdrawals of chardonnay. Now if the tornado sirens would just stay off for a couple of days….
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Getting Fatter and Sleepier
If I owe you an email or a phone call or a kick in the pants and have neglected to do so over the past two weeks, I am sorry. I had great intentions to get back on the blogging train with more regularity once the pregnancy was public knowledge, but my work had other ideas. Ideas which have kept me up until 2:00 AM, burning comma-shaped holes in my eyeballs and making me deliriously mourn the days of hour-long naps. On the plus side, I do feel more productive than I’ve felt in a while!
I do not feel that pregnancy is a valid excuse to buzz off early, after I discovered that my boss was conducting a conference call while hemorrhaging. As in, losing massive amounts of blood whilst navigating the temperamental world of WebEx. She claims she has not yet had time to go to the doctor. I claim I could not make this shit up if I tried.
Were that not enough, The Funasaurus also got a bee in his very expensive bonnet and we’ve been in the process of refinancing our house and/or deciding whether to up and move to a bigger house before the baby’s born. As in, you know, the next two and a half months. Because we don’t have enough going on, already. We’ll have extra money to pay for this move because babies don’t cost anything and we get lots back in taxes, right? Right? Hello?
Completely unrelated, I am terribly flattered that PassionSearch.com has singled me out as their latest target market worthy of unreasonable amounts of spam, but I feel I must warn them that their marketing research did a terrible job. If you do not come bearing cookies & cream ice cream I have no passion for you.
And if I have not already told you, I am spending my days enjoying my last bits of solitary princess-dom, occasionally sharing with Sugar. There is a new princess on the way, the ultrasound did show girl parts, and I am getting the impression that she will be getting more royal treatment than I will. Le sigh. I am not sure I am ready for the Queen Mother title. I don’t really want to wear those kinds of hats.
I do not feel that pregnancy is a valid excuse to buzz off early, after I discovered that my boss was conducting a conference call while hemorrhaging. As in, losing massive amounts of blood whilst navigating the temperamental world of WebEx. She claims she has not yet had time to go to the doctor. I claim I could not make this shit up if I tried.
Were that not enough, The Funasaurus also got a bee in his very expensive bonnet and we’ve been in the process of refinancing our house and/or deciding whether to up and move to a bigger house before the baby’s born. As in, you know, the next two and a half months. Because we don’t have enough going on, already. We’ll have extra money to pay for this move because babies don’t cost anything and we get lots back in taxes, right? Right? Hello?
Completely unrelated, I am terribly flattered that PassionSearch.com has singled me out as their latest target market worthy of unreasonable amounts of spam, but I feel I must warn them that their marketing research did a terrible job. If you do not come bearing cookies & cream ice cream I have no passion for you.
And if I have not already told you, I am spending my days enjoying my last bits of solitary princess-dom, occasionally sharing with Sugar. There is a new princess on the way, the ultrasound did show girl parts, and I am getting the impression that she will be getting more royal treatment than I will. Le sigh. I am not sure I am ready for the Queen Mother title. I don’t really want to wear those kinds of hats.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Family Gathering
The Funasaurus has a Crazy Uncle. Crazy Uncle is a unique soul with a Master’s degree in poetry from some fancy university, which he has forsaken on his quest to idealize the downtrodden working class. He has spent the last thirty years or so as a janitor, to be among his people. He also has decided not to drive and does not own a car. That’s all well and fine, until some family function inevitably comes up, and everyone is all, “I suppose we should invite Crazy Uncle” and then we have to draw straws for who has to go fetch Crazy Uncle and give him a ride to said function.
Enter: Fourth of July, 2009. Location: Funasaurus extended family’s farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The Funasaurus’ mom volunteered to pick up Crazy Uncle (seeing as how it’s her brother) and then managed to somehow shirk that responsibility me and The Funasaurus, adding, “Oh, and he is bringing some friends.”
Super duper. Because Uncle Crazy’s friends are always an interesting set. More often than not they are homeless, much younger than he is, and full of baby mama-esque drama. Up we pulled to the little apartment that Uncle Crazy is sharing with his friends from Ohio (they took the Grehound) who are, indeed, homeless, and madly in love. And very eager to display their love in the front lawn of said apartment. They piled in, and The Funasaurus and I attempted conversation. “So how do you guys know Crazy Uncle?”
“Through my wife,” explained Homeless Dude, who is busy fondling the woman who is, apparently, not his wife.
“Ah”
We are still unsure as to how they know each other.
We got to the house, and we went in to start preparing potato salad and other traditional 4th-esque food. The rest of the extended Funasaurus’ family is quite normal, and very friendly. They even invited my parents down so that we didn’t have to choose between families, which makes life very easy.
Eventually it was time to eat, and after selecting the perfect hamburger with slice of American cheese, I waddled out to their fabulous deck (I say “waddle” because I have gained ten pounds in the last week or so. TEN. POUNDS.) where one table wass full, with people like The Funasaurus and my dad sitting around yukking it up, and the other table is half-empty, only hosting Crazy Uncle and friends thus far. I sucked it up and took one of the empty seats at the table with Crazy Uncle & co.
Moments later, The Funasaurus’ mom came out of the house, followed by my mom. I watched them both assess the deck situation, and eyeball the one remaining seat at my table. “Oh, here, I’ll let you sit with your daughter!” exclaimed The Funasaurus’ mom benevolently to my mom, as she darted off towards a lone deck chair. And thus my mother got to join me at the Table of Incomplete Sentences. At least my mom got wine.
There were a few false starts at conversation, but eventually we mentioned something about the radio, and Homeless Dude got all excited about a local radio station in Ohio. “Do you work at the radio station?” asked my mom.
“No.”
…
“So, then, what do you do, if you’re not at the radio station?”
“A lot of things.”
At least he was consistent in his curt, useless answers.
“He does landscaping with his dad,” Uncle Crazy offered, appreciative of our attempt at conversation.
“Not that much. We do more roofing,” countered Homeless Dude.
Uhg, that must be hot in the summer,” I said, polishing off my lemonade.
“Not really,” said Homeless Dude. “I take off my shirt.”
We weren’t quite sure what the appropriate response was to that, so I looked around for more lemonade, while my mom studiously nursed her Chardonnay.
“I used to be a stripper,” added Homeless Dude, when apparently we did not respond to his shirtless comment in the way he wanted.
I watched my rather prim mother nearly choke on her Chardonnay out of the corner of my eye.
Coincidentally, the conversation died shortly after that, so we excused ourselves to go admire the flowers at the far end of the yard. “I wish I could give you some of this,” said my mom, swirling the dregs of her Chardonnay as we walked. That is why she is my mother, and why I love her very much.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. We got to give Crazy Uncle & co. a ride home, and then a ride to WalMart, where they decided they would prefer to be for fireworks viewing. The Funasaurus and I drove home, comparing notes and watching the fireworks across the horizon from our vantage point on the highway. When they’re that far away, going 75+ miles an hour doesn’t really make a huge difference. Among other things, we agreed we should probably get our child a very large car seat. Safety first, and all that. If it just happens to be chauffeuring-prohibitive, that’s just an added bonus.
Enter: Fourth of July, 2009. Location: Funasaurus extended family’s farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The Funasaurus’ mom volunteered to pick up Crazy Uncle (seeing as how it’s her brother) and then managed to somehow shirk that responsibility me and The Funasaurus, adding, “Oh, and he is bringing some friends.”
Super duper. Because Uncle Crazy’s friends are always an interesting set. More often than not they are homeless, much younger than he is, and full of baby mama-esque drama. Up we pulled to the little apartment that Uncle Crazy is sharing with his friends from Ohio (they took the Grehound) who are, indeed, homeless, and madly in love. And very eager to display their love in the front lawn of said apartment. They piled in, and The Funasaurus and I attempted conversation. “So how do you guys know Crazy Uncle?”
“Through my wife,” explained Homeless Dude, who is busy fondling the woman who is, apparently, not his wife.
“Ah”
We are still unsure as to how they know each other.
We got to the house, and we went in to start preparing potato salad and other traditional 4th-esque food. The rest of the extended Funasaurus’ family is quite normal, and very friendly. They even invited my parents down so that we didn’t have to choose between families, which makes life very easy.
Eventually it was time to eat, and after selecting the perfect hamburger with slice of American cheese, I waddled out to their fabulous deck (I say “waddle” because I have gained ten pounds in the last week or so. TEN. POUNDS.) where one table wass full, with people like The Funasaurus and my dad sitting around yukking it up, and the other table is half-empty, only hosting Crazy Uncle and friends thus far. I sucked it up and took one of the empty seats at the table with Crazy Uncle & co.
Moments later, The Funasaurus’ mom came out of the house, followed by my mom. I watched them both assess the deck situation, and eyeball the one remaining seat at my table. “Oh, here, I’ll let you sit with your daughter!” exclaimed The Funasaurus’ mom benevolently to my mom, as she darted off towards a lone deck chair. And thus my mother got to join me at the Table of Incomplete Sentences. At least my mom got wine.
There were a few false starts at conversation, but eventually we mentioned something about the radio, and Homeless Dude got all excited about a local radio station in Ohio. “Do you work at the radio station?” asked my mom.
“No.”
…
“So, then, what do you do, if you’re not at the radio station?”
“A lot of things.”
At least he was consistent in his curt, useless answers.
“He does landscaping with his dad,” Uncle Crazy offered, appreciative of our attempt at conversation.
“Not that much. We do more roofing,” countered Homeless Dude.
Uhg, that must be hot in the summer,” I said, polishing off my lemonade.
“Not really,” said Homeless Dude. “I take off my shirt.”
We weren’t quite sure what the appropriate response was to that, so I looked around for more lemonade, while my mom studiously nursed her Chardonnay.
“I used to be a stripper,” added Homeless Dude, when apparently we did not respond to his shirtless comment in the way he wanted.
I watched my rather prim mother nearly choke on her Chardonnay out of the corner of my eye.
Coincidentally, the conversation died shortly after that, so we excused ourselves to go admire the flowers at the far end of the yard. “I wish I could give you some of this,” said my mom, swirling the dregs of her Chardonnay as we walked. That is why she is my mother, and why I love her very much.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. We got to give Crazy Uncle & co. a ride home, and then a ride to WalMart, where they decided they would prefer to be for fireworks viewing. The Funasaurus and I drove home, comparing notes and watching the fireworks across the horizon from our vantage point on the highway. When they’re that far away, going 75+ miles an hour doesn’t really make a huge difference. Among other things, we agreed we should probably get our child a very large car seat. Safety first, and all that. If it just happens to be chauffeuring-prohibitive, that’s just an added bonus.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
It Always Comes Back to the Goats
My favorite maxi-dress that has been a staple of my pregnant summer wardrobe shrank in the wash. I am…devastated. Also, continuing to wear it in all its shrunken glory because I just don’t know what else to do. I hate pants.
Recently I have found myself working late into the night, and yet somehow just falling more and more behind. (I haven’t even been napping all that much.) It has gotten frustrating, and the downside of working from home is that you’re never removed from work. So while The Funasaurus watches his beloved True Blood, I sit upstairs in my office snarling at my computer and cursing invoices everywhere for not being able to process themselves. This has led to near anxiety attacks, and because I now have a new life priority (Try Not to Birth Crazy Baby) and cannot resort to old calming techniques (boxed wine) I decided to Fuck It today and went swimming with a friend this afternoon, and then out to dinner with some neighbors tonight. (Happy birthday not-Wassie, as I had you in my phone for so long. I did finally change it.) Then I watched TV with The Funasaurus for the first time since we’ve been home from California. I feel very Zen. I will not feel Zen tomorrow when my boss asks how far I’ve gotten, but I am not thinking about that for now.
I find myself fantasizing about my goat herd, and thinking this would be an awesome summer to be a pregnant herder, because I wouldn’t have to walk very far because we’ve gotten so much rain there’s a ton of grass and green growth everywhere. Including noxious weeds. And the goats would eat all my stupid pokey thistle and that’d be great because I really hate bending down to pull those suckers out. Goats would solve everything.
I wanted beehives too, but it turns out I am not as loving towards the bees as I professed to be, because I hacked back this huge bush in our alleyway that was just swarming with happy little fuzzy honeybees because it was scratching my car’s paint. Stupid bush. Fortunately, there’s a ton of these bushes growing in the vacant lots to both the north and south of us, so hopefully the bees will find their way there and not die off causing me all sorts of traumatic post-bush-hacking-grief.
I get traumatized easily these days. This is valuable information to share, actually. Please think about dropping a) kittens b) rainbows c) unicorns d) thistle-eating goats into any conversations we might have in the next couple of months. You are much more likely to get a non-hormonally-charged response out of me.
Recently I have found myself working late into the night, and yet somehow just falling more and more behind. (I haven’t even been napping all that much.) It has gotten frustrating, and the downside of working from home is that you’re never removed from work. So while The Funasaurus watches his beloved True Blood, I sit upstairs in my office snarling at my computer and cursing invoices everywhere for not being able to process themselves. This has led to near anxiety attacks, and because I now have a new life priority (Try Not to Birth Crazy Baby) and cannot resort to old calming techniques (boxed wine) I decided to Fuck It today and went swimming with a friend this afternoon, and then out to dinner with some neighbors tonight. (Happy birthday not-Wassie, as I had you in my phone for so long. I did finally change it.) Then I watched TV with The Funasaurus for the first time since we’ve been home from California. I feel very Zen. I will not feel Zen tomorrow when my boss asks how far I’ve gotten, but I am not thinking about that for now.
I find myself fantasizing about my goat herd, and thinking this would be an awesome summer to be a pregnant herder, because I wouldn’t have to walk very far because we’ve gotten so much rain there’s a ton of grass and green growth everywhere. Including noxious weeds. And the goats would eat all my stupid pokey thistle and that’d be great because I really hate bending down to pull those suckers out. Goats would solve everything.
I wanted beehives too, but it turns out I am not as loving towards the bees as I professed to be, because I hacked back this huge bush in our alleyway that was just swarming with happy little fuzzy honeybees because it was scratching my car’s paint. Stupid bush. Fortunately, there’s a ton of these bushes growing in the vacant lots to both the north and south of us, so hopefully the bees will find their way there and not die off causing me all sorts of traumatic post-bush-hacking-grief.
I get traumatized easily these days. This is valuable information to share, actually. Please think about dropping a) kittens b) rainbows c) unicorns d) thistle-eating goats into any conversations we might have in the next couple of months. You are much more likely to get a non-hormonally-charged response out of me.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
This Post Brought to You By My Old Friends, Exhaustion and Panic
We are back from California. We got in yesterday, just ahead of some massive thunderstorms. Thank goodness for small blessings. After five nights sleeping in five different locations, four nights of late-night partying (or just delays in travel), driving all over San Francisco and Napa, and a wedding full of incredible wine that I was not allowed to drink, I do not think my nerves would have handled turbulence well.
Happily, the wedding went well, I managed to squeeze into my bridesmaid dress and keep my bouquet strategically placed over the alteration-oopsie for all the pictures, and got a lot of cuddling in with old friends. And now I am back on terra firma for a good long while.
But a big congratulations goes out to my Tweedle-Dum, you were a gorgeous bride, and I know you will be just as gorgeous in England for wedding number two. I continue to be insane with jealousy.
Work piled up while I was gone, and I have spent today alternating between panicking, working, and napping. Which doesn’t really help the panicking so much, but sometimes I am unable to stay awake. Somewhere amidst the chaos, I have also discovered this website: http://www.lets-panic.com/ and jeebus, but where have YOU been hiding my whole life? Or, at least, the last five months? If you have a baby, or have ever thought about having a baby, or have ever stumbled across someone who might have a baby in you life, go read and laugh until you get uncomfortable at how something so tongue-in-cheek can hit so very close to home.
And now I really should get back to work. It’s going to be another late night. At least my toothpaste is now back in a logical spot in the medicine cabinet instead of buried deep in the nether-regions of a much-abused suitcase under a pile of dirty laundry.
Happily, the wedding went well, I managed to squeeze into my bridesmaid dress and keep my bouquet strategically placed over the alteration-oopsie for all the pictures, and got a lot of cuddling in with old friends. And now I am back on terra firma for a good long while.
But a big congratulations goes out to my Tweedle-Dum, you were a gorgeous bride, and I know you will be just as gorgeous in England for wedding number two. I continue to be insane with jealousy.
Work piled up while I was gone, and I have spent today alternating between panicking, working, and napping. Which doesn’t really help the panicking so much, but sometimes I am unable to stay awake. Somewhere amidst the chaos, I have also discovered this website: http://www.lets-panic.com/ and jeebus, but where have YOU been hiding my whole life? Or, at least, the last five months? If you have a baby, or have ever thought about having a baby, or have ever stumbled across someone who might have a baby in you life, go read and laugh until you get uncomfortable at how something so tongue-in-cheek can hit so very close to home.
And now I really should get back to work. It’s going to be another late night. At least my toothpaste is now back in a logical spot in the medicine cabinet instead of buried deep in the nether-regions of a much-abused suitcase under a pile of dirty laundry.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Progress Brought to You Mostly Via Ice Cream
I’m running out of time, we leave this evening for California. We’re going to another wedding, and this one should be extra-fun because a ton of our college friends are all flying in for it, so we are going to have a mini-reunion in Napa. Sadly, there is no wine tasting for me, but pregnant ladies get first crack at the buffet, don’t they?
For anyone who’s curious, I’m 22 weeks along, meaning we’ve passed the halfway mark. I can feel the baby move now, which is exciting because it just about killed me to go a month in between doctor’s visits where she’d tell me yes, everything is still going o.k., you’re o.k., the baby’s o.k., please stop worrying.
The second trimester has been a cake-walk compared to the first, although there are still some adjustments. For example, I only just realized that I am probably not going to fit into the bridesmaids dress for this weekend. Dilemma. And not being allowed to climb all over my stomach does not compute in Sugar world, so there are a lot of late night battles about cuddling, not with my poor husband, but with my love-sick pokey cat. I get a lot of purring in my ear mixed with, “Why don’t you love me???”s. If you think this is bad, cat, wait until I shut you out completely, because somehow I am not confident that you will not climb all over the baby. I am also a little nervous about Tatum chewing on the baby. He’s very into chewing these days. Especially on exposed skin for some odd reason. The cat’s not normal.
I know a lot of people love pregnancy and have magical experiences with it. I’ve had a few glittery moments, but there have been just as many whacked-out, oh-my-god-I’m-pubescent-again-and-can’t-control-my-emotions moments, leading me to wake up my husband just to pick a fight, and post obscure Sylvia Plath quotes on my Facebook status, hoping that someone out there in that cruel, cruel world will understand my pain. It just runs so deep. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm totally normal.
The fascinating thing, though, is with this time around (as compared to when I was fourteen) there’s actually a part of my brain that clings to the real world and is like, “Holy obnoxious, woman, snap out of it. You are bat-shit crazy. I cannot even compute what is wrong because, actually, nothing is wrong.” I drown that part of my brain with tears and more cookies & cream ice cream.
On the upside, The Funasaurus is very awesome about picking up more cookies & cream on a regular basis and listening to me go bonkers without laughing outright at me. Or divorcing me. So that’s nice. Plus, I don’t have to clean the litter boxes anymore! SCORE. 10 points in favor of pregnancy! I like feeling like I have a little buddy everywhere I go now; I’m never lonely. Especially now that I can feel movement. I just can’t believe how fast it’s all going.
For anyone who’s curious, I’m 22 weeks along, meaning we’ve passed the halfway mark. I can feel the baby move now, which is exciting because it just about killed me to go a month in between doctor’s visits where she’d tell me yes, everything is still going o.k., you’re o.k., the baby’s o.k., please stop worrying.
The second trimester has been a cake-walk compared to the first, although there are still some adjustments. For example, I only just realized that I am probably not going to fit into the bridesmaids dress for this weekend. Dilemma. And not being allowed to climb all over my stomach does not compute in Sugar world, so there are a lot of late night battles about cuddling, not with my poor husband, but with my love-sick pokey cat. I get a lot of purring in my ear mixed with, “Why don’t you love me???”s. If you think this is bad, cat, wait until I shut you out completely, because somehow I am not confident that you will not climb all over the baby. I am also a little nervous about Tatum chewing on the baby. He’s very into chewing these days. Especially on exposed skin for some odd reason. The cat’s not normal.
I know a lot of people love pregnancy and have magical experiences with it. I’ve had a few glittery moments, but there have been just as many whacked-out, oh-my-god-I’m-pubescent-again-and-can’t-control-my-emotions moments, leading me to wake up my husband just to pick a fight, and post obscure Sylvia Plath quotes on my Facebook status, hoping that someone out there in that cruel, cruel world will understand my pain. It just runs so deep. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm totally normal.
The fascinating thing, though, is with this time around (as compared to when I was fourteen) there’s actually a part of my brain that clings to the real world and is like, “Holy obnoxious, woman, snap out of it. You are bat-shit crazy. I cannot even compute what is wrong because, actually, nothing is wrong.” I drown that part of my brain with tears and more cookies & cream ice cream.
On the upside, The Funasaurus is very awesome about picking up more cookies & cream on a regular basis and listening to me go bonkers without laughing outright at me. Or divorcing me. So that’s nice. Plus, I don’t have to clean the litter boxes anymore! SCORE. 10 points in favor of pregnancy! I like feeling like I have a little buddy everywhere I go now; I’m never lonely. Especially now that I can feel movement. I just can’t believe how fast it’s all going.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Hard to Top That Last Post
So, yes. I am pregnant. Am with Funasaurus child. We are super excited, although I will admit to a couple of weeks of shock as this was not exactly planned. At all. I like to think of it as a testament to the fact that we have a really awesome sex life. Or, at least, did, right up until I got knocked up and my libido shut down like an American auto factory. Nothing is sacred when you are pregnant, as you shall find out.
On a more sincere note, thank you all for the outpouring of support. I have to say, one of the best parts of this whole thing so far (besides, you know, adding to the Funasaurus gene pool) is getting commenters out of the woodwork. Hey y’all! It was very cool to hear from you. Thanks again.
Pregnancy is a wild ride, and a very awesome trump card. If The Funasaurus wants to go out to restaurant X and I want to go to restaurant Y, we go to Y. I AM CARRYING YOUR CHILD. Also: CRAZY. Don’t fuck with a pregnant lady. He wants to watch an action flick and I want to watch Pride & Prejudice AGAIN, we buckle up for some 19th century repressed British love.
Work now knows, so I felt comfortable putting this information out on the intrawebs. I survived the first trimester and did not get fired, so I call that a success, even though I have had mountains of work to catch up on, thanks to my new habit of napping three hours a day.
Hopefully this explains the recent slowness in posting; it is hard to remember anything, anymore, that isn’t very baby-related. I miss wine, I miss sushi, and I miss sleeping on my stomach. Although the first two have saved me a ton of cash, and the sleeping thing probably explains some of my need to nap all the time, so I am not as lame as you might have first thought. Maybe.
Otherwise, things are pretty much the same. Sugar is pissed that I’ve been traveling so much. Tatum continues to chew on everything, including our most recent ultrasound pictures. I have almost made my way through the Twilight series, instead of my most recent book club books. And The Funasaurus is trying to convince me that it’s totally a good idea to name our firstborn child after Disney’s The Little Mermaid. That, or Thorkill. So far, a consensus has not been reached on names. We are open to suggestions.
On a more sincere note, thank you all for the outpouring of support. I have to say, one of the best parts of this whole thing so far (besides, you know, adding to the Funasaurus gene pool) is getting commenters out of the woodwork. Hey y’all! It was very cool to hear from you. Thanks again.
Pregnancy is a wild ride, and a very awesome trump card. If The Funasaurus wants to go out to restaurant X and I want to go to restaurant Y, we go to Y. I AM CARRYING YOUR CHILD. Also: CRAZY. Don’t fuck with a pregnant lady. He wants to watch an action flick and I want to watch Pride & Prejudice AGAIN, we buckle up for some 19th century repressed British love.
Work now knows, so I felt comfortable putting this information out on the intrawebs. I survived the first trimester and did not get fired, so I call that a success, even though I have had mountains of work to catch up on, thanks to my new habit of napping three hours a day.
Hopefully this explains the recent slowness in posting; it is hard to remember anything, anymore, that isn’t very baby-related. I miss wine, I miss sushi, and I miss sleeping on my stomach. Although the first two have saved me a ton of cash, and the sleeping thing probably explains some of my need to nap all the time, so I am not as lame as you might have first thought. Maybe.
Otherwise, things are pretty much the same. Sugar is pissed that I’ve been traveling so much. Tatum continues to chew on everything, including our most recent ultrasound pictures. I have almost made my way through the Twilight series, instead of my most recent book club books. And The Funasaurus is trying to convince me that it’s totally a good idea to name our firstborn child after Disney’s The Little Mermaid. That, or Thorkill. So far, a consensus has not been reached on names. We are open to suggestions.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Moving Right Along
I’m back in Delaware, and while most of the sights and smells are right and good…there is no strawberry pie. Which is tragic. That’s what happens when grandmom moves into an assisted living home, I suppose. It’s probably best for my ever-expanding midsection, but not so great for nostalgia’s sake.
On the other hand, I get to stay with my aunt and uncle in a nice queen bed from this decade, so that’s a plus. And I went and bought a bag of cookies to stash under said nice queen-sized bed so as not to tempt them from their Weight Watchers regime, but still get my refined sugar fix.
My grandmother is as feisty as ever, and still interested in playing bridge, but she’s more forgetful than I have ever seen her, and more tired. She still gave me a hard time for leaving even though she was falling asleep for her afternoon nap. And apparently ratted me out to my aunt that “she knows I have a busy social life and need to see my friends,” even though I explained to her I have to work on this trip, and had to get back to for a conference call. Nothing like a little guilt to make you feel right at home.
Still, the weather’s warm and we had a yummy summertime rainstorm this afternoon. I love warm rain. If it rains in Colorado, it gets really cold. I’m seeing my friend and her new baby for dinner tonight (grandmom wasn’t totally wrong about my social calendar) and quite likely driving through the old Dairy Queen on the way home. And maybe past my old house. Then I need to figure out the rules to cribbage, because my forgetful grandmom is kicking my ass at bridge.
On the other hand, I get to stay with my aunt and uncle in a nice queen bed from this decade, so that’s a plus. And I went and bought a bag of cookies to stash under said nice queen-sized bed so as not to tempt them from their Weight Watchers regime, but still get my refined sugar fix.
My grandmother is as feisty as ever, and still interested in playing bridge, but she’s more forgetful than I have ever seen her, and more tired. She still gave me a hard time for leaving even though she was falling asleep for her afternoon nap. And apparently ratted me out to my aunt that “she knows I have a busy social life and need to see my friends,” even though I explained to her I have to work on this trip, and had to get back to for a conference call. Nothing like a little guilt to make you feel right at home.
Still, the weather’s warm and we had a yummy summertime rainstorm this afternoon. I love warm rain. If it rains in Colorado, it gets really cold. I’m seeing my friend and her new baby for dinner tonight (grandmom wasn’t totally wrong about my social calendar) and quite likely driving through the old Dairy Queen on the way home. And maybe past my old house. Then I need to figure out the rules to cribbage, because my forgetful grandmom is kicking my ass at bridge.
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