"A traffic jam when you're already late" is not ironic. It would be ironic, however, if--for once in your life--you actually left the house in plenty of time to arrive early, but then (Oh God, the ass-biting irony!) ran into a traffic jam that made you late all the same.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
15 December 2006
11 December 2006
The Shelf--Rated 'R' for 'Regrettable'
It was reminiscent of a scene from the old black & whites, the imaginary audience in my bedroom gasping, hiding their eyes, "Don't go in there!" they shrieked. But I did. Into the closet. Over to the shelf. Over to the high, high shelf on which are stacked (dum dum dum DUUUM...) my pre-pregnancy jeans.
I don't know exactly why I did it ("No occifer, I not been dinking."). Okay, yes I do. I have my 34 week appointment coming up on Thursday and I'm afraid of getting yelled at about my weight. People tell me I'm "not nearly as big" as I was with Lucas (an odd comment that sets off the internal dialogue, "Heeey, whaddya mean 'not nearly as BIG?!'" but I digress), and because I'm not on bed rest, obviously I'm more active and feel much better than I did at this stage with him. Still, the scale creeps up. And up. And up. And I thought that, whether it serve as reality check or relief, if I could just TRY ON a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, maybe I would feel better. Maybe I would feel worse. I don't know.
The shelf is stacked precariously high with denim, and I manage to knock down the whole stack with only a couple of jumps (God forbid I would have gone for the step stool). Sigh. It's like some kind of sordid ass scrapbook. I rifle nostalgically through the size zeros, past the short-short Abercrombie skirt I wore as a bikini cover-up the summer before I got pregnant with Lucas, past the skinny jeans from American Eagle I wore in grad school when I was running 30 miles a week and which I'm keeping in the hope of gleefully slinking into them again on my 40th birthday, ala one of those Speical K commercials. I thumb past the Size 2. Size 4. Hmm. I pause to hold up a pair of size 6 jeans that I wore last winter mid-weight-loss. Hmm. I shake them out again and hold them up to the light. Nah. I toss them aside. I am intrigued by the next pair in the pile. I have no idea what size they are, as there is no size tag, but they look convincingly like they could be a 6. Or an 8 maybe. Did I buy jeans that size? I don't even remember. They look reasonable enough anyway. I try them on carefully, tentatively, as though I suspect some type of small, poisonous reptile lurks down one of the legs. I attempt to pull them up. To my surprise (and delight) they come up easily over my hips and thighs, and, although I can't button them around the baby, I can tell that they will fit after said baby is no longer a consideration. Sweet. Sweet! I am smiling.
Feeling confident, cocky even, I reach for another pair. Distressed Silver jeans I bought in the Juniors department and wore to my 15 year high school reunion 3 months after I had Lucas. They, too, slide up with only a bit of additional encouragement (read: tugging). These are a tougher call but seem good enough, considering. Good enough. I've been walking when the weather is good and this weekend started light lifting & squats again. This makes me optimistic (fearful?) enough to keep it up. Or to plan to keep it up at least.
I abandon the pile of jeans on the bed and turn back toward the closet. One more thing. I have to work at the bookstore in the morning, and I'm wondering if I can squeeze (so to speak) one more week out of my brown maternity pants. It's been touch and go for the last month, to the point that one of these days I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Jim and tell him I'll be late due to a wardrobe emergency, or worse yet, due to a complete mental breakdown brought on by the fact that I have outgrown my maternity pants. There they hang, flimsy-looking brown things slumped pathetically over their hanger. I stare at them for a minute or two. They seem harmless, still I'm too scared to reach for them. Instead I slide the mirrored doors closed and turn off the closet light, pausing to glance back at the denim wasteland strewn across our bed. Tomorrow, I say to them, meaning the bookstore pants. I've had enough fun for one day.
I don't know exactly why I did it ("No occifer, I not been dinking."). Okay, yes I do. I have my 34 week appointment coming up on Thursday and I'm afraid of getting yelled at about my weight. People tell me I'm "not nearly as big" as I was with Lucas (an odd comment that sets off the internal dialogue, "Heeey, whaddya mean 'not nearly as BIG?!'" but I digress), and because I'm not on bed rest, obviously I'm more active and feel much better than I did at this stage with him. Still, the scale creeps up. And up. And up. And I thought that, whether it serve as reality check or relief, if I could just TRY ON a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, maybe I would feel better. Maybe I would feel worse. I don't know.
The shelf is stacked precariously high with denim, and I manage to knock down the whole stack with only a couple of jumps (God forbid I would have gone for the step stool). Sigh. It's like some kind of sordid ass scrapbook. I rifle nostalgically through the size zeros, past the short-short Abercrombie skirt I wore as a bikini cover-up the summer before I got pregnant with Lucas, past the skinny jeans from American Eagle I wore in grad school when I was running 30 miles a week and which I'm keeping in the hope of gleefully slinking into them again on my 40th birthday, ala one of those Speical K commercials. I thumb past the Size 2. Size 4. Hmm. I pause to hold up a pair of size 6 jeans that I wore last winter mid-weight-loss. Hmm. I shake them out again and hold them up to the light. Nah. I toss them aside. I am intrigued by the next pair in the pile. I have no idea what size they are, as there is no size tag, but they look convincingly like they could be a 6. Or an 8 maybe. Did I buy jeans that size? I don't even remember. They look reasonable enough anyway. I try them on carefully, tentatively, as though I suspect some type of small, poisonous reptile lurks down one of the legs. I attempt to pull them up. To my surprise (and delight) they come up easily over my hips and thighs, and, although I can't button them around the baby, I can tell that they will fit after said baby is no longer a consideration. Sweet. Sweet! I am smiling.
Feeling confident, cocky even, I reach for another pair. Distressed Silver jeans I bought in the Juniors department and wore to my 15 year high school reunion 3 months after I had Lucas. They, too, slide up with only a bit of additional encouragement (read: tugging). These are a tougher call but seem good enough, considering. Good enough. I've been walking when the weather is good and this weekend started light lifting & squats again. This makes me optimistic (fearful?) enough to keep it up. Or to plan to keep it up at least.
I abandon the pile of jeans on the bed and turn back toward the closet. One more thing. I have to work at the bookstore in the morning, and I'm wondering if I can squeeze (so to speak) one more week out of my brown maternity pants. It's been touch and go for the last month, to the point that one of these days I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Jim and tell him I'll be late due to a wardrobe emergency, or worse yet, due to a complete mental breakdown brought on by the fact that I have outgrown my maternity pants. There they hang, flimsy-looking brown things slumped pathetically over their hanger. I stare at them for a minute or two. They seem harmless, still I'm too scared to reach for them. Instead I slide the mirrored doors closed and turn off the closet light, pausing to glance back at the denim wasteland strewn across our bed. Tomorrow, I say to them, meaning the bookstore pants. I've had enough fun for one day.
05 December 2006
LOST: 1 Sexy. If Found, Please Bring Back.
Well, against my better judgement, tonight I am going to watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show on CBS. Yes, at almost 33 weeks pregnant, I am the proverbial punishment glutton.
If necessary, I can blame part of it on work. I do open at the store tomorrow, and there are usually a few people the morning after who come in looking for outfits they saw on the runway. So I guess it could be considered a work assignment. Really, though, I know that instead of concentrating on the product I'm seeing, I will focus most of my attention on the bodies wearing said product. These bodies will have sleek thighs, concave waistlines, reasonable breasts. I will think about stretch marks and fret over whether or not I can sneak through these final however-many weeks of my pregnancy without getting any. I mean, this baby is bigger than the last one was at this point--what if it's enough to finally push my fragile epidermis past its limit?
I will bemoan the fact that I seem to put on most of my pregnancy weight at the hip and thigh. Never mind the fact that I lost it all the last time. This--this is a new time. What if I stay this way forever? Oh sure, in Happy Fantasy Land in my head next summer I am going on almost daily runs pushing my two young sons ahead of me in their double jogging stroller. People who see me along the way have internal dialogue like, My God! Those can't both be hers--she looks so good! (Let me mention here that I REALLY, REALLY like life in HFL.) But I'm a realist. How will I find the time and energy to get back into shape after this baby is born, especially in the middle of winter? How, how, HOW?!
And as Giselle and Adriana and Karolina stride purposefully down to their poses, I will be thinking about c-sections. This baby is still breech. What if I have to have surgery? I mean a c-section is like Major Surgery. The closest I've come to that is having my wisdom teeth pulled the summer before I left for college. I don't like the idea of someone cutting into me and--perhaps more to the point--I don' t like the idea of the scar that's left behind. People attempt to console me with comments like, "Oh, but it's just a 'little bikini scar,' it's no big deal." Yes, but I don't have any scars there now. I like my abs. Well, I mean I like them when they look normal, not so much now. And I like my bikini line. I don't want to have to think about whether my c-section scar is covered by my bikini (also something I wear next summer in Happy Fantasy Land). I want to buy cute lingerie at work without stressing out about hiding scars or stretch marks like so many of my Clients do. Of course, my husband has already tried to console me by saying, "It'd be cool. It's like we'll have matching scars," referring to the "little bikini scar" he acquired as the result of a hernia operation he had when he was 4. (God bless him, he tries.)
Don't get me wrong--the logical part of me understands that all that really matter at this point is delivering a healthy baby, regardless of the route he takes. I understand this. But the shallow part of me just wants to look like me again. I don't need to look like Alessandra or Heidi, really. At this point, I just want to fit into pants with zippers. Ah, zippers! Now that's sexy indeed.*
*Not that I don't appreciate the finer points of shiny, blue, full-panel elastic. Oh, you know you want some.
If necessary, I can blame part of it on work. I do open at the store tomorrow, and there are usually a few people the morning after who come in looking for outfits they saw on the runway. So I guess it could be considered a work assignment. Really, though, I know that instead of concentrating on the product I'm seeing, I will focus most of my attention on the bodies wearing said product. These bodies will have sleek thighs, concave waistlines, reasonable breasts. I will think about stretch marks and fret over whether or not I can sneak through these final however-many weeks of my pregnancy without getting any. I mean, this baby is bigger than the last one was at this point--what if it's enough to finally push my fragile epidermis past its limit?
I will bemoan the fact that I seem to put on most of my pregnancy weight at the hip and thigh. Never mind the fact that I lost it all the last time. This--this is a new time. What if I stay this way forever? Oh sure, in Happy Fantasy Land in my head next summer I am going on almost daily runs pushing my two young sons ahead of me in their double jogging stroller. People who see me along the way have internal dialogue like, My God! Those can't both be hers--she looks so good! (Let me mention here that I REALLY, REALLY like life in HFL.) But I'm a realist. How will I find the time and energy to get back into shape after this baby is born, especially in the middle of winter? How, how, HOW?!
And as Giselle and Adriana and Karolina stride purposefully down to their poses, I will be thinking about c-sections. This baby is still breech. What if I have to have surgery? I mean a c-section is like Major Surgery. The closest I've come to that is having my wisdom teeth pulled the summer before I left for college. I don't like the idea of someone cutting into me and--perhaps more to the point--I don' t like the idea of the scar that's left behind. People attempt to console me with comments like, "Oh, but it's just a 'little bikini scar,' it's no big deal." Yes, but I don't have any scars there now. I like my abs. Well, I mean I like them when they look normal, not so much now. And I like my bikini line. I don't want to have to think about whether my c-section scar is covered by my bikini (also something I wear next summer in Happy Fantasy Land). I want to buy cute lingerie at work without stressing out about hiding scars or stretch marks like so many of my Clients do. Of course, my husband has already tried to console me by saying, "It'd be cool. It's like we'll have matching scars," referring to the "little bikini scar" he acquired as the result of a hernia operation he had when he was 4. (God bless him, he tries.)
Don't get me wrong--the logical part of me understands that all that really matter at this point is delivering a healthy baby, regardless of the route he takes. I understand this. But the shallow part of me just wants to look like me again. I don't need to look like Alessandra or Heidi, really. At this point, I just want to fit into pants with zippers. Ah, zippers! Now that's sexy indeed.*
*Not that I don't appreciate the finer points of shiny, blue, full-panel elastic. Oh, you know you want some.
27 November 2006
Sure Plays a Mean Pinball
At 17 months, Lucas still isn't talking. Oh, he has spoken some: cheese, da (dad), key (kitty), up. But most of these words have since been retired leaving only the occasional hi and dow(n)!, the latter of which he uses primarily to discipline our keys when they get out of line. Don't get me wrong, he's by no means a quiet child. He babbles constantly, animatedly even, in a language I can only refer to as "Lucanese." It sounds a bit like yodeling punctuated with an occasional, self-appreciative laugh. I, of course, am convinced that something is horribly wrong, while my husband is convinced that I'm horribly worried for nothing.
I just find it ironic, I guess, that my child is a late talker. Anyone who has met me can attest to the fact that it's hard to shut me up once I get going. To underscore my point--when I was in the third grade, we put on a play called "The Case of the Missing Parts of Speech," and I was cast as the adverb "Too Much." My costume? A rainbow t-shirt and bright orange pants. You can recognize an adverb if you really try. It may help you if you notice that they often end in l-y! In high school I won all kinds of speech contests (with real trophies!) and even the community theatre's drama scholarship. But my kid? No talkie.
So basically now I'm just sitting around (getting fatter and) waiting for his verbal explosion, rumored to hit most kids around the 18-month mark (18 days away and counting). In the meantime, people do their best to pacify me with stories about their own late-talking toddlers, but mostly I just nod and smile politely. Too vivid are the sounds of my niece's perfect little voice. Sure, she's 4 months older than Lucas, but her words have always been clear, even early on-- "Baby!" "Kitty!" "Mommy!" And then there's Jim's boy, Noah, who is also 4 months older than Lucas. He not only knows his muppets, "This week he learned to say 'Bert' and 'Ernie' in the same day!" and his numbers (except for "2" apparently), but he has also graduated into the world of, "Fuck!" and other expletives.
I do find some comfort in the fact that otherwise Lucas is an excellent communicator. He waves, points, signs "All done," goes to his highchair when he's hungry, taps the fridge when he wants his sippy cup of milk, delivers a shirt to the cat when he wants us to dress it (another story entirely). And he is excellent at following directions--loves to put his own used diapers in the Diaper Genie, walks back to the crib at naptime, fetches random items on request, helps to put on his shoes, and so on. It's just that whole talking thing he doesn't quite get. Not yet, anyway. Not quite yet.
I just find it ironic, I guess, that my child is a late talker. Anyone who has met me can attest to the fact that it's hard to shut me up once I get going. To underscore my point--when I was in the third grade, we put on a play called "The Case of the Missing Parts of Speech," and I was cast as the adverb "Too Much." My costume? A rainbow t-shirt and bright orange pants. You can recognize an adverb if you really try. It may help you if you notice that they often end in l-y! In high school I won all kinds of speech contests (with real trophies!) and even the community theatre's drama scholarship. But my kid? No talkie.
So basically now I'm just sitting around (getting fatter and) waiting for his verbal explosion, rumored to hit most kids around the 18-month mark (18 days away and counting). In the meantime, people do their best to pacify me with stories about their own late-talking toddlers, but mostly I just nod and smile politely. Too vivid are the sounds of my niece's perfect little voice. Sure, she's 4 months older than Lucas, but her words have always been clear, even early on-- "Baby!" "Kitty!" "Mommy!" And then there's Jim's boy, Noah, who is also 4 months older than Lucas. He not only knows his muppets, "This week he learned to say 'Bert' and 'Ernie' in the same day!" and his numbers (except for "2" apparently), but he has also graduated into the world of, "Fuck!" and other expletives.
I do find some comfort in the fact that otherwise Lucas is an excellent communicator. He waves, points, signs "All done," goes to his highchair when he's hungry, taps the fridge when he wants his sippy cup of milk, delivers a shirt to the cat when he wants us to dress it (another story entirely). And he is excellent at following directions--loves to put his own used diapers in the Diaper Genie, walks back to the crib at naptime, fetches random items on request, helps to put on his shoes, and so on. It's just that whole talking thing he doesn't quite get. Not yet, anyway. Not quite yet.
12 November 2006
My Kingdom for a Toilet Lock
I'm not saying that I would kill for one exactly, but at this point I think I've comfortably worked my way up to "mame," "disfigure," and possibly "torture."
What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.
Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:
"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"
[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]
"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."
[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]
"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.
[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]
"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."
And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.
So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.
What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.
Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:
"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"
[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]
"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."
[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]
"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.
[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]
"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."
And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.
So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.
14 September 2006
Coming Soon To A Blog Near You
After an extended hiatus, the writer will be returning to her blog. Oh when? About as many years...(stay tuned).
25 July 2006
The Voyeur-ger
When I was pregnant with Lucas last year (Oh God, I was pregnant last year, too?), Ron and I got into a discussion about whether or not and when and if it is socially appropriate for a pregnant woman to bear her belly in public. I don't remember now exactly how the subject came up. Likely, while perusing a pregnancy magazine, I made the mistake of pointing out a midriff-baring shirt or dress that I thought looked cute on one of the models. Regardless, I do remember his reaction: a succinct, if melodramatic, "Ew!" accompanied by a face suggesting I had just shown him sheep entrails.
Now, contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm not going to turn all crunchy here and launch into a celebratory oration on the beauty of the engorged female form. I don't completely buy that crock o' schlock either. I understand that sometimes when we get pregnant, we just get fat. Still, Ron's reaction pissed me off because, in my hormonal state, I took it as a direct reflection of his attitude toward my own burgeoning belly. Of course he claimed over and over that this wasn't true (and I put down the meat cleaver). Still, I opted to keep my gut under wraps for the duration of the pregnancy.
All of this brings me to last Sunday, when Lucas and I were out for our morning walk. Since I finally bucked the bulk of my morning sickness, we've been pretty good about taking the stroller through its regular paces, even during this most recent heat wave. As soon as Lukey had finished breakfast, I filled a sippy cup with ice water, slathered the boy with SPF, and strapped him in. After turning right at the first corner, the sun was on our backs and there was a nice breeze coming down the hill, out of the West. I huffed and I puffed, pushing the 18 pound stroller plus the 25 pound kid (his collection of rocks, the sippy, the iPod, the garage door opener, the cell phone) up the hill and out of the subdivision. When I got to 156th St, I stopped to catch my breath and (after I downed nearly half of it myself) offered Lucas a pull from his sippy.
We ducked in and out of the flickering shade patches that dot the morning sidewalk between Oakbrook Meadows and the entrance to the Pappio Trail. Up on the ridge, there, the wind picked up and kept us cool. Lucas leaned his entire upper body over the left edge of the stroller to watch the ground roll past, his right fist simultaneously shoving a big piece of river rock into his mouth. This provided an extra upper body workout for me, as the giant leaning baby produced a significant amount of drag.
Anyway, by the time we'd progressed about 20 yards down the trail proper, I was sweating like a...well...like a pregnant lady pushing a giant stroller in 90-some degree heat, no shade in sight. Meanwhile, happy bicycling couples whizzed past on their way to Lake Zorinsky. I stopped to take a drink and realized something: most of those biking people weren't wearing shirts. The women wore sports bras, sure, but no shirts. Hmm. I walked another 10 yards or so. I stopped. I looked up the now empty trail behind me. I looked ahead. Empty that way, too, for the moment. Hmm. I handed the baby his sippy cup, and then I did it. In one quick move I pulled off my shirt and knotted it around the stroller handle. So much better! But as we resumed our walk, the internal dialogue began.
This isn't obscene or something, is it? It feels weird, vulnerable to be exposed this way. This from the girl who has never really worn anything on top but a sports bra for workouts, suddenly modest in my compromised body, like I'm showing something I shouldn't. I'm looking a little thick to be doing this. And my boobs look ridiculous. What if now I'm one of those people who runs around in things they shouldn't? Ron would later do his best to reassure me by saying, "I'm sure anyone who noticed just thought you had some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller." Oh, crap! What if people think I still have some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller? Not that there's anything wrong with that. And on it went for awhile. But by the time we got back home I was over my discomfort for the most part, for that day anyway.
Now, over a week later, I don't even bother with the shirt when Lucas and I go out in the mornings, even though my "problem area" grows thicker by the day. It's too hot to care, and I'm apparently too stupid not to walk in this weather. Should a woman my age and in my condition be running around in marathon shorts and a sports bra? Probably not, but who really sees me back there on the trail anyway? Oh well, yeah, him. Lucas the rock-eater will probably need years of counseling to get past it.
Now, contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm not going to turn all crunchy here and launch into a celebratory oration on the beauty of the engorged female form. I don't completely buy that crock o' schlock either. I understand that sometimes when we get pregnant, we just get fat. Still, Ron's reaction pissed me off because, in my hormonal state, I took it as a direct reflection of his attitude toward my own burgeoning belly. Of course he claimed over and over that this wasn't true (and I put down the meat cleaver). Still, I opted to keep my gut under wraps for the duration of the pregnancy.
All of this brings me to last Sunday, when Lucas and I were out for our morning walk. Since I finally bucked the bulk of my morning sickness, we've been pretty good about taking the stroller through its regular paces, even during this most recent heat wave. As soon as Lukey had finished breakfast, I filled a sippy cup with ice water, slathered the boy with SPF, and strapped him in. After turning right at the first corner, the sun was on our backs and there was a nice breeze coming down the hill, out of the West. I huffed and I puffed, pushing the 18 pound stroller plus the 25 pound kid (his collection of rocks, the sippy, the iPod, the garage door opener, the cell phone) up the hill and out of the subdivision. When I got to 156th St, I stopped to catch my breath and (after I downed nearly half of it myself) offered Lucas a pull from his sippy.
We ducked in and out of the flickering shade patches that dot the morning sidewalk between Oakbrook Meadows and the entrance to the Pappio Trail. Up on the ridge, there, the wind picked up and kept us cool. Lucas leaned his entire upper body over the left edge of the stroller to watch the ground roll past, his right fist simultaneously shoving a big piece of river rock into his mouth. This provided an extra upper body workout for me, as the giant leaning baby produced a significant amount of drag.
Anyway, by the time we'd progressed about 20 yards down the trail proper, I was sweating like a...well...like a pregnant lady pushing a giant stroller in 90-some degree heat, no shade in sight. Meanwhile, happy bicycling couples whizzed past on their way to Lake Zorinsky. I stopped to take a drink and realized something: most of those biking people weren't wearing shirts. The women wore sports bras, sure, but no shirts. Hmm. I walked another 10 yards or so. I stopped. I looked up the now empty trail behind me. I looked ahead. Empty that way, too, for the moment. Hmm. I handed the baby his sippy cup, and then I did it. In one quick move I pulled off my shirt and knotted it around the stroller handle. So much better! But as we resumed our walk, the internal dialogue began.
This isn't obscene or something, is it? It feels weird, vulnerable to be exposed this way. This from the girl who has never really worn anything on top but a sports bra for workouts, suddenly modest in my compromised body, like I'm showing something I shouldn't. I'm looking a little thick to be doing this. And my boobs look ridiculous. What if now I'm one of those people who runs around in things they shouldn't? Ron would later do his best to reassure me by saying, "I'm sure anyone who noticed just thought you had some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller." Oh, crap! What if people think I still have some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller? Not that there's anything wrong with that. And on it went for awhile. But by the time we got back home I was over my discomfort for the most part, for that day anyway.
Now, over a week later, I don't even bother with the shirt when Lucas and I go out in the mornings, even though my "problem area" grows thicker by the day. It's too hot to care, and I'm apparently too stupid not to walk in this weather. Should a woman my age and in my condition be running around in marathon shorts and a sports bra? Probably not, but who really sees me back there on the trail anyway? Oh well, yeah, him. Lucas the rock-eater will probably need years of counseling to get past it.
14 July 2006
M.I.L.F.
No, not that kind. Not anymore. Not for awhile, at least. I'm feeling more like "Mom In a Lackadaisical Funk" these days. I think I have officially entered the awkward phase, the adolescence, if you will, of my pregnancy. With each day that passes, my clothes get smaller and smaller. If you saw me around the house, you'd think I was single-handedly campaigning to bring back the belly shirt. This, of course, was a dangerous trend to begin with, as most women seemed to think the sizeable gap left between the bottom of their short-short shirt and the top of their low-rise pants was just a convenient space to air their fat roll. What's worse, with pregnancy you don't just give up the six-pack for the cooler, but you also have these new boobs to contend with.
And they pop up overnight, too. One day, you're cruising along just fine, "La la la, I'm pregnant, hoorah, etc.," and the next day you wake up and it's like, "What the hell?" Maybe this doesn't happen to everyone. A lot of the newly pregnant women I fit at Victoria's Secret get all excited at this stage, "Gee, I didn't have anything to begin with!" they squeal delightedly, finally a B-cup. I, on the other hand, did have something to begin with, so now I just have more and no good place to keep it. At not quite 12 weeks I'm already busting, so to speak, out of my 34DDs. This doesn't bode well for trimesters two and three. Unless I plan on entering wet t-shirt contests. Baby needs a college fund, right?
So anyway, the shirts get shorter, the pants get tighter (the hour grows longer, the jokes grow poorer, and the wind taunts like laughter through the trees, etc.). And it's too soon to pull out the maternity pants just yet. With my last pregnancy I didn't enjoy this same level of nausea, so I ate the shit out of the first trimester (thank you, Runza) and gained 15 pounds in the process. This time around, I've only gained 3 or 4, so my ass fails to fill out even the smallest prego trousers. [Aside: I was relieved to read somewhere when I was pregnant with Lucas that it's the body's natural tendency to pack on the booty during pregnancy as a way of counterbalancing one's growing belly. I don't know if this little nugget is actually true, but it made me feel better when I read things like, "Many women don't notice any weight gain during the first trimester." I'm sorry, what?! Let me waddle right over there and kick your ass.] At any rate, maternity pants still sag in the butt, and regular pants give me the done-lops. I know this will change in another month or two, but for the moment I am officially just past the point of being able to suck it in. This doesn't mean I'm above trying, though. Must...exhale...soon...(and--whoooszh--if you look fast enough you may see me fly around the room backward.)
But back to the original MILF factor. I'm pretty sure it's gone, baby. Buh-bye. On indefinite hiatus with no forwarding address. And its replacement, that every-elusive "Pregnant Glow" has yet to make an appearance. In the meantime I'll have to make due with what I've got: big boobs, limp hair, unpredictable skin, the bloat, the bad clothes. It's like I'm one neon scrunchie away from 1986. Bueller?
And they pop up overnight, too. One day, you're cruising along just fine, "La la la, I'm pregnant, hoorah, etc.," and the next day you wake up and it's like, "What the hell?" Maybe this doesn't happen to everyone. A lot of the newly pregnant women I fit at Victoria's Secret get all excited at this stage, "Gee, I didn't have anything to begin with!" they squeal delightedly, finally a B-cup. I, on the other hand, did have something to begin with, so now I just have more and no good place to keep it. At not quite 12 weeks I'm already busting, so to speak, out of my 34DDs. This doesn't bode well for trimesters two and three. Unless I plan on entering wet t-shirt contests. Baby needs a college fund, right?
So anyway, the shirts get shorter, the pants get tighter (the hour grows longer, the jokes grow poorer, and the wind taunts like laughter through the trees, etc.). And it's too soon to pull out the maternity pants just yet. With my last pregnancy I didn't enjoy this same level of nausea, so I ate the shit out of the first trimester (thank you, Runza) and gained 15 pounds in the process. This time around, I've only gained 3 or 4, so my ass fails to fill out even the smallest prego trousers. [Aside: I was relieved to read somewhere when I was pregnant with Lucas that it's the body's natural tendency to pack on the booty during pregnancy as a way of counterbalancing one's growing belly. I don't know if this little nugget is actually true, but it made me feel better when I read things like, "Many women don't notice any weight gain during the first trimester." I'm sorry, what?! Let me waddle right over there and kick your ass.] At any rate, maternity pants still sag in the butt, and regular pants give me the done-lops. I know this will change in another month or two, but for the moment I am officially just past the point of being able to suck it in. This doesn't mean I'm above trying, though. Must...exhale...soon...(and--whoooszh--if you look fast enough you may see me fly around the room backward.)
But back to the original MILF factor. I'm pretty sure it's gone, baby. Buh-bye. On indefinite hiatus with no forwarding address. And its replacement, that every-elusive "Pregnant Glow" has yet to make an appearance. In the meantime I'll have to make due with what I've got: big boobs, limp hair, unpredictable skin, the bloat, the bad clothes. It's like I'm one neon scrunchie away from 1986. Bueller?
04 July 2006
The Bath
The baby was clean, dinner was over. Still some time before fireworks. What I wanted more than anything was to just take a few minutes for myself, a little time to collect my thoughts, relax. What I wanted more than anything was a bath. Part of this stems from the fact that lately, showers are just too exhausting. Have I become so lazy that the act of standing up while bathing is just too much to deal with? Probably. That would be in keeping with the way things have been going in general. Still, there's just something about the promise of a nice long soak. I don't know, maybe it's a girl thing.
So first I have to wade through the Frog Pod carnage. Although we have two other bathrooms in our house, there is only one bathtub to which Lucas and I currently share priviledges. Anyway, our adorable green plastic storage frog came unstuck from the wall earlier in the week, so the baby's bath toys (along with pieces of said frog) are scattered in a little trail from the door to the tub. Once I clear the way, I start the water, add some bubbles. A little vanila, some lavender. I turn on the radio. Excellent--CD 105 is running a Stones fantasy concert. I strip--physically I am still in the honeymoon phase of my pregnancy. My belly is only slightly rounder, my hips, other curves. Into the water I sink.
The water feels wonderful until I start to wonder if it feels too good. Is it too hot? I remember reading last pregnancy that one shouldn't overheat during the first trimester. Neural tube defects or something equally menacing. Oh excellent--I'm baking the baby. So I add some cold water. The Stones break into the first riffs of "Honkey Tonk Woman."
When Ron & I first started dating we were playing Trivial Pursuit when I got a flawed music question based on the lyrics to this song. Now don't get me wrong, there are many areas of Trivial Pursuit at which I suck, but do not--I repeat, do not--mess with me when it comes to music trivia, especially something as basic as Stones lyrics. Please. The question was: "What did the Rolling Stones' Honkey Tonk Woman do after she blew her nose?" The given answer was, "She blew her mind," which of course I missed, because IT ISN'T THE RIGHT ANSWER. In fact, the question isn't even the right question. The actual lyric is, "She blew my nose and then she blew my mind." ie: "We did a little coke & then she gave me a bj." PLEASE. The way they have it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I don't think that's even physically possible.
But I digress. So, I'm in the bath. Relaxing. And really, between Mick Jagger and the bathroom fan, I can barely hear the one-year-old stomping up and down the hallway, pausing only occasionally to bang on the door. So, Honkey Tonk Woman and neural tube defects, and then the Greek salad. The hot bath thing reminds me of other pregnancy rules I'm breaking. I mean, I haven't given up caffeine entirely. The morning coffee is gone, but it has been replaced by the somewhat ambrosial, somewhat caffeinated Starbuck's Frappuccino. Gimme a break, I get the stupid things half price at Barnes & Noble. As I had to remind Ron, "It's not crack, Honey."
But the Greek salad. Today for lunch, I committed yet another no-no...I ate a Greek salad. In case you're having trouble following my hormonal logic, Greek salads contain feta cheese, which falls into one of the many categories of Foods You Should Avoid During Pregnancy. More precisely, "unpasteurized soft and blue-veined cheeses." Boo! This is a huge deal in my little world because cheese, in general, is my very favorite part of the food pyramid. I love the Dairy Council (and yes, I really do have a favorite part of the food pyramid). I love cheese, and this crap about no gorgonzola, brie, feta, or bleu...well what the hell, really? And now what if I've caught some kind of cheese disease from my salad?
So the bath. It was relaxing. I mean, once I stopped thinking about that stupid Trivial Pursuit card. And the hot water. And the effects of caffeine. And potential food-borne illnesses. After that, well...I got the hell out.
So first I have to wade through the Frog Pod carnage. Although we have two other bathrooms in our house, there is only one bathtub to which Lucas and I currently share priviledges. Anyway, our adorable green plastic storage frog came unstuck from the wall earlier in the week, so the baby's bath toys (along with pieces of said frog) are scattered in a little trail from the door to the tub. Once I clear the way, I start the water, add some bubbles. A little vanila, some lavender. I turn on the radio. Excellent--CD 105 is running a Stones fantasy concert. I strip--physically I am still in the honeymoon phase of my pregnancy. My belly is only slightly rounder, my hips, other curves. Into the water I sink.
The water feels wonderful until I start to wonder if it feels too good. Is it too hot? I remember reading last pregnancy that one shouldn't overheat during the first trimester. Neural tube defects or something equally menacing. Oh excellent--I'm baking the baby. So I add some cold water. The Stones break into the first riffs of "Honkey Tonk Woman."
When Ron & I first started dating we were playing Trivial Pursuit when I got a flawed music question based on the lyrics to this song. Now don't get me wrong, there are many areas of Trivial Pursuit at which I suck, but do not--I repeat, do not--mess with me when it comes to music trivia, especially something as basic as Stones lyrics. Please. The question was: "What did the Rolling Stones' Honkey Tonk Woman do after she blew her nose?" The given answer was, "She blew her mind," which of course I missed, because IT ISN'T THE RIGHT ANSWER. In fact, the question isn't even the right question. The actual lyric is, "She blew my nose and then she blew my mind." ie: "We did a little coke & then she gave me a bj." PLEASE. The way they have it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I don't think that's even physically possible.
But I digress. So, I'm in the bath. Relaxing. And really, between Mick Jagger and the bathroom fan, I can barely hear the one-year-old stomping up and down the hallway, pausing only occasionally to bang on the door. So, Honkey Tonk Woman and neural tube defects, and then the Greek salad. The hot bath thing reminds me of other pregnancy rules I'm breaking. I mean, I haven't given up caffeine entirely. The morning coffee is gone, but it has been replaced by the somewhat ambrosial, somewhat caffeinated Starbuck's Frappuccino. Gimme a break, I get the stupid things half price at Barnes & Noble. As I had to remind Ron, "It's not crack, Honey."
But the Greek salad. Today for lunch, I committed yet another no-no...I ate a Greek salad. In case you're having trouble following my hormonal logic, Greek salads contain feta cheese, which falls into one of the many categories of Foods You Should Avoid During Pregnancy. More precisely, "unpasteurized soft and blue-veined cheeses." Boo! This is a huge deal in my little world because cheese, in general, is my very favorite part of the food pyramid. I love the Dairy Council (and yes, I really do have a favorite part of the food pyramid). I love cheese, and this crap about no gorgonzola, brie, feta, or bleu...well what the hell, really? And now what if I've caught some kind of cheese disease from my salad?
So the bath. It was relaxing. I mean, once I stopped thinking about that stupid Trivial Pursuit card. And the hot water. And the effects of caffeine. And potential food-borne illnesses. After that, well...I got the hell out.
Being Molly Ringwald
It's scary how much of the mid-80s I spent pining away after John Hughes's little ingenue. God, I like totally wanted to be Molly Ringwald. Okay maybe not her, exactly, but the characters she played. Like Samantha Baker in Sixteen Candles, I mean the way Jake Ryan stared at her in class while she filled out that sex survey. I wanted boys to gaze myopically at me that way. And how he just magically--wow--showed up there at the church, waiting for Sam after her sister's wedding, then that scene with the flaming birthday cake. I wanted a cute boy to come wait in the street for me and kiss me over an open flame. (This of course was a precursor to the boom-box-over-the-head scene from Say Anything. Eventually I wanted that, too.)
What I wanted most, though, in that way we "want" our lives to magically echo the movies, was to be Andie in Pretty In Pink. Except maybe not so poor. And with better parents. I just thought she was sooo coool, you know? I was ready to drop everything (read: the 8th grade) to get a job at Homer's and spend all my time putting together killer, faux-baroque outfits at the Goodwill. Actually, I tried that thrift-store-chic thing for awhile, but it never really took. There's something about second-hand clothes from an unknown source that I can't quite "do." It's not that I'm a snob. Most of the baby's summer wardrobe has come from my friend's son, Bode. That's fine. And I've pilfered most of my friend Amy's maternity wardrobe. For whatever reason, other seconds just oog me out, no matter how good a deal.
Anyway, truth of the matter is, I was always more Duckie than Andie, more awkward than ingenue. When it came to unrequited love I was the usually the flame keeper, not the object. I sang into the hair brush while you fetched the juice boxes. I rode my bike past your house. I was, ultimately, your last chance for a prom date. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really that bad. I did have a date to the senior prom--my on-again, off-again first "real" boyfriend, Bill, who now (incidentally) is serving time on a federal weapons charge after doing time for meth production and fathering three children by three different women. Andie lived on the wrong side of the tracks--I just dated there. By the way, on August 29th they're releasing a new "Pretty In Pink" DVD that will (allegedly) contain not only the movie as it appeared in theaters, but also, among the extras, the original ending in which Andie chooses Duckie over Blaine. I don't know how I feel about that. Although Andrew McCarthy did look like shit in that white tux...
Hey wait--I just realized--I can't go without mentioning Claire, princess darling of "The Breakfast Club." Sure she was annoyingly high-maintenance, as rich as Andie had been poor (and yes, at this point I realize I'm talking about characters as if they were real people), but there was something about this swing of the pendulum. Aha! Molly Ringwald was an Everyman. She was poor! She was rich! She was rejected! She was the shit! I envied her sense of style, her machismo. I envied her stylish little pout and that subtle way she landed the bad boy. It was the lipstick trick, right? Had to be.
What I wanted most, though, in that way we "want" our lives to magically echo the movies, was to be Andie in Pretty In Pink. Except maybe not so poor. And with better parents. I just thought she was sooo coool, you know? I was ready to drop everything (read: the 8th grade) to get a job at Homer's and spend all my time putting together killer, faux-baroque outfits at the Goodwill. Actually, I tried that thrift-store-chic thing for awhile, but it never really took. There's something about second-hand clothes from an unknown source that I can't quite "do." It's not that I'm a snob. Most of the baby's summer wardrobe has come from my friend's son, Bode. That's fine. And I've pilfered most of my friend Amy's maternity wardrobe. For whatever reason, other seconds just oog me out, no matter how good a deal.
Anyway, truth of the matter is, I was always more Duckie than Andie, more awkward than ingenue. When it came to unrequited love I was the usually the flame keeper, not the object. I sang into the hair brush while you fetched the juice boxes. I rode my bike past your house. I was, ultimately, your last chance for a prom date. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really that bad. I did have a date to the senior prom--my on-again, off-again first "real" boyfriend, Bill, who now (incidentally) is serving time on a federal weapons charge after doing time for meth production and fathering three children by three different women. Andie lived on the wrong side of the tracks--I just dated there. By the way, on August 29th they're releasing a new "Pretty In Pink" DVD that will (allegedly) contain not only the movie as it appeared in theaters, but also, among the extras, the original ending in which Andie chooses Duckie over Blaine. I don't know how I feel about that. Although Andrew McCarthy did look like shit in that white tux...
Hey wait--I just realized--I can't go without mentioning Claire, princess darling of "The Breakfast Club." Sure she was annoyingly high-maintenance, as rich as Andie had been poor (and yes, at this point I realize I'm talking about characters as if they were real people), but there was something about this swing of the pendulum. Aha! Molly Ringwald was an Everyman. She was poor! She was rich! She was rejected! She was the shit! I envied her sense of style, her machismo. I envied her stylish little pout and that subtle way she landed the bad boy. It was the lipstick trick, right? Had to be.
28 June 2006
Back on the Smack
Well that didn't last long now, did it? I'm back on the Reglan after realizing that the nausea rendered me completely imobile. Still vaguely depressed, still tired as whatever, but it's only for a few more weeks. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon, etc.
27 June 2006
Dream A Little Dream
Oh the hormones. Horror moans, if you will. The good & plenty pregnancy dreams have arrived.
So far most of these wacky visions seem to be falling into distinct categories. First, there are the ever-popular "People I Hung Out With In High School" dreams. I'm getting ready to go out with girls I haven't talked to in ten years. Or my favorite the other night--I was down at the track for some kind of high school alumni meet, watching Craig Prindle run the 400 hurdles. I turned to my friend Matt and said, in all seriousness, "This race is total bullshit. Now the steeplechase, that's crap too, but at least then they let you get a little wet, you know?" Um...what?! While it's true I did occasionally piss in the coach's Cheerios enough that he put me in the 400 hurdles (and for those of you who have never run this race, let me assure you it IS total bullshit), I don't actually believe that the steeplechase is somehow easier because you get to jump in the water. I ran the steeplechase once at track camp in Ames. As I recall, running in wet shoes was not the highlight of my day.
And then there are the ever-popular, always-awkward "Vaguely Inappropriate Co-worker Interlude" dreams. I think everyone has these at some point, regardless of whether or not they actually acknowledge them. These little gems fall in line somewhere between "Smooching the Boy I Had A Crush On In School" and "Making Out With Joe Perry Of Aerosmith" (although it is permissible to substitute another individual in the rock star category if you must). While these naughty little bits can occur at any time, they seem more prevalent during pregnancy. I have consulted friends on this and they agree, but none of us understand why. Why? I blame it in part on the unchecked hormones and in part on the ego (or do I blame the id?). It's like the subconscious is trying to keep us from going totally off our shit. I mean, in real life I may feel bloated, weepy, and big as a house, but in these dreams I am always irresistably beautiful, witty, and still a size 2. Sigh. Is it nap time yet?
Last night's theme seemed to be "Dreams In Which The Dead Outnumber The Living." My friend Monica and I were hanging out with Russian figure skating greats Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov (I loved these guys in the 80s). After awhile Katia and I wandered away from the other two and before long I glanced back to see Moni giving Sergei her phone number. Oh no! Should I tell Katia that Moni was trying to seduce her husband? Well should I? Ah what the heck. Since Sergei Grinkov died in 1995, and Moni passed away in 2001 I decided to just let it go. I woke up briefly, then fell into a dream about my grandmother's house. While we took shelter from an impending tornado, she began going through furniture in her basement, then decided that maybe the little green library table and Tiffany lamp should be moved back upstairs after the storm. But Grandma Seitz also died in 2001, and we sold the house the following year, so really there was no furniture to move. These resurrection dreams are the best, and they are also the worst. Always there is the waking moment, that first eyelid flutter, when you blink back the dream. Did I just? Are they? But they're not. Always you wake to find that they're not, no matter how much you wish it.
So far most of these wacky visions seem to be falling into distinct categories. First, there are the ever-popular "People I Hung Out With In High School" dreams. I'm getting ready to go out with girls I haven't talked to in ten years. Or my favorite the other night--I was down at the track for some kind of high school alumni meet, watching Craig Prindle run the 400 hurdles. I turned to my friend Matt and said, in all seriousness, "This race is total bullshit. Now the steeplechase, that's crap too, but at least then they let you get a little wet, you know?" Um...what?! While it's true I did occasionally piss in the coach's Cheerios enough that he put me in the 400 hurdles (and for those of you who have never run this race, let me assure you it IS total bullshit), I don't actually believe that the steeplechase is somehow easier because you get to jump in the water. I ran the steeplechase once at track camp in Ames. As I recall, running in wet shoes was not the highlight of my day.
And then there are the ever-popular, always-awkward "Vaguely Inappropriate Co-worker Interlude" dreams. I think everyone has these at some point, regardless of whether or not they actually acknowledge them. These little gems fall in line somewhere between "Smooching the Boy I Had A Crush On In School" and "Making Out With Joe Perry Of Aerosmith" (although it is permissible to substitute another individual in the rock star category if you must). While these naughty little bits can occur at any time, they seem more prevalent during pregnancy. I have consulted friends on this and they agree, but none of us understand why. Why? I blame it in part on the unchecked hormones and in part on the ego (or do I blame the id?). It's like the subconscious is trying to keep us from going totally off our shit. I mean, in real life I may feel bloated, weepy, and big as a house, but in these dreams I am always irresistably beautiful, witty, and still a size 2. Sigh. Is it nap time yet?
Last night's theme seemed to be "Dreams In Which The Dead Outnumber The Living." My friend Monica and I were hanging out with Russian figure skating greats Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov (I loved these guys in the 80s). After awhile Katia and I wandered away from the other two and before long I glanced back to see Moni giving Sergei her phone number. Oh no! Should I tell Katia that Moni was trying to seduce her husband? Well should I? Ah what the heck. Since Sergei Grinkov died in 1995, and Moni passed away in 2001 I decided to just let it go. I woke up briefly, then fell into a dream about my grandmother's house. While we took shelter from an impending tornado, she began going through furniture in her basement, then decided that maybe the little green library table and Tiffany lamp should be moved back upstairs after the storm. But Grandma Seitz also died in 2001, and we sold the house the following year, so really there was no furniture to move. These resurrection dreams are the best, and they are also the worst. Always there is the waking moment, that first eyelid flutter, when you blink back the dream. Did I just? Are they? But they're not. Always you wake to find that they're not, no matter how much you wish it.
26 June 2006
Postcard from Hell
Recently it was pointed out to me that I have been delinquent in my posts. I didn't realize just how long I'd been out of the loop until I logged in this morning. Allow me to update you on my most current downward spiral.
About two weeks ago I began taking a medication to help control my nausea. One morning I called the nurse at my OB's office and said, "How much of this can we fix and how much is just First Trimester Tough Tootie?" I was reassured that my symptoms could certainly be managed, and the nurse offered to phone in a prescription for Reglan. Sounded good to me. And for the first few days, it was. It was awesome. Those of you in regular contact with me got to (had to?) listen to me run down the somewhat humorous list of possible side effects. (Note for future reference: I'm thinking that when a medication comes with 5 [five] extra little warning labels plastered to it, to the point that they had to overlap them to fit them all on the bottle, I'm thinking that perhaps one should reconsider taking said medication unless absolutely, unquestionably necessary. I'm thinking.)
Anywho, two of my favorites are:
Taking this medicine alone or with alcohol may lessen your ability to drive or perform hazardous tasks. [Alone OR with alcohol? That's helpful.]
Call your doctor immediately if you experience new or worsening feelings of anxiety, sadness, depression, restlessness or confusion. [So, my stomach will be settled, but I may become suicidal.]
But I took the stuff for ten days anyway. At first the relief from intestinal symptoms was wonderful, and I was sure no side effect could take away that euphoria. But now. As funny as those potential side effects seemed when I first read them, it never really occurred to me that I would experience any ill symptoms. Truth is, the Reglan made me so tired that it was hard to function, hard to take care of myself let alone Lucas. And for those of you who have been pregnant, you know how exhausted you feel during the first trimester anyway. Multiply that times about five. And while I'm not exactly suicidal, I seemed to have developed a general apathy toward things. I don't care if I shower, don't care if my clothes are clean, don't want to go to work, don't really want to stay home, don't really want to do anything. So I quit the Reglan cold turkey.
We'll see.
[To be continued...]
About two weeks ago I began taking a medication to help control my nausea. One morning I called the nurse at my OB's office and said, "How much of this can we fix and how much is just First Trimester Tough Tootie?" I was reassured that my symptoms could certainly be managed, and the nurse offered to phone in a prescription for Reglan. Sounded good to me. And for the first few days, it was. It was awesome. Those of you in regular contact with me got to (had to?) listen to me run down the somewhat humorous list of possible side effects. (Note for future reference: I'm thinking that when a medication comes with 5 [five] extra little warning labels plastered to it, to the point that they had to overlap them to fit them all on the bottle, I'm thinking that perhaps one should reconsider taking said medication unless absolutely, unquestionably necessary. I'm thinking.)
Anywho, two of my favorites are:
Taking this medicine alone or with alcohol may lessen your ability to drive or perform hazardous tasks. [Alone OR with alcohol? That's helpful.]
Call your doctor immediately if you experience new or worsening feelings of anxiety, sadness, depression, restlessness or confusion. [So, my stomach will be settled, but I may become suicidal.]
But I took the stuff for ten days anyway. At first the relief from intestinal symptoms was wonderful, and I was sure no side effect could take away that euphoria. But now. As funny as those potential side effects seemed when I first read them, it never really occurred to me that I would experience any ill symptoms. Truth is, the Reglan made me so tired that it was hard to function, hard to take care of myself let alone Lucas. And for those of you who have been pregnant, you know how exhausted you feel during the first trimester anyway. Multiply that times about five. And while I'm not exactly suicidal, I seemed to have developed a general apathy toward things. I don't care if I shower, don't care if my clothes are clean, don't want to go to work, don't really want to stay home, don't really want to do anything. So I quit the Reglan cold turkey.
We'll see.
[To be continued...]
05 June 2006
A New Hangover Every Day
Ah, the joys of the first trimester. When I was pregnant with Lucas, I didn't get to fully enjoy the perils of the first twelve weeks. It was holiday at Victoria's Secret, and we were a manager short most of the time. Looking back I realize I survived on pure adrenaline--driving to the mall at 5:30 in the morning with a death grip on my travel mug full of chocolate milk--there's no other way to explain it. I just didn't have time to feel wretched. Oh sure I was tired, but it was Christmas in retail. That comes with the territory. And the mild nausea? A portion of that, too, could be explained away by the long lines and psychotic customers that go hand-in-hand with a mall holiday.
But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.
I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.
Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.
Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.
But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.
I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.
Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.
Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.
04 June 2006
SPS or Shitty Parent Syndrome
Lucas and I have just returned from my friend's daughter's first birthday party. Lucas is two weeks to the day younger than the birthday girl, and, while he behaved like a champ, the party has taken its toll on me.
First of all, eleven-and-a-half months is a horrible age to try and take the boy anyplace that doesn't have baby gates or shopping carts. Today, at least, my friend's house had neither. While Lucas is walking-ish, cruising easily along furniture and taking five or six free steps at a time before plopping back down, he is not walking efficiently enough to remain upright for a helpful length of time. He is also at the age where everything on the carpet must be tasted. At our house this includes but is not limited to: cat hair, human hair, loose threads, blades of grass, hair balls, crumbs, and electronic equipment. So I spent the better portion of the party holding him. Last time I checked, Lucas weighed about 1/5 of what I do, and that gets heavy after, oh, say, the first hour or so. Don't get me wrong--we "played" in the yard (read: crawled in the grass while Mommy ran interference between hand & mouth), and he had a great time climbing the stairs. But there were a lot of people there, a lot of kids in the preschool range, and when I put him down he tended to get underfoot. So I carried him, and now my back is paying for it. Keep the change.
Still, the party was fun, and the birthday girl performed angelically. Everyone kept asking if Lucas wanted anything to eat. "Are you SURE?" they prodded.
"Oh yes," I said, repeatedly, "he ate right before we came," which was mostly the truth. Partly. And I restrained myself when someone tried to hand him a Wheat Thin. I wanted to ask if they were trying to kill him, but I didn't--my brand of restraint. Ever since the incident a month ago--two months?--when Lucas choked on the Fruit Puff, Mommy has been gun-shy about self-feeding solid (especially crunchy) foods. I don't mean "choked," as in "he gagged a little and threw it up." I mean CHOKED. As in, it completely blocked his windpipe, he turned red, then purple, and only after four solid blows to the back did the offensive Puff fly across the dining room table. My aunt was visiting at the time, and during the brief crisis I actually had cause to say, "He's not BREATHING," which would have been followed by, "Call 9-1-1!" had the Puff not flown free as soon as the words were out. [By the way, it's good to know that no matter how long it sometimes takes to strap a squirming baby into his high chair, it only takes about point-zero seconds to whip him out of it when he's choking on a Fruit Puff.]
So when we got home from the party I put Lucas down for a nap and immediately started crying. I will blame this in part on my surging pregnancy hormones. "I am a SHITTY PARENT!" I wail. This is internal dialogue, incidentally--don't want to wake the baby. He's developmentally delayed in food! And he's not talking yet either or doing any gimmicky baby stuff. My friend Jim's little boy, Noah, is just a few months older than Lucas, but I think by this age he was waving and blowing kisses and who knows what else. Ah! We have failed the boy by not teaching him pony tricks! SHITTY PARENTS! I mean sometimes, if the moon is in the second house, and you do it for him a few times first, if you ask, "How big is Lucas?" and answer, "Sooo big!" while stretching your arms above your head, sometimes he's imitate you on the "So big" part. And Lucas reaches for people and things, but he doesn't point. And he can clap when he really feels like it, but he doesn't do peek-a-boo. Is it possible our boy is simple? What if--oh, ass-biting irony of ironies, Alanis--what if Lucas is speech delayed? Is that even possible?
As you have likely concluded, the biggest challenge Lucas faces at this point may well be the fact that his mother is a bit neurotic. Perhaps I'm just feeling slightly overwhelmed knowing that another is on the way when I haven't completely figured out what to do with this one yet. Oh Lucas. Oh, Angel Baby, please be patient with me. And I promise--cross my heart--none of this has anything to do with the fact that you still don't say, "Mama."
First of all, eleven-and-a-half months is a horrible age to try and take the boy anyplace that doesn't have baby gates or shopping carts. Today, at least, my friend's house had neither. While Lucas is walking-ish, cruising easily along furniture and taking five or six free steps at a time before plopping back down, he is not walking efficiently enough to remain upright for a helpful length of time. He is also at the age where everything on the carpet must be tasted. At our house this includes but is not limited to: cat hair, human hair, loose threads, blades of grass, hair balls, crumbs, and electronic equipment. So I spent the better portion of the party holding him. Last time I checked, Lucas weighed about 1/5 of what I do, and that gets heavy after, oh, say, the first hour or so. Don't get me wrong--we "played" in the yard (read: crawled in the grass while Mommy ran interference between hand & mouth), and he had a great time climbing the stairs. But there were a lot of people there, a lot of kids in the preschool range, and when I put him down he tended to get underfoot. So I carried him, and now my back is paying for it. Keep the change.
Still, the party was fun, and the birthday girl performed angelically. Everyone kept asking if Lucas wanted anything to eat. "Are you SURE?" they prodded.
"Oh yes," I said, repeatedly, "he ate right before we came," which was mostly the truth. Partly. And I restrained myself when someone tried to hand him a Wheat Thin. I wanted to ask if they were trying to kill him, but I didn't--my brand of restraint. Ever since the incident a month ago--two months?--when Lucas choked on the Fruit Puff, Mommy has been gun-shy about self-feeding solid (especially crunchy) foods. I don't mean "choked," as in "he gagged a little and threw it up." I mean CHOKED. As in, it completely blocked his windpipe, he turned red, then purple, and only after four solid blows to the back did the offensive Puff fly across the dining room table. My aunt was visiting at the time, and during the brief crisis I actually had cause to say, "He's not BREATHING," which would have been followed by, "Call 9-1-1!" had the Puff not flown free as soon as the words were out. [By the way, it's good to know that no matter how long it sometimes takes to strap a squirming baby into his high chair, it only takes about point-zero seconds to whip him out of it when he's choking on a Fruit Puff.]
So when we got home from the party I put Lucas down for a nap and immediately started crying. I will blame this in part on my surging pregnancy hormones. "I am a SHITTY PARENT!" I wail. This is internal dialogue, incidentally--don't want to wake the baby. He's developmentally delayed in food! And he's not talking yet either or doing any gimmicky baby stuff. My friend Jim's little boy, Noah, is just a few months older than Lucas, but I think by this age he was waving and blowing kisses and who knows what else. Ah! We have failed the boy by not teaching him pony tricks! SHITTY PARENTS! I mean sometimes, if the moon is in the second house, and you do it for him a few times first, if you ask, "How big is Lucas?" and answer, "Sooo big!" while stretching your arms above your head, sometimes he's imitate you on the "So big" part. And Lucas reaches for people and things, but he doesn't point. And he can clap when he really feels like it, but he doesn't do peek-a-boo. Is it possible our boy is simple? What if--oh, ass-biting irony of ironies, Alanis--what if Lucas is speech delayed? Is that even possible?
As you have likely concluded, the biggest challenge Lucas faces at this point may well be the fact that his mother is a bit neurotic. Perhaps I'm just feeling slightly overwhelmed knowing that another is on the way when I haven't completely figured out what to do with this one yet. Oh Lucas. Oh, Angel Baby, please be patient with me. And I promise--cross my heart--none of this has anything to do with the fact that you still don't say, "Mama."
02 June 2006
Em Oh Em
Last night at Barnes & Noble we hosted author Alex Kava, whose real name is apparently Sharon, but who initially had problems being taken seriously as a female thriller writer. Understandable, I suppose, as Sharon really seems more PTA president than intrigue inventor. So she began submitting manuscripts under the name Alex ("a name [she] could live with") and had better luck, though her mother apparently has never really gotten used to the idea.
This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.
I Couldn't Want Another Life
Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.
In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't
ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads
open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.
It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.
And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.
Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.
This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.
I Couldn't Want Another Life
Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.
In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't
ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads
open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.
It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.
And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.
Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.
16 May 2006
Victoria's Secrets
Friends often ask if Victoria's Secret provides me with great material for my writing. "I'll be you get a lot of great material from Victoria's Secret," they nudge. Well not yet, not really. Mostly it gives me good stories to tell at the bar, but since I rarely go to the bar anymore, that doesn't do me much good. Anyway, instead, I have compiled a brief collection of t&a q&a, if you will, observations, suggestions, and so on, that may shed a little more light on exactly what it is we do at Victoria's Secret. Besides the tickle fights and slumber parties, I mean. Curious? Read on.
For the Girls:
If you ask us what size underwear you should buy, and we ask you what size pants or jeans you usually wear, do not answer, "Anywhere from a size 6 to a 12 depending on the brand." For the record, it does not depend that much. No one is "a size 6 to a 12." Do not lie or exaggerate for vanity's sake. We are not judging you--we are trying to sell you something. Remember, we can see your ass. We know you're fibbing.
In case you were wondering, the bras on the girls in the catalog are too small in 90% of the pictures. Sure, they look fantastic, but if I sold you a bra that fit like that, you'd be back in two days demanding a refund because it felt like your bra was attacking you. Trust me.
Yes, one is probably bigger than the other, and it's probably your left one, or, "Lefty," as we call him in the biz. As in, "Oops! Lefty's trying to make an appearance, there."
Let me guess, you're "planning on losing weight this summer," right? Everyone is.
Where do I think you'll lose it first? Let me consult my psychic friends. Honey, I just met you. I don't know. Where did you gain it?
When you describe to me a very sheer/fitted/clingy pair of pants/skirt/shorts and ask for a suggestion as to what type of undergarment you might wear in order to completely avoid unsightly panty lines, when in response to this I suggest you might want to try a thong, please do not react as though I have suggested you shove your mother in front of a bus.
Boys Only:
Actually, we do get a lot of guys that shop in here. Don't be embarrassed. We're kind, helpful, and we usually don't bite. Also, it is not requisite that you crack bad jokes to break the tension. These might include but are not limited to the following:
--If you're shopping for your wife and we ask if you know what size bra she wears, you needn't squeeze the air and say, "Bigger'n a handful."
--Similarly, if we ask what size garter belt or similar, try not to say, "Size 'Fat,'" or "Wide-ass."
And get her something you'd like to see her in, regardless of what you think her reaction might be. Chances are she'll be flattered. Besides, she can buy her own Granny Panties. If you chicken-out & get her a gift certificate, that's probably what she'll use it on anyway. Live a little.
No, I'm sorry. We do not have "Bring A Friend To Work Day." The reality would never live up to your fantasy anyway. In fact, you would probably need counselling.
No, no you can't go into the fitting room with your wife/girlfriend/significant other. I am sorry. You'll have to wait til you get home. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think on it for a moment & get back to me.
No, I will not try that on for you.
Yes, if you are a sixteen-year-old boy and come in to ask for a job application, your friends waiting outside in the mall will think you're the shit. And those giggling girls will think you're so cool, you might even get laid.
We call them "Peek-a-Boo" panties because it is considered more Brand-Appropriate than "Crotchless," but yes, we do sell them. As a fine gentleman friend of mine recently observed, "But it's not like they're looking at you or something." Actually yes, yes it is exactly like that.
For the Girls:
If you ask us what size underwear you should buy, and we ask you what size pants or jeans you usually wear, do not answer, "Anywhere from a size 6 to a 12 depending on the brand." For the record, it does not depend that much. No one is "a size 6 to a 12." Do not lie or exaggerate for vanity's sake. We are not judging you--we are trying to sell you something. Remember, we can see your ass. We know you're fibbing.
In case you were wondering, the bras on the girls in the catalog are too small in 90% of the pictures. Sure, they look fantastic, but if I sold you a bra that fit like that, you'd be back in two days demanding a refund because it felt like your bra was attacking you. Trust me.
Yes, one is probably bigger than the other, and it's probably your left one, or, "Lefty," as we call him in the biz. As in, "Oops! Lefty's trying to make an appearance, there."
Let me guess, you're "planning on losing weight this summer," right? Everyone is.
Where do I think you'll lose it first? Let me consult my psychic friends. Honey, I just met you. I don't know. Where did you gain it?
When you describe to me a very sheer/fitted/clingy pair of pants/skirt/shorts and ask for a suggestion as to what type of undergarment you might wear in order to completely avoid unsightly panty lines, when in response to this I suggest you might want to try a thong, please do not react as though I have suggested you shove your mother in front of a bus.
Boys Only:
Actually, we do get a lot of guys that shop in here. Don't be embarrassed. We're kind, helpful, and we usually don't bite. Also, it is not requisite that you crack bad jokes to break the tension. These might include but are not limited to the following:
--If you're shopping for your wife and we ask if you know what size bra she wears, you needn't squeeze the air and say, "Bigger'n a handful."
--Similarly, if we ask what size garter belt or similar, try not to say, "Size 'Fat,'" or "Wide-ass."
And get her something you'd like to see her in, regardless of what you think her reaction might be. Chances are she'll be flattered. Besides, she can buy her own Granny Panties. If you chicken-out & get her a gift certificate, that's probably what she'll use it on anyway. Live a little.
No, I'm sorry. We do not have "Bring A Friend To Work Day." The reality would never live up to your fantasy anyway. In fact, you would probably need counselling.
No, no you can't go into the fitting room with your wife/girlfriend/significant other. I am sorry. You'll have to wait til you get home. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think on it for a moment & get back to me.
No, I will not try that on for you.
Yes, if you are a sixteen-year-old boy and come in to ask for a job application, your friends waiting outside in the mall will think you're the shit. And those giggling girls will think you're so cool, you might even get laid.
We call them "Peek-a-Boo" panties because it is considered more Brand-Appropriate than "Crotchless," but yes, we do sell them. As a fine gentleman friend of mine recently observed, "But it's not like they're looking at you or something." Actually yes, yes it is exactly like that.
02 May 2006
Visitor's Pass
I'm going back to the Twin Cities for four days next week, and I can't figure out what to do with myself. I never know what to do when I go back to visit places I lived for any length of time. Most of my grad school friends have cleared out, and it seems silly to drive six hours so I can lie in the grass at Como.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
30 April 2006
(No) Thank You, Easter Bunny
I did not get any Easter candy this year. More specifically, I did not remember to go out and buy myself Cadbury Eggs. Oh how I enjoy a good Cadbury Egg! A 4-pack of those & about a half gallon of milk & I'm anybody's. Yet, somehow this year I was so focused on losing the last four pounds of baby weight that I totally blew off that bok-bok-ing bunny. Truth be told, Easter morning I would have settled for any kind of chocolate. Isn't that our Traditional Christian Breakfast on the Holy Day? 'Course I haven't been to church in awhile. And I'm a Methodist, so I don't even know if that counts, really.
I realize I'm almost 34 years old, but--perhaps selfishly, unrealistically--I had hoped that my mother-in-law or other relative, in their blind unthinking love for my son, would put a little chocolate of some sort in his Easter basket. No such luck. Grandma Lee got Lucas a respectable robin's-egg-blue plastic easter basket containing a cute little stuffed bunny and a package of Peeps for my husband. My parents didn't even get Lucas--their first and only grandchild mind you, who is named in part after my father--a basket at all. This not only cheated me of eating the baby's chocolate, but also of tsking them for buying candy for a 10-month-old who isn't even allowed fruit juice. But I digress.
So early Monday morning, as soon as Lucas was up and decent, we set out in search of clearance Cadbury Eggs. Surely somebody had some left? First stop, the Hy-Vee grocery store nearest our house. Nothing. Next we tried Walgreen's. No luck. Then we stopped at Home Depot (no eggs there, but their pansies were lovely). Finally, out of desperation, and as the shot clock was winding down to the baby's nap time, it hit me. What about Wal-Mart? It was right there next to Home Depot afterall. Surely if anyone had leftover Eggs, it would be the Big W.
Now those of you who know me well understand immediately the desperate state of my psyche that I would even suggest a trip to Wal-Mart, let alone follow through on the threat. I freaking hate Wal-Mart. I hate what they stand for and all that they represent. And okay, fine, I resent that often they DO have the Lowest Prices Everyday. But on this day, even Wal-Mart didn't have what I was looking for. I did, however, find a Solid Milk Chocolate Cadbury Bunny for 50% off, which I immediately decided to purchase and consume in the name of self-medication.
After coughing up $1.96 in bunny ransom I pushed our cart--baby, bunny, and all--toward the nearest exit. As we neared the freedom of the automatic doors, a security sensor sounded repeatedly alerting the small elderly greeter person who immediately scurried over to see what was in my sack. She was a compact woman with tight curls of artificially dark hair and little dark-rimmed glasses that she wore on a chain around her neck.
"Do you have any electronics?" she asked, putting on her glasses to peer curiously into my plastic bag.
"I...have a chocolate bunny?" I offered. And then I said what all good thieves say as they steal expensive computer books from Barnes & Noble, "And my cell phone, of course." I don't know what posessed me to say this. While it's true that I did have my cell phone, I don't know what, if anything, that has to do with setting off Wal-Mart's security sensors. But I felt like I had to say something, and this, apparently, was good enough for her.
"Ohh," she said decidedly, raising a single, gnarled finger into the air as she shuffled back to her post, nodding, "That's probably what it is."
"Okay," I said, "Have a good one."
And just like that (poof) we were gone.
I realize I'm almost 34 years old, but--perhaps selfishly, unrealistically--I had hoped that my mother-in-law or other relative, in their blind unthinking love for my son, would put a little chocolate of some sort in his Easter basket. No such luck. Grandma Lee got Lucas a respectable robin's-egg-blue plastic easter basket containing a cute little stuffed bunny and a package of Peeps for my husband. My parents didn't even get Lucas--their first and only grandchild mind you, who is named in part after my father--a basket at all. This not only cheated me of eating the baby's chocolate, but also of tsking them for buying candy for a 10-month-old who isn't even allowed fruit juice. But I digress.
So early Monday morning, as soon as Lucas was up and decent, we set out in search of clearance Cadbury Eggs. Surely somebody had some left? First stop, the Hy-Vee grocery store nearest our house. Nothing. Next we tried Walgreen's. No luck. Then we stopped at Home Depot (no eggs there, but their pansies were lovely). Finally, out of desperation, and as the shot clock was winding down to the baby's nap time, it hit me. What about Wal-Mart? It was right there next to Home Depot afterall. Surely if anyone had leftover Eggs, it would be the Big W.
Now those of you who know me well understand immediately the desperate state of my psyche that I would even suggest a trip to Wal-Mart, let alone follow through on the threat. I freaking hate Wal-Mart. I hate what they stand for and all that they represent. And okay, fine, I resent that often they DO have the Lowest Prices Everyday. But on this day, even Wal-Mart didn't have what I was looking for. I did, however, find a Solid Milk Chocolate Cadbury Bunny for 50% off, which I immediately decided to purchase and consume in the name of self-medication.
After coughing up $1.96 in bunny ransom I pushed our cart--baby, bunny, and all--toward the nearest exit. As we neared the freedom of the automatic doors, a security sensor sounded repeatedly alerting the small elderly greeter person who immediately scurried over to see what was in my sack. She was a compact woman with tight curls of artificially dark hair and little dark-rimmed glasses that she wore on a chain around her neck.
"Do you have any electronics?" she asked, putting on her glasses to peer curiously into my plastic bag.
"I...have a chocolate bunny?" I offered. And then I said what all good thieves say as they steal expensive computer books from Barnes & Noble, "And my cell phone, of course." I don't know what posessed me to say this. While it's true that I did have my cell phone, I don't know what, if anything, that has to do with setting off Wal-Mart's security sensors. But I felt like I had to say something, and this, apparently, was good enough for her.
"Ohh," she said decidedly, raising a single, gnarled finger into the air as she shuffled back to her post, nodding, "That's probably what it is."
"Okay," I said, "Have a good one."
And just like that (poof) we were gone.
28 April 2006
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
What follows in an excerpt from Diana Olson's book, Nighttime, Bedtime: Stories for Children (1stBooks, 2002). I am defying the book's warning, "No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent from the author." As a fellow writer, I feel that Diana's work deserves to be "out there" for a wider audience to enjoy. Her stories are most entertaining when read aloud in the spirit of dramatic recitation. Just a couple of points to make before we begin. First, please assume that all--oh what shall we call them--"errors" perhaps, are [sic] unless otherwise specified. Also, I have provided [bracketed] commentary when warranted.
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
[I will double-space her page breaks so as not to lose the overall flow of the story.]
There once lived a mystical ballerina, named Deanna.
["Mystical ballerina?" You mean, like a "stripper?"]
She lived in two worlds, A part of her world was a kingdom.
The other part of her world was mystical!
[Apparently her "kingdom" was more reality-based.]
There were people called nobles, They lived in the blackhills.
[They lived in western South Dakota.]
They had escaped from King Richards of the kingdom of the greens, because they were in non-payment of there taxes.
[They thought they were in Montana.]
They were trying to take over King Richards thrown but when they threaten to fight King Richards and his honored people of the kingdom of the greens.
Something very mystical would happen Deanna the ballerina!
She would turn into a black cougar and scare them away.
[She did her goth number and nobody tipped.]
Deanna was defiantly special!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
When King Richards would have celebrations, King Richards would always send for Deanna the mystical ballerina in a carriage.
[When King Richards threw parties, he sent a limo to pick up the stripper.]
Deanna even seemed to light shinny stars!
[So shinny!]
She would make them a little bit brighter.
[Her costume really caught the strobe.]
When she danced for King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens.
King Richards was unwedded and looking for a bride.
[King Richards was no stranger to VIP.]
Oh how the ballerina longed for him.
[Oh how she longed for him.]
One rain storm day King Richards called, For his carriage, and his horsemen to take him to the valley of the sun's arising!
Where he loved to fish!
[What?!]
The ballerina Deanna happen to be there.
[No way!]
They took glances at each other, They fell in-love.
Suddenly Deanna leaves in a storm.
[It either began to rain or he said something that pissed her off.]
Then King Richards is captured by the nobles of the black hills.
King Richards was gone for days days became weeks!
Deanna became worried so!
[She was worried so!]
The people of the Kingdom of the greens worried and talked where could King Richards be?
[He suffers from pleurisy and needs his medication.]
Then shinny stars shined over Deanna.
She had rememberd about the nobles fighting with King Richards.
[Aha!]
Deanna used her mystical powers and turned into a black cougar.
She jumped valleys, she jumped mountains.
[Ain't no river wide enough, etc.]
Until she found King Richards tied around a tree!
[Not tied to a tree, mind you. He actually formed his own knot. Exclamation!]
She pulled the horsemen to King Richards to save King Richards!
[She...huh?]
King Richards was dazed!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens arrested the nobles of the blackhills!
They put them in a cell!
[Apparently, according to the illustration, in a building marked Cell, which was no doubt quite crowded, chock full of nobles and all.]
Then King Richards called for a celebration and sent for Deanna the mystical ballerina.
[1-866-Mys-tcal]
She then came into the ballroom in pink and white.
[For her oft-requested "Barbie Girl" number.]
The stars were then brighter.
[There were many sequins.]
Once again she danced with King Richards.
[$20]
He asked for her hand in marriage.
She said yes!
[Yes!]
They lived happily in the Kingdom of the greens forever!
The end.
[Another time, perhaps, we'll read Sammy, the Chinese Clock...]
*Diana Olson works as a Dietetic Assistant in a hospital and has two sons. She is also the author of a western novel, Sundance in the Eve, which for whatever reason is available both online and at Barnes & Noble stores nationwide.
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
[I will double-space her page breaks so as not to lose the overall flow of the story.]
There once lived a mystical ballerina, named Deanna.
["Mystical ballerina?" You mean, like a "stripper?"]
She lived in two worlds, A part of her world was a kingdom.
The other part of her world was mystical!
[Apparently her "kingdom" was more reality-based.]
There were people called nobles, They lived in the blackhills.
[They lived in western South Dakota.]
They had escaped from King Richards of the kingdom of the greens, because they were in non-payment of there taxes.
[They thought they were in Montana.]
They were trying to take over King Richards thrown but when they threaten to fight King Richards and his honored people of the kingdom of the greens.
Something very mystical would happen Deanna the ballerina!
She would turn into a black cougar and scare them away.
[She did her goth number and nobody tipped.]
Deanna was defiantly special!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
When King Richards would have celebrations, King Richards would always send for Deanna the mystical ballerina in a carriage.
[When King Richards threw parties, he sent a limo to pick up the stripper.]
Deanna even seemed to light shinny stars!
[So shinny!]
She would make them a little bit brighter.
[Her costume really caught the strobe.]
When she danced for King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens.
King Richards was unwedded and looking for a bride.
[King Richards was no stranger to VIP.]
Oh how the ballerina longed for him.
[Oh how she longed for him.]
One rain storm day King Richards called, For his carriage, and his horsemen to take him to the valley of the sun's arising!
Where he loved to fish!
[What?!]
The ballerina Deanna happen to be there.
[No way!]
They took glances at each other, They fell in-love.
Suddenly Deanna leaves in a storm.
[It either began to rain or he said something that pissed her off.]
Then King Richards is captured by the nobles of the black hills.
King Richards was gone for days days became weeks!
Deanna became worried so!
[She was worried so!]
The people of the Kingdom of the greens worried and talked where could King Richards be?
[He suffers from pleurisy and needs his medication.]
Then shinny stars shined over Deanna.
She had rememberd about the nobles fighting with King Richards.
[Aha!]
Deanna used her mystical powers and turned into a black cougar.
She jumped valleys, she jumped mountains.
[Ain't no river wide enough, etc.]
Until she found King Richards tied around a tree!
[Not tied to a tree, mind you. He actually formed his own knot. Exclamation!]
She pulled the horsemen to King Richards to save King Richards!
[She...huh?]
King Richards was dazed!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens arrested the nobles of the blackhills!
They put them in a cell!
[Apparently, according to the illustration, in a building marked Cell, which was no doubt quite crowded, chock full of nobles and all.]
Then King Richards called for a celebration and sent for Deanna the mystical ballerina.
[1-866-Mys-tcal]
She then came into the ballroom in pink and white.
[For her oft-requested "Barbie Girl" number.]
The stars were then brighter.
[There were many sequins.]
Once again she danced with King Richards.
[$20]
He asked for her hand in marriage.
She said yes!
[Yes!]
They lived happily in the Kingdom of the greens forever!
The end.
[Another time, perhaps, we'll read Sammy, the Chinese Clock...]
*Diana Olson works as a Dietetic Assistant in a hospital and has two sons. She is also the author of a western novel, Sundance in the Eve, which for whatever reason is available both online and at Barnes & Noble stores nationwide.
Somebody Asked
if I would post a poem of mine this month, and I just realized I've been putting it off long enough that I'm about to run out of month (oops). So here. It's older (2003), but it won this little ekphrastic writing thingy at the U. Anyway--
Cynthia in the Bedroom
is dreaming again--a lover's mouth
pressed to her knee, bedclothes' green
velvet rustle. In the next room
a record needle slips, slips, forgotten.
It has been snowing for hours.
In her healing dream, Cynthia herself
is a painter--Spotted Horse Mural,
Meditation on a Woman Bathing
hang in her grown son's apartment
years after her death. In the lamplight
she is perfect, elegant face painted
into the hair's dark frame.
How she wants to be remembered
this way, before cancer's compromise.
Lips almost parted, throat rising.
On the nightstand a single, vibrant
flower's jealous heart.
[based on Cynthia in the Bedroom, a painting by Tom Wesselmann, 1981]
Cynthia in the Bedroom
is dreaming again--a lover's mouth
pressed to her knee, bedclothes' green
velvet rustle. In the next room
a record needle slips, slips, forgotten.
It has been snowing for hours.
In her healing dream, Cynthia herself
is a painter--Spotted Horse Mural,
Meditation on a Woman Bathing
hang in her grown son's apartment
years after her death. In the lamplight
she is perfect, elegant face painted
into the hair's dark frame.
How she wants to be remembered
this way, before cancer's compromise.
Lips almost parted, throat rising.
On the nightstand a single, vibrant
flower's jealous heart.
[based on Cynthia in the Bedroom, a painting by Tom Wesselmann, 1981]
23 April 2006
Pome
From Rebecca Wee's Uncertain Grace:
hoop snake
Any of several snakes, such as the mud snake, said to grasp the tail in
the mouth and move with a rolling, hooplike motion
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY OF THE
ENGLISH LANGUAGE
the second time we met
he told me about the hoop snake
(temporal, exquisite,
a godless man
so I listened)
we weren't sure though
if it could be true
a snake that takes its tail in its mouth,
then rolls through the world
but there are reasons to believe in god
and this seems a good one
we brought wine to the porch, spoke
of piety, marriage,
devotion assumed for reasons
that could not sustain it
while lightning took apart the sky
the fields leapt up the stream's
muddy lustre its sinuous length
liminal, lush, the grass black
the unheard melodies and those that catch
the leaves beginning to fret
I don't remember now what he said his eyes
revising that dark
after he left I walked through the grass the rain
asked how do things work?
we are after something miraculous
we open our mouths we believe
we turn
at times
we gather speed
hoop snake
Any of several snakes, such as the mud snake, said to grasp the tail in
the mouth and move with a rolling, hooplike motion
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY OF THE
ENGLISH LANGUAGE
the second time we met
he told me about the hoop snake
(temporal, exquisite,
a godless man
so I listened)
we weren't sure though
if it could be true
a snake that takes its tail in its mouth,
then rolls through the world
but there are reasons to believe in god
and this seems a good one
we brought wine to the porch, spoke
of piety, marriage,
devotion assumed for reasons
that could not sustain it
while lightning took apart the sky
the fields leapt up the stream's
muddy lustre its sinuous length
liminal, lush, the grass black
the unheard melodies and those that catch
the leaves beginning to fret
I don't remember now what he said his eyes
revising that dark
after he left I walked through the grass the rain
asked how do things work?
we are after something miraculous
we open our mouths we believe
we turn
at times
we gather speed
21 April 2006
Hi, My Name is Jonene...and I'm a Registered Republican.
[All: Hi, Jonene!]
No, I have not lost my mind. I did not hit my head. Please do not call 9-1-1. I joined The Grand Old Party in order to vote in our upcoming gubernatorial primary, because the only real race at this point is who will win the Republican nomination for Nebraska Governor, and the Big Issue on the table is that wonderful school district consolidation/split question that has graced national headlines: Omaha School District To Be Split Down Racial Lines.
We are so proud.
So for a few weeks I'm red-state. Just until I can vote for the guy who helped Crazy Ernie's bill pass into law. I am all for the splitting of OPS. The fact that it may occur "down racial lines" has to do with local schools and demographics more than the featured articles imply. Southeast Omaha is primarily Latino, Northeast Omaha is historically African-American, and Northwest Omaha is mostly Caucasian. Unless you split the Florida-shaped OPS district into horizontal stripes, it's going to be racially split if it's divided. Welcome to Omaha.
Anyway. Without getting into it completely, last year the Omaha Public School District set in motion a plan to annex our district (Millard) and another under their "One City, One District" plan. The Millard District, as a whole, consistently ranks better on standardized tests and overall performance than OPS (smaller districts tend to fare, on average, better than larger, super-districts). Those of us who live in Millard pay higher property taxes, in large part, to support the Millard School District. In fact, we recently passed a bond issue to raise our taxes yet again in order to facilitate the building of new schools and the updating of existing ones in order to keep up with rapid enrollment growth. The view from the Millard side of the issue--OPS wants access to our tax base, although they've never admitted as much.
Now that Senator Ernie's suggestion has come about--Divide the OPS District into 3 smaller districts, thereby increasing local control and creating a cooperative learning community (that would include the Millard and other districts) where children could attend whatever school they wanted to, OPS cries, "Racism!" [Those of you familiar with Ernie Chambers have to appreciate the irony. If you don't know who he is, Google an image.] I mean, if they don't absorb our school district, where are they gonna get their money? Geez, it's not like they could talk their constituents into passing a bond issue to raise their taxes to help improve the schools or something. That'd just be stupid.
So yes, fine. Call me what you will, but I'm voting for Governor Dave, who all along has been telling OPS to sit down & stop whining. Besides, a vote for Dave is a vote against Coach Tom, which is another story entirely (rumors of Blue Laws abound). As the yard signs on my block say:
Save Our Schools!
Millard Forever!
(Is the primary over yet?)
No, I have not lost my mind. I did not hit my head. Please do not call 9-1-1. I joined The Grand Old Party in order to vote in our upcoming gubernatorial primary, because the only real race at this point is who will win the Republican nomination for Nebraska Governor, and the Big Issue on the table is that wonderful school district consolidation/split question that has graced national headlines: Omaha School District To Be Split Down Racial Lines.
We are so proud.
So for a few weeks I'm red-state. Just until I can vote for the guy who helped Crazy Ernie's bill pass into law. I am all for the splitting of OPS. The fact that it may occur "down racial lines" has to do with local schools and demographics more than the featured articles imply. Southeast Omaha is primarily Latino, Northeast Omaha is historically African-American, and Northwest Omaha is mostly Caucasian. Unless you split the Florida-shaped OPS district into horizontal stripes, it's going to be racially split if it's divided. Welcome to Omaha.
Anyway. Without getting into it completely, last year the Omaha Public School District set in motion a plan to annex our district (Millard) and another under their "One City, One District" plan. The Millard District, as a whole, consistently ranks better on standardized tests and overall performance than OPS (smaller districts tend to fare, on average, better than larger, super-districts). Those of us who live in Millard pay higher property taxes, in large part, to support the Millard School District. In fact, we recently passed a bond issue to raise our taxes yet again in order to facilitate the building of new schools and the updating of existing ones in order to keep up with rapid enrollment growth. The view from the Millard side of the issue--OPS wants access to our tax base, although they've never admitted as much.
Now that Senator Ernie's suggestion has come about--Divide the OPS District into 3 smaller districts, thereby increasing local control and creating a cooperative learning community (that would include the Millard and other districts) where children could attend whatever school they wanted to, OPS cries, "Racism!" [Those of you familiar with Ernie Chambers have to appreciate the irony. If you don't know who he is, Google an image.] I mean, if they don't absorb our school district, where are they gonna get their money? Geez, it's not like they could talk their constituents into passing a bond issue to raise their taxes to help improve the schools or something. That'd just be stupid.
So yes, fine. Call me what you will, but I'm voting for Governor Dave, who all along has been telling OPS to sit down & stop whining. Besides, a vote for Dave is a vote against Coach Tom, which is another story entirely (rumors of Blue Laws abound). As the yard signs on my block say:
Save Our Schools!
Millard Forever!
(Is the primary over yet?)
19 April 2006
16 April 2006
Hi Atus
A poem from the late Kenneth Koch:
To My Twenties
How lucky that I ran into you
When everything was possible
For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart
And so happy to see any woman--
O woman! O my twentieth year!
Basking in you, you
Oasis from both growing and decay
Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis
A palm tree, hey! And then another
And another--and water!
I'm still very impressed by you. Whither,
Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow,
Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable
For the moment in any case, do you live now?
From my window I drop a nickel
By mistake. With
You I race down to get it
But I find there on
The street instead, a good friend,
X_____ N_____, who says to me
Kenneth do you have a minute?
And I say yes! I am in my twenties!
I have plenty of time! In you I marry,
In you I first go to France; I make my best friends
In you, and a few enemies. I
Write a lot and am living all the time
And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you
After my teens and before my thirties.
You three together in a bar
I always preferred you because you were midmost
Most lustrous apparently strongest
Although now that I look back on you
What part have you played?
You never, ever, were stingy.
What you gave me you gave whole
But as for telling
Me how best to use it
You weren't a genius at that.
Twenties, my soul
Is yours for the asking
You know that, if ever you come back.
To My Twenties
How lucky that I ran into you
When everything was possible
For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart
And so happy to see any woman--
O woman! O my twentieth year!
Basking in you, you
Oasis from both growing and decay
Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis
A palm tree, hey! And then another
And another--and water!
I'm still very impressed by you. Whither,
Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow,
Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable
For the moment in any case, do you live now?
From my window I drop a nickel
By mistake. With
You I race down to get it
But I find there on
The street instead, a good friend,
X_____ N_____, who says to me
Kenneth do you have a minute?
And I say yes! I am in my twenties!
I have plenty of time! In you I marry,
In you I first go to France; I make my best friends
In you, and a few enemies. I
Write a lot and am living all the time
And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you
After my teens and before my thirties.
You three together in a bar
I always preferred you because you were midmost
Most lustrous apparently strongest
Although now that I look back on you
What part have you played?
You never, ever, were stingy.
What you gave me you gave whole
But as for telling
Me how best to use it
You weren't a genius at that.
Twenties, my soul
Is yours for the asking
You know that, if ever you come back.
10 April 2006
1-800-Service
That tears it. As I sat down a few moments ago to start this post, this rant, if you will, the phone rang again. A glutton for punishment, I answered in spite of the fact that the call--for the 6th time today--came up 1-800-Service.
"Hello?" Me.
Pause while information comes up on computer.
"HelLOo?" Still me.
"Oh, Mr. Lee?"
"No, this is Jonene."
"Is this Mrs. Lee?"
Oh what the hell, "Sure."
"Hi, Mrs. Lee, this is [somebody] with [some kind of children's cancer charity] and we were just calling to thank you for [something you didn't actually do, which is contribute money to these children, "most of whom have less than a year to live," so that they can go to Disney World or some shit]. We just wanted to make sure [that you will send us the same imaginary money you did last year or] something else I wasn't really listening to."
"Look," I began, "I don't mean to be rude, but this is the sixth separate charity call we've gotten today. We aren't donating ANY money at this time."
"That's not rude," she said (obviously not privy to my internal dialogue), "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too," I said.
Since nine a.m. today I have answered six calls from charities. All of them have asked for Ron (read: Mr. Lee), which is funny because last I knew the only people he occasionally gave money to were the State Highway Patrol Policeman's Ball Fund (or whatever the hell that one is) and the Republican Party. [Sidebar: Ron's financial support of the Republican Party came to an abrupt halt when he received his pledge return envelope addressed to "Ronald Van Meter." Oops. Of course, the only reason they got to him in the first place was that Ron answered the phone once when they called asking to speak with me, at which point he informed them that they might want to take me off their call list, what with me being a registered Democrat and all. Apparently the stupid runs down hill, too.]
Anyway, we've learned the hard way that giving a little here or there means that suddenly everyone will try to solicit you all the time. Blood in the water. In 2005 I gave small amounts to the American Red Cross and Habitat for Humanity. I sent $25 to the University of Minnesota (the first money I have ever contributed to any alma mater). I bought 12 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and 1 tin of caramel corn from a little Boy Scout (Weeblo?) who was hauling them around the neighborhood in a red wagon. Oh, and I stuck a couple bucks and some change in the Salvation Army kettle at the grocery store.
I am sorry that bald children need money for wigs and trips to Disneyland, that the policemen/firefighters/state patrol need dance captains or money to keep at-risk kids off the streets. I do not wish to give money to politicians regardless of party affiliation. I do not want to buy random knick-knacks or overpriced candy to help keep juvies out of jail. I do not need buyer protection for my credit card, nor do I wish to take advantage of any other offers for which I qualify as a valued customer. And although I appreciate the gesture, I really don't need anymore free address labels or Personalized Bear Cub Notepads. And I have never even heard of the TelecomPioneers although apparently, according to their latest mailing, "When people in Nebraska call for help--the TelecomPioneers are always ready to answer!" Who knew?
Bottom line is I ain't got no money, honey. I quit big-girl job to raise son and work part-time for paltry hourly wage. Current Discretionary Income, Zero Dollars. And honestly if I did have money right now, I would probably use it to buy a couple of Korean Boxwoods to plant in the dirt bed out front where I prematurely tore out all the river rock. Please make checks payable to : The Front Yard Fund to Benefit Dirt Piles That May Otherwise Remain Baked And Clumpy All Summer.
For your convenience, we also accept PayPal.
"Hello?" Me.
Pause while information comes up on computer.
"HelLOo?" Still me.
"Oh, Mr. Lee?"
"No, this is Jonene."
"Is this Mrs. Lee?"
Oh what the hell, "Sure."
"Hi, Mrs. Lee, this is [somebody] with [some kind of children's cancer charity] and we were just calling to thank you for [something you didn't actually do, which is contribute money to these children, "most of whom have less than a year to live," so that they can go to Disney World or some shit]. We just wanted to make sure [that you will send us the same imaginary money you did last year or] something else I wasn't really listening to."
"Look," I began, "I don't mean to be rude, but this is the sixth separate charity call we've gotten today. We aren't donating ANY money at this time."
"That's not rude," she said (obviously not privy to my internal dialogue), "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too," I said.
Since nine a.m. today I have answered six calls from charities. All of them have asked for Ron (read: Mr. Lee), which is funny because last I knew the only people he occasionally gave money to were the State Highway Patrol Policeman's Ball Fund (or whatever the hell that one is) and the Republican Party. [Sidebar: Ron's financial support of the Republican Party came to an abrupt halt when he received his pledge return envelope addressed to "Ronald Van Meter." Oops. Of course, the only reason they got to him in the first place was that Ron answered the phone once when they called asking to speak with me, at which point he informed them that they might want to take me off their call list, what with me being a registered Democrat and all. Apparently the stupid runs down hill, too.]
Anyway, we've learned the hard way that giving a little here or there means that suddenly everyone will try to solicit you all the time. Blood in the water. In 2005 I gave small amounts to the American Red Cross and Habitat for Humanity. I sent $25 to the University of Minnesota (the first money I have ever contributed to any alma mater). I bought 12 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and 1 tin of caramel corn from a little Boy Scout (Weeblo?) who was hauling them around the neighborhood in a red wagon. Oh, and I stuck a couple bucks and some change in the Salvation Army kettle at the grocery store.
I am sorry that bald children need money for wigs and trips to Disneyland, that the policemen/firefighters/state patrol need dance captains or money to keep at-risk kids off the streets. I do not wish to give money to politicians regardless of party affiliation. I do not want to buy random knick-knacks or overpriced candy to help keep juvies out of jail. I do not need buyer protection for my credit card, nor do I wish to take advantage of any other offers for which I qualify as a valued customer. And although I appreciate the gesture, I really don't need anymore free address labels or Personalized Bear Cub Notepads. And I have never even heard of the TelecomPioneers although apparently, according to their latest mailing, "When people in Nebraska call for help--the TelecomPioneers are always ready to answer!" Who knew?
Bottom line is I ain't got no money, honey. I quit big-girl job to raise son and work part-time for paltry hourly wage. Current Discretionary Income, Zero Dollars. And honestly if I did have money right now, I would probably use it to buy a couple of Korean Boxwoods to plant in the dirt bed out front where I prematurely tore out all the river rock. Please make checks payable to : The Front Yard Fund to Benefit Dirt Piles That May Otherwise Remain Baked And Clumpy All Summer.
For your convenience, we also accept PayPal.
09 April 2006
Indeed
Some timeless words of wisdom from Gerald Stern, from his book Lovesick, published in 1987:
Lillian Harvey
This is lovesick for you--Charles Koechlin
covering his paper with tears, he shushes his wife
and his children, he is crying for Lillian Harvey--
or this is lovesick--sending his wife to meet her,
he is too shy to go, and he is married;
when she comes back he asks a thousand questions:
What was she wearing? Does she like his music?
How old did she look? Was she like her photograph?
But he never met her, she whose face haunted him,
although he wrote a hundred and thirteen compositions
for her, including two Albums for Lillian,
and he wrote a film scenario and score,
which he imagined, fantastically,
would star the two of them. He was himself
twice in America, both times in California,
but they couldn't meet--it would be a violation.
I know that agony myself, I stood
on one foot or another four or five times
and burned with shame and shook with terror. You never
go yourself. I know he must have waited
outside her house, a crazy man, he must have
dialed her number a hundred times, even risked
his life for her. But you never go, you never
stand there smiling--he never stood there smiling,
he never reached his hand inside her dress,
he never touched her nipple, he never pressed
his mouth against her knee or lifted her thighs.
For she was the muse. You never fuck the muse.
Lillian Harvey
This is lovesick for you--Charles Koechlin
covering his paper with tears, he shushes his wife
and his children, he is crying for Lillian Harvey--
or this is lovesick--sending his wife to meet her,
he is too shy to go, and he is married;
when she comes back he asks a thousand questions:
What was she wearing? Does she like his music?
How old did she look? Was she like her photograph?
But he never met her, she whose face haunted him,
although he wrote a hundred and thirteen compositions
for her, including two Albums for Lillian,
and he wrote a film scenario and score,
which he imagined, fantastically,
would star the two of them. He was himself
twice in America, both times in California,
but they couldn't meet--it would be a violation.
I know that agony myself, I stood
on one foot or another four or five times
and burned with shame and shook with terror. You never
go yourself. I know he must have waited
outside her house, a crazy man, he must have
dialed her number a hundred times, even risked
his life for her. But you never go, you never
stand there smiling--he never stood there smiling,
he never reached his hand inside her dress,
he never touched her nipple, he never pressed
his mouth against her knee or lifted her thighs.
For she was the muse. You never fuck the muse.
08 April 2006
Say My Name
Lucas, at 9 1/2 months, has entered a phase of enthusiastic babbling, "Dadadadada," he says, and, "Phblblblhth," [a phoenetic raspberry, near as I can figure]. Sometimes he becomes so obsessed with these variant raspberries that I find him leaning against his little keyboard concentrating, brow furrowed, spitting a steady stream of drool onto the carpet, "Blblblblblbl...Thfffffff..." he says, and so on.
Although I'm doing my best not to take it personally, Lucas has yet to make the "Mmm" sound, which means he doesn't yet say, "Mama." I understand, at this age, that even his "Dadada" is mostly just a sound. He doesn't really mean "Dad" anymore than he means "concentric circles," "cat," or "rhinoplasty." Still, there are moments it kind of gets to me.
Last night, for example, the three of us were on our way home in the car. "Lucas," I called to the back seat, "Say, 'Mama.'" Silence. "Say, 'Mama...Mama,'" I urged.
Nothing, then the rattle of plastic keys, then, "Dadadada."
I glanced over at my husband, who, although offering me a sympathetic pat on the knee, was trying not to laugh. "See?" I said, exasperated.
My husband shrugged, "Come on," he smiled, "he doesn't actually know what he's saying."
"Oh, I know," I lied, "but still." I sat for a few moments. "Lucas," I tried again, "Say, 'Mama. Mamamamama...Mamamamama.'"
"Phblblblfth!" Lucas giggled from the back, flinging his keys into the front seat.
"Maybe he thinks he's saying 'Mama?'" Ron offered. "You know how he shakes his head 'No' when he thinks he's nodding, right? Maybe this is like that..."
I briefly entertained that possibility. Currently, if you nod your head at Lucas, he breaks into a big, dimpled grin and shakes his head as if to say, "Nooo." At first we thought he was being contrary, but then we realized that he thinks he's imitating us, kind of the way his pat-a-cake claps more often resemble wings flapping. "Whatever," I said, finally. I had to laugh. If nothing else, the kid has great timing.
According to my own baby book, "At 13 months [Jonene] says, Da-da, Ma-ma, and Bow-bow-bow. At 1 1/2 [she] is really trying to talk...Her 'Mommy,' 'Daddy,' and 'Nene' are so cute! She mostly says first syllables so cracker, cookie and color sound a lot alike...At 2 years (& before some) she says the alphabet, Pledge of Allegiance, and counts to about 15 or 16. Everyone remarks that she talks a lot or fast."
Reading the first part of this makes me feel better. I was 4 months older than Lucas is now by the time I had the "Mama/Dada" thing down. And I guess that instead of "Bow-bow-bow" Lucas will likely learn a feline equivalent of some sort. Maybe, "Mow-mow-mow?" More probably it'll be, "Bad Beans!" or "Ba Bee!" as the case may be. We'll see.
I'll have to ask my parents, however, how (read: Why?) "Bow-bow-bow" morphed so quickly into "The Pledge of Allegiance." Although I guess it was the early 70s, so it was probably either that or the lyrics to "Rhiannon." Hey, maybe that was my third year milestone? The book doesn't say.
Although I'm doing my best not to take it personally, Lucas has yet to make the "Mmm" sound, which means he doesn't yet say, "Mama." I understand, at this age, that even his "Dadada" is mostly just a sound. He doesn't really mean "Dad" anymore than he means "concentric circles," "cat," or "rhinoplasty." Still, there are moments it kind of gets to me.
Last night, for example, the three of us were on our way home in the car. "Lucas," I called to the back seat, "Say, 'Mama.'" Silence. "Say, 'Mama...Mama,'" I urged.
Nothing, then the rattle of plastic keys, then, "Dadadada."
I glanced over at my husband, who, although offering me a sympathetic pat on the knee, was trying not to laugh. "See?" I said, exasperated.
My husband shrugged, "Come on," he smiled, "he doesn't actually know what he's saying."
"Oh, I know," I lied, "but still." I sat for a few moments. "Lucas," I tried again, "Say, 'Mama. Mamamamama...Mamamamama.'"
"Phblblblfth!" Lucas giggled from the back, flinging his keys into the front seat.
"Maybe he thinks he's saying 'Mama?'" Ron offered. "You know how he shakes his head 'No' when he thinks he's nodding, right? Maybe this is like that..."
I briefly entertained that possibility. Currently, if you nod your head at Lucas, he breaks into a big, dimpled grin and shakes his head as if to say, "Nooo." At first we thought he was being contrary, but then we realized that he thinks he's imitating us, kind of the way his pat-a-cake claps more often resemble wings flapping. "Whatever," I said, finally. I had to laugh. If nothing else, the kid has great timing.
According to my own baby book, "At 13 months [Jonene] says, Da-da, Ma-ma, and Bow-bow-bow. At 1 1/2 [she] is really trying to talk...Her 'Mommy,' 'Daddy,' and 'Nene' are so cute! She mostly says first syllables so cracker, cookie and color sound a lot alike...At 2 years (& before some) she says the alphabet, Pledge of Allegiance, and counts to about 15 or 16. Everyone remarks that she talks a lot or fast."
Reading the first part of this makes me feel better. I was 4 months older than Lucas is now by the time I had the "Mama/Dada" thing down. And I guess that instead of "Bow-bow-bow" Lucas will likely learn a feline equivalent of some sort. Maybe, "Mow-mow-mow?" More probably it'll be, "Bad Beans!" or "Ba Bee!" as the case may be. We'll see.
I'll have to ask my parents, however, how (read: Why?) "Bow-bow-bow" morphed so quickly into "The Pledge of Allegiance." Although I guess it was the early 70s, so it was probably either that or the lyrics to "Rhiannon." Hey, maybe that was my third year milestone? The book doesn't say.
07 April 2006
Post Script
Thanks to everyone who has emailed me forgiveness for stealing their shit.
I am also happy to report that the filing cabinet yielded nothing.
I am also happy to report that the filing cabinet yielded nothing.
Old School
From Frank O'Hara
Poem
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in hollywod
there is no rain in california
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
Poem
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in hollywod
there is no rain in california
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
05 April 2006
April is National Poetry Month.
And while I can't promise a poem a day, I'm going to try to post some of my favorites throughout the month. Enjoy.
From Ninety-five Nights of Listening by Malinda Markham:
Postcard--Without Grace
Mosquitoes unstrung the night. Twice sleep broke,
you said, Enough. Then the night--
And the many of waiting three hours for headlights
and swift, thorough sleep. Who knows
what can be understood later from this, my hair grayed
at the nape, nails growing like roots in the dark.
The apartment above opened and closed
all night: The hinge spoke. Once I told you
everything I knew in a language
you did not speak. This is love, is division,
a pile of memories catalogued like stars.
What seems to burn a trick of time,
of loss. From this angle I remember you best
and which photo most resembles--
Trees smell differently this many miles away.
When you call there are sirens, machinery
neither can name. From here on, history is nothing
but waiting. The background
panoramic, larger than life. From this far away,
which speck are you. I am this one, I'm sure. I am here.
From Ninety-five Nights of Listening by Malinda Markham:
Postcard--Without Grace
Mosquitoes unstrung the night. Twice sleep broke,
you said, Enough. Then the night--
And the many of waiting three hours for headlights
and swift, thorough sleep. Who knows
what can be understood later from this, my hair grayed
at the nape, nails growing like roots in the dark.
The apartment above opened and closed
all night: The hinge spoke. Once I told you
everything I knew in a language
you did not speak. This is love, is division,
a pile of memories catalogued like stars.
What seems to burn a trick of time,
of loss. From this angle I remember you best
and which photo most resembles--
Trees smell differently this many miles away.
When you call there are sirens, machinery
neither can name. From here on, history is nothing
but waiting. The background
panoramic, larger than life. From this far away,
which speck are you. I am this one, I'm sure. I am here.
02 April 2006
Paranoia Blues
Today did not get off to the best start. Somehow during the night I inadvertently turned the monitor all the way down, so when I woke up this morning around 8:30, the little red light was fully engaged. I jumped out of bed and flew into the nursery apologizing, "Oh Lucas, Mommy's sorry, Mommy's sorry..." over and over. Of course he was crying so hard he had the sup-sups. He was teething, hungry, his diaper was wet, and he was PISSED. His usual routine is to wake up and play for 15 minutes or so before firing up his aquarium, which is the signal that he's ready to get out of the crib. The fact that when I finally got to him there was no music, no fishies, and a tear-soaked sheet makes me think he was probably awake for an hour or so before I showed up. Fantastic.
So I changed his diaper and rocked him a little singing a selection of early Paul Simon (Oooh, paraphernalia...). Still crying. Aha! We are hungry! So I put him in his high chair with an Elmo doll and started singing about oatmeal to the tune of Me & Julio. Lucas was so upset by the time I sat down to feed him that he almost couldn't eat. Inhaling dramatically as he attempted a spoonful of cereal, he sucked it down the wrong pipe, choked, and threw back up the little he had managed to get down. After a few more attempts with the cereal, I made him a bottle. That helped a little. But then he had to endure the dreaded clean-up. Getting wiped down sent him over the edge again.
Next we headed into the living room. I sat Lucas down with some toys, made sure the gate at the top of the stairs was shut, and went back into the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, Lucas was nowhere to be seen (And when I looked I see my Chow Fon's gone...). Had he rolled behind the chair? No. Under the dining room table? Nope. Then I heard laughter coming from down the hallway. Lucas had crawled into the bathroom (Yes, his Bad Mommy left the door open again) where he had pulled himself up on the bathtub and apparently cornered two of our cats. (Why the cats were in the bathtub to begin with will have to be the subject of another post.) This, apparently, was hilarious enough to temporarily erase the memory of his otherwise traumatic morning. I was able to wash my face and brush my teeth while he squealed at Tooter & Beans, who just sat in the bathtub looking confusedly at the baby, "So, what, he like follows us around now?"
I attempted to return Lucas to the living room long enough to run back to the nursery and grab his clothes. Crying. "Here's Mommy!" I called gleefully upon my return. But Lucas wasn't there. He had migrated to the kitchen, where he stood, hanging onto the open (full) dishwasher for support.
Anyway, the child is mobile now, and quite fast, with a talent for scooting under the radar. As his days of freedom unfurl before him like a special crawly carpet, mine have come to an abrupt, paranoid halt. Full stop.
So I changed his diaper and rocked him a little singing a selection of early Paul Simon (Oooh, paraphernalia...). Still crying. Aha! We are hungry! So I put him in his high chair with an Elmo doll and started singing about oatmeal to the tune of Me & Julio. Lucas was so upset by the time I sat down to feed him that he almost couldn't eat. Inhaling dramatically as he attempted a spoonful of cereal, he sucked it down the wrong pipe, choked, and threw back up the little he had managed to get down. After a few more attempts with the cereal, I made him a bottle. That helped a little. But then he had to endure the dreaded clean-up. Getting wiped down sent him over the edge again.
Next we headed into the living room. I sat Lucas down with some toys, made sure the gate at the top of the stairs was shut, and went back into the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, Lucas was nowhere to be seen (And when I looked I see my Chow Fon's gone...). Had he rolled behind the chair? No. Under the dining room table? Nope. Then I heard laughter coming from down the hallway. Lucas had crawled into the bathroom (Yes, his Bad Mommy left the door open again) where he had pulled himself up on the bathtub and apparently cornered two of our cats. (Why the cats were in the bathtub to begin with will have to be the subject of another post.) This, apparently, was hilarious enough to temporarily erase the memory of his otherwise traumatic morning. I was able to wash my face and brush my teeth while he squealed at Tooter & Beans, who just sat in the bathtub looking confusedly at the baby, "So, what, he like follows us around now?"
I attempted to return Lucas to the living room long enough to run back to the nursery and grab his clothes. Crying. "Here's Mommy!" I called gleefully upon my return. But Lucas wasn't there. He had migrated to the kitchen, where he stood, hanging onto the open (full) dishwasher for support.
Anyway, the child is mobile now, and quite fast, with a talent for scooting under the radar. As his days of freedom unfurl before him like a special crawly carpet, mine have come to an abrupt, paranoid halt. Full stop.
29 March 2006
Stop, Thief! or A Confession
My office is a mess. I mean it seriously looks like I need to be on "Clean Sweep" or something. I started another round of sort & toss the other day only to arrive at a disturbing realization, the root cause of the clutter--I am a huge emotional pack rat.
Yes, it's true that as an only child I have attachment issues, abandonment issues, separation anxiety. I know this, it comes with the territory. If you're my friend, you also know this, and chances are I've creeped you out because of it on at least one occasion (sorry about that). In addition I have, generally, a shitty memory and a huge fear of forgetting. People, places, smells, tastes. On the other hand, I also possess a keen ability for observing and remembering the lasts of things. The last time we spoke, saw each other, and so on. If you've ever given me a gift, be sure that I still have it. I never throw away letters. I always save your last email. I mean what if I never hear from you again? What if those were your last words and I forget them? What then? Well, for starters I would have a cleaner office, my computer would run faster, and I'd be able to find my desk. For starters.
Anyway, as I began to sort/toss (read: sort/grow misty with nostalgia, refile), I kept coming across things that weren't mine. So, dear friends, I would like to take this opportunity to offer an official apology. Over the years I seem to have amassed a large collection of permanently borrowed (stolen?) merchandise. And some of it belongs to you (Think of this as one of those "Unclaimed Property" websites. You could have millions waiting!). So far I have come across the following:
Lo...I still have your Allison Kraus cd and that black shirt with the cityscape on it. You can come get them anytime. Better yet, let me deliver them.
Amy...The necklace & earrings I borrowed from you in North Carolina are here in a little box on the dresser. I should have returned them when you flew in last summer, but I forgot.
Money...I finally found your Pearl Jam cd. You were right, some of the tracks are worn out. Still, I'll get it back to you in May.
D...I still have The Proletarian Imagination, so to speak. Think I tried to return it once before you fled the country, but no luck. We just sit here and drink coffee for hours. Well, I mostly drink. It mostly sits.
Anthony Carlos...That copy of The Basketball Diaries you handed me when we cleaned out your closet in Terra Haute...was I sposed to keep that? It's still here with the Big Mail.
Laura...The cover tore off Fear of Flying in the mid-90s, so maybe I should just keep it? Let me know. By the way, Erica Jong has a new memoir out. Have you read it?
Alex...For graduation I got you a rubber duck dressed up in a crown. It is still here in the box, but I thought you should know. It's good to be king.
Tommy...I still have the James Taylor's Greatest Hits cd I borrowed during the Terrible Summer. Thank you for everything. Thank you.
Walter...Two years ago at a yard sale I spent a nickel on a homemade mug that says "Walt." I never sent it, but I must tell you it makes a handy pencil cup. Really, I had hoped for one that says "Garv" instead.
At any rate, that's the current body count. If you suspect that something you're missing might have found its way into my office, please send a brief description and I'll add it to the milk carton. But hey, I shouldn't feel that bad, right? I mean, it's not like I stole locks of your hair or something. At least I haven't found any yet. Maybe when I get to the filing cabinet...
Yes, it's true that as an only child I have attachment issues, abandonment issues, separation anxiety. I know this, it comes with the territory. If you're my friend, you also know this, and chances are I've creeped you out because of it on at least one occasion (sorry about that). In addition I have, generally, a shitty memory and a huge fear of forgetting. People, places, smells, tastes. On the other hand, I also possess a keen ability for observing and remembering the lasts of things. The last time we spoke, saw each other, and so on. If you've ever given me a gift, be sure that I still have it. I never throw away letters. I always save your last email. I mean what if I never hear from you again? What if those were your last words and I forget them? What then? Well, for starters I would have a cleaner office, my computer would run faster, and I'd be able to find my desk. For starters.
Anyway, as I began to sort/toss (read: sort/grow misty with nostalgia, refile), I kept coming across things that weren't mine. So, dear friends, I would like to take this opportunity to offer an official apology. Over the years I seem to have amassed a large collection of permanently borrowed (stolen?) merchandise. And some of it belongs to you (Think of this as one of those "Unclaimed Property" websites. You could have millions waiting!). So far I have come across the following:
Lo...I still have your Allison Kraus cd and that black shirt with the cityscape on it. You can come get them anytime. Better yet, let me deliver them.
Amy...The necklace & earrings I borrowed from you in North Carolina are here in a little box on the dresser. I should have returned them when you flew in last summer, but I forgot.
Money...I finally found your Pearl Jam cd. You were right, some of the tracks are worn out. Still, I'll get it back to you in May.
D...I still have The Proletarian Imagination, so to speak. Think I tried to return it once before you fled the country, but no luck. We just sit here and drink coffee for hours. Well, I mostly drink. It mostly sits.
Anthony Carlos...That copy of The Basketball Diaries you handed me when we cleaned out your closet in Terra Haute...was I sposed to keep that? It's still here with the Big Mail.
Laura...The cover tore off Fear of Flying in the mid-90s, so maybe I should just keep it? Let me know. By the way, Erica Jong has a new memoir out. Have you read it?
Alex...For graduation I got you a rubber duck dressed up in a crown. It is still here in the box, but I thought you should know. It's good to be king.
Tommy...I still have the James Taylor's Greatest Hits cd I borrowed during the Terrible Summer. Thank you for everything. Thank you.
Walter...Two years ago at a yard sale I spent a nickel on a homemade mug that says "Walt." I never sent it, but I must tell you it makes a handy pencil cup. Really, I had hoped for one that says "Garv" instead.
At any rate, that's the current body count. If you suspect that something you're missing might have found its way into my office, please send a brief description and I'll add it to the milk carton. But hey, I shouldn't feel that bad, right? I mean, it's not like I stole locks of your hair or something. At least I haven't found any yet. Maybe when I get to the filing cabinet...
27 March 2006
Innauguration Day.
Alright. Lucas is asleep. Dr. Phil isn't on for another fifteen minutes. And I appear to have finally gotten my shit together enough to start a blog.
When I hear from friends after a long time away (especially grad school friends, God bless 'em), the conversation inevitably turns to my writing. More specifically, "So, how's your writing going?" Variations on this include, but are not limited to, "What have you been writing?" "Written anything good lately?" and my personal favorite, "You should send me something new you've written." I usually "forget" to respond to the latter, as the only piece I have that qualifies as "new" is a list of instructions for the babysitter.
But I digress.
Since Lucas was born last June I haven't written anything other than email (and some of you will likely argue I haven't even written that [Sorry.]). The first few days we were home from the hospital I had illusions of grandeur that I would rise an hour before my child each day and sit at the computer with my coffee merrily typing away. Glorious essays on motherhood. Poems to lilt off the tongue. Actually, I did get up one day that first week and write a kind of a poem, although I was so strung-out from sitting up all night watching the baby breathe that the poem, as it were, doesn't make much sense.
Anywho. My intention with this blog is threefold:
Fold numero uno--To create some degree of structure and discipline for my writing life. As I currently have no writing life, I already am showing marked improvement. Gold star.
Fold two--To keep in better touch with friends and family. Yes, I realize in this sense it's like reading a mass-produced Christmas letter, but I've gotta start somewhere at this point. Plus, my 2005 Christmas letters are still sitting here on the desk waiting to be sent out, and seeing as how it's March 2006 already, it doesn't look promising.
And finally--I don't remember what my third point was. I'm sure I had a third point, however, and that it was phenomenal. That said, now my dryer is going off and Lucas stirs in his crib. And...how excellent...the cat is trying to pop a squat in my office.
When I hear from friends after a long time away (especially grad school friends, God bless 'em), the conversation inevitably turns to my writing. More specifically, "So, how's your writing going?" Variations on this include, but are not limited to, "What have you been writing?" "Written anything good lately?" and my personal favorite, "You should send me something new you've written." I usually "forget" to respond to the latter, as the only piece I have that qualifies as "new" is a list of instructions for the babysitter.
But I digress.
Since Lucas was born last June I haven't written anything other than email (and some of you will likely argue I haven't even written that [Sorry.]). The first few days we were home from the hospital I had illusions of grandeur that I would rise an hour before my child each day and sit at the computer with my coffee merrily typing away. Glorious essays on motherhood. Poems to lilt off the tongue. Actually, I did get up one day that first week and write a kind of a poem, although I was so strung-out from sitting up all night watching the baby breathe that the poem, as it were, doesn't make much sense.
Anywho. My intention with this blog is threefold:
Fold numero uno--To create some degree of structure and discipline for my writing life. As I currently have no writing life, I already am showing marked improvement. Gold star.
Fold two--To keep in better touch with friends and family. Yes, I realize in this sense it's like reading a mass-produced Christmas letter, but I've gotta start somewhere at this point. Plus, my 2005 Christmas letters are still sitting here on the desk waiting to be sent out, and seeing as how it's March 2006 already, it doesn't look promising.
And finally--I don't remember what my third point was. I'm sure I had a third point, however, and that it was phenomenal. That said, now my dryer is going off and Lucas stirs in his crib. And...how excellent...the cat is trying to pop a squat in my office.
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