How many times in any given year do you think you receive this email? You know the one, "Chocolate or vanilla ice cream?" "Any tattoos?" "Craziest thing you've ever done?" and so on. My sister-in-law (who, as far as I know, doesn't read this blog) forwards hers to me so often that I have made a kind of game out of memorizing her answers. Like, "Wait, wait--I know this one! You like vanilla! With chocolate sauce!"
Not that I mind, really. And out of sheer boredom (read: "denial of all the things I should be accomplishing" or "post-3 a.m.-feeding insomnia") I usually take time to cut & paste it back to her with my own reliable answers. Lately I have even been guilty of forwarding it on to a few close friends who, I hope, will read it as the desperate, hollow gesture it is intended to be. I don't expect any responses. It's more like a calling card left in their tray, corner bent (top left). In some bizarre way answering those ridiculous questions helps me to remember who I am. Or who I was. Or who I might be if I were getting enough sleep to allow me to remember my own name most days.
While I'm usually able to recall the basics ("Where were you born?" Council Bluffs, Iowa; "Favorite day of the week?" Monday), other answers are slower to surface and frequently threaten to turn into novellas.
"Any tattoos?"
Yes, one. A long-stemmed rose on the inside of my left ankle, near the bone. In memory of my friend Monica, on what would have been her 30th birthday. The suggestion of back-story without really going there.
"Craziest thing you've ever done?"
My answer to this one changes depending on how I'm feeling and what I can remember on any given day. Last time I drudged up this little gem: Made out with an Australian guy in the ladies' room of a night club in Inverness, Scotland. Granted it's not that crazy, nor is it the classiest thing I've ever done, but the complex location seems to lend it street cred. Sometimes I use, Made a bong using an empty pop can, my earring, and a Bic pen, but that's only crazy if you've never done it, and I have actually had people point out that the earring isn't really necessary, especially if your Bic has a fine tip.
See, at one point I was actually out in the world. Before marriage. Before kids. Before my 30s. Before I realized that more or less things are the same wherever you go, and hangovers are a bitch, regardless. I don't really think that anyone but me is interested in what time I started filling out this questionaire (2:47 p.m.) or whether or not I've ever broken someone's heart (I hope so). Sometimes it's just nice to remember where I came from (Glenwood, Iowa) and think about something other than the next child who will need fed (Lucas) or the next load of laundry that needs to come up from the basement (towels).
20 February 2007
14 February 2007
Happy Valentine's...oh, whatever.
Normally, I am not a bitter person.
Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.
I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.
Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.
So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.
Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.
Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.
I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.
Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.
So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.
Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.
15 December 2006
Dear Alanis
"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,
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
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.
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