4.29.2008
deep
What's it mean? What's it mean?
Yes, Jori and others. Every single pinprick of ink I have on myself means something. Even the Shamu tattoo, but that runs a little deeper than I want to get here. I'll just tell you that it is a reminder of childhood and secrets and lessons I learned about grownups way before I probably should have. And no, I wasn't molested.
The swallow tattoo is pretty self explanatory. It's a bird, and the word mother and some flowers. So the bird is me, and you now how birds take something under their wing. And the word "mother" is me too, but also all mothers because once you are one you have this whole new respect for (read:most) mothers. The tiger lilies are for my grandmother, who grew them in her yard for me because they would always bloom right around my birthday. But she would probably puke if she knew about all this. Then the little clover is because Jake was born on March 17.
The anchor is for Jake and the stability he has forced upon me, and the cherry blossoms are for Philadelphia. We kinda get the shaft because DC steals all of our cherry blossom thunder but our whole town is pink for about a month in the spring. Also, my grandfather had a crabapple tree with bright pink flowers that matched his pink house (no laughing) and I wanted exactly that when I grew up. So, there goes the pink flowers. The blue one in the middle is like a forget-me-not, just because I've always liked them because they are the only blue thing in nature so they are kinda special. And to break up the pink a little bit, because I'm not so much of a pink person.
I just got that little star on my wrist, too. It is there to inspire me to use my special skills and talents for the good of the people. It's amazing what a girl can get done with nothing but a solid education, a little street smartness, and her own two hands.
This all sounds so damned gay when I say it out loud.
Yes, Jori and others. Every single pinprick of ink I have on myself means something. Even the Shamu tattoo, but that runs a little deeper than I want to get here. I'll just tell you that it is a reminder of childhood and secrets and lessons I learned about grownups way before I probably should have. And no, I wasn't molested.
The swallow tattoo is pretty self explanatory. It's a bird, and the word mother and some flowers. So the bird is me, and you now how birds take something under their wing. And the word "mother" is me too, but also all mothers because once you are one you have this whole new respect for (read:most) mothers. The tiger lilies are for my grandmother, who grew them in her yard for me because they would always bloom right around my birthday. But she would probably puke if she knew about all this. Then the little clover is because Jake was born on March 17.
The anchor is for Jake and the stability he has forced upon me, and the cherry blossoms are for Philadelphia. We kinda get the shaft because DC steals all of our cherry blossom thunder but our whole town is pink for about a month in the spring. Also, my grandfather had a crabapple tree with bright pink flowers that matched his pink house (no laughing) and I wanted exactly that when I grew up. So, there goes the pink flowers. The blue one in the middle is like a forget-me-not, just because I've always liked them because they are the only blue thing in nature so they are kinda special. And to break up the pink a little bit, because I'm not so much of a pink person.
I just got that little star on my wrist, too. It is there to inspire me to use my special skills and talents for the good of the people. It's amazing what a girl can get done with nothing but a solid education, a little street smartness, and her own two hands.
This all sounds so damned gay when I say it out loud.
4.28.2008
4.25.2008
you can't interfere with destiny
Dave and I were watching the movie Election last night. If you haven't seen it, you should. I still find it funny after watching it seventeen times. My favorite scene is when Tracy Flick, Paul Metzler, and his sister Tammy are saying their bedtime prayers. I'm laughing right now just thinking about it.
When I was little, I used to pray for California to fall into the ocean, the Mississippi River bed to flood, volcanic eruptions in the Pacific, tornadic disasters in the Midwest, and a flat chest. And a unicorn. I've always been WAY into earth science/natural disasters/vengeful Old Testament stuff and a little insecure about my chest size and a lot slighted that I never saw a unicorn. And that's it. I never asked for blessings to be bestowed on me or my family. I just wanted to watch my world fall apart from the back of a unicorn and be a bit more comfortable while doing it. Plus, I knew that God loved to destroy things, so I figured I'd let him know that he had my vote, so long as I could watch and not actually die.
I would also leave change under my pillow with a note to God telling him to prove to me he was real and take the money and feed the kids that he obviously didn't care about in China and Africa, because I cared enough for the both of us.
Please take note: God never took those pennies.
So, I wrote him notes saying he was terrible because he let people suffer. I did this long after I got over him neglecting my tithes. I would put them in pew envelopes and throw them in the collection plate at church.
Isn't that terrible? I never told anyone about the notes, and Dave thought my bedtime prayers made me kind of a bad seed.
When I was little, I used to pray for California to fall into the ocean, the Mississippi River bed to flood, volcanic eruptions in the Pacific, tornadic disasters in the Midwest, and a flat chest. And a unicorn. I've always been WAY into earth science/natural disasters/vengeful Old Testament stuff and a little insecure about my chest size and a lot slighted that I never saw a unicorn. And that's it. I never asked for blessings to be bestowed on me or my family. I just wanted to watch my world fall apart from the back of a unicorn and be a bit more comfortable while doing it. Plus, I knew that God loved to destroy things, so I figured I'd let him know that he had my vote, so long as I could watch and not actually die.
I would also leave change under my pillow with a note to God telling him to prove to me he was real and take the money and feed the kids that he obviously didn't care about in China and Africa, because I cared enough for the both of us.
Please take note: God never took those pennies.
So, I wrote him notes saying he was terrible because he let people suffer. I did this long after I got over him neglecting my tithes. I would put them in pew envelopes and throw them in the collection plate at church.
Isn't that terrible? I never told anyone about the notes, and Dave thought my bedtime prayers made me kind of a bad seed.
going broke
The following is an excerpt from a Memo I got from HR the other day:
"Soon you will receive your first quarter statement from Principal, the investment returns on your account will be negative for the second consecutive quarter. We have not been exposed to these market declines or volatility for about five years. This is not unusual or unexpected over long periods of time. As investors, we enjoyed record low volatility in the stock markets from 2003 to 2007with very consistent positive returns.
In the current market environment, we want to remind you that your retirement plan investments are for the long-term (unless you are nearing retirement). Unfortunately, many investors overreact during periods of stock market volatility, thus negatively affecting their long-term results. We encourage you to resist the temptation to panic and change your long-term investment strategy after reviewing your statement."
I prepared myself for a 50% loss, just in case. I don't care much, because my company is awesome and matches 9% of my salary into an investment package of my choosing and I don't add a dime. I've been fully vested for almost two years because my company is superawesome and we are 100% after only five years. Plus I'm only 31 years old, and I have half a lifetime before retirement and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things will be looking up by then.
The good news is that my rate of return only dropped 7.58% in the last three months and dropped 5.44% in the last nine. Not so bad, especially when I thought it was going to be worse. My colleague in the next cage over lost almost 25%. Sucks to be her.
I've been trying to save some dollars here and there. I'm aggressively paying off debt because the return on my savings is next to nothing so I may as well stop collecting finance charges like it is some kind of sick hobby.
Remember my resolution to stop buying junk? It's working, every now and then. Turns out I still need some stuff. I can't live like I did when I was in college. I'm way to classy for that now. But I'm not pissing so much money away anymore, which is huge and much less painful and awkward.
If your culinary preferences expand past the dollar menu, you've noticed that the price of groceries is somewhat alarming. I remember when I was little my grandmother would tune into the farm report every day and I thought that to be kinda archaic, considering we lived in an industrial town. I passed it off as her tying herself to her childhood days in Iowa and Oregon and didn't pay it much mind.
Yeah, so... I watch the farm report now. Can you believe the price of wheat? The bread that I have bought since college has gone from $2.89 a bag two years ago to $4.89. Every effing thing at the grocery store is five effing dollars. What the eff?
Eff.
Even pet food is either more expensive or diminishing in quality. Unless you are feeding your animals one of the big vet-recommended brands that are regulated a bit better than the stuff you pick up wherever, your poor animal is probably eating a lot more filler lately because the good stuff is just too damned costly to put in the kibble while keeping the price reasonable. You've probably been noticing when you are cleaning up poop. Gross, right? Poor doggie. Poor us.
I've stripped our kitchen down to barebones nutrition. If it isn't healthy, it doesn't warrant my money. Unless Popsicles are half off, and then all rules are off.
We aren't (read: Jake and I aren't) meat people, so I'm not sure what the price of that is. Beans are still 59 cents per 16 ounces. Nuts are still affordable, which is good because I eat a lot of nuts. I love me a good sack of nuts. Sometimes I like nuts in the can. A few times a day I stick a handful of nuts in my mouth and suck all the salt off before I swallow.
If one of us wants some junk so badly that we can't stand it anymore, we scrounge up some change out of the couch. Jake gets a half packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast each day to ensure that he is getting all his vitamins. Plus he eats the daycare lady out of house and home Monday thru Friday so I'm not so worried. He snacks on sunflower seeds and fruit and raisins and cheese and cereal. Last night he turned up his nose at birthday cake.
I didn't.
Did I tell you that I'm making the switch to organic milk? I drank it exclusively back in the olden days when milk was only $3 a gallon. Organic was about $4. Now regular is $5 and organic is $7 or so, but I think it is well worth the extra 200 pennies. Plus it's ultrapasteurized and lasts longer than a week. We rarely get through a gallon before it expires. I've almost broken myself of the "babies need milk to grow" mindset. He just gets some in the morning for his "milkshake". Babies need nutrition to grow, not udder pus.
That's gross, isn't it? Udder pus? A friend of a friend used to have a job at Rosenberger's Dairy. His mission was to separate the bloody, pus-covered (I always want to put an extra "s" and a "y" at the end of pus to convey the fact that something is all covered in pus. But no one wants to see the word "pussy" next to the word "bloody". No one.) scabbed-over udders from the stainless steel milker machines. He did it with a hot-water power-washer. Blood and pus and hot water run into the tank of milk which runs into your belly every time you drink milk. It's inevitable. Even if you are drinking organic milk. Mmmmm.
It's a good thing Jake likes soy and rice milk, btw. That's the next step. In fact, we just may go that route immediately.
Does soy bleed?
"Soon you will receive your first quarter statement from Principal, the investment returns on your account will be negative for the second consecutive quarter. We have not been exposed to these market declines or volatility for about five years. This is not unusual or unexpected over long periods of time. As investors, we enjoyed record low volatility in the stock markets from 2003 to 2007with very consistent positive returns.
In the current market environment, we want to remind you that your retirement plan investments are for the long-term (unless you are nearing retirement). Unfortunately, many investors overreact during periods of stock market volatility, thus negatively affecting their long-term results. We encourage you to resist the temptation to panic and change your long-term investment strategy after reviewing your statement."
I prepared myself for a 50% loss, just in case. I don't care much, because my company is awesome and matches 9% of my salary into an investment package of my choosing and I don't add a dime. I've been fully vested for almost two years because my company is superawesome and we are 100% after only five years. Plus I'm only 31 years old, and I have half a lifetime before retirement and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things will be looking up by then.
The good news is that my rate of return only dropped 7.58% in the last three months and dropped 5.44% in the last nine. Not so bad, especially when I thought it was going to be worse. My colleague in the next cage over lost almost 25%. Sucks to be her.
I've been trying to save some dollars here and there. I'm aggressively paying off debt because the return on my savings is next to nothing so I may as well stop collecting finance charges like it is some kind of sick hobby.
Remember my resolution to stop buying junk? It's working, every now and then. Turns out I still need some stuff. I can't live like I did when I was in college. I'm way to classy for that now. But I'm not pissing so much money away anymore, which is huge and much less painful and awkward.
If your culinary preferences expand past the dollar menu, you've noticed that the price of groceries is somewhat alarming. I remember when I was little my grandmother would tune into the farm report every day and I thought that to be kinda archaic, considering we lived in an industrial town. I passed it off as her tying herself to her childhood days in Iowa and Oregon and didn't pay it much mind.
Yeah, so... I watch the farm report now. Can you believe the price of wheat? The bread that I have bought since college has gone from $2.89 a bag two years ago to $4.89. Every effing thing at the grocery store is five effing dollars. What the eff?
Eff.
Even pet food is either more expensive or diminishing in quality. Unless you are feeding your animals one of the big vet-recommended brands that are regulated a bit better than the stuff you pick up wherever, your poor animal is probably eating a lot more filler lately because the good stuff is just too damned costly to put in the kibble while keeping the price reasonable. You've probably been noticing when you are cleaning up poop. Gross, right? Poor doggie. Poor us.
I've stripped our kitchen down to barebones nutrition. If it isn't healthy, it doesn't warrant my money. Unless Popsicles are half off, and then all rules are off.
We aren't (read: Jake and I aren't) meat people, so I'm not sure what the price of that is. Beans are still 59 cents per 16 ounces. Nuts are still affordable, which is good because I eat a lot of nuts. I love me a good sack of nuts. Sometimes I like nuts in the can. A few times a day I stick a handful of nuts in my mouth and suck all the salt off before I swallow.
If one of us wants some junk so badly that we can't stand it anymore, we scrounge up some change out of the couch. Jake gets a half packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast each day to ensure that he is getting all his vitamins. Plus he eats the daycare lady out of house and home Monday thru Friday so I'm not so worried. He snacks on sunflower seeds and fruit and raisins and cheese and cereal. Last night he turned up his nose at birthday cake.
I didn't.
Did I tell you that I'm making the switch to organic milk? I drank it exclusively back in the olden days when milk was only $3 a gallon. Organic was about $4. Now regular is $5 and organic is $7 or so, but I think it is well worth the extra 200 pennies. Plus it's ultrapasteurized and lasts longer than a week. We rarely get through a gallon before it expires. I've almost broken myself of the "babies need milk to grow" mindset. He just gets some in the morning for his "milkshake". Babies need nutrition to grow, not udder pus.
That's gross, isn't it? Udder pus? A friend of a friend used to have a job at Rosenberger's Dairy. His mission was to separate the bloody, pus-covered (I always want to put an extra "s" and a "y" at the end of pus to convey the fact that something is all covered in pus. But no one wants to see the word "pussy" next to the word "bloody". No one.) scabbed-over udders from the stainless steel milker machines. He did it with a hot-water power-washer. Blood and pus and hot water run into the tank of milk which runs into your belly every time you drink milk. It's inevitable. Even if you are drinking organic milk. Mmmmm.
It's a good thing Jake likes soy and rice milk, btw. That's the next step. In fact, we just may go that route immediately.
Does soy bleed?
the monster at the end of that book
If you ask Jake what he is scared of he might tell you bones (which he actually LOVES), or dinosaurs, maybe monsters or scary ghosts. He might. One thing for sure that he is always always scared of?
Butterflies.
One of his first sentences was "Don't cry butterfly" and he would say it every time he saw a butterfly or a picture of one. I thought it was so cute that he was being all rhymie and sympathetic to sad butterflies everywhere. No. Turns out he was telling himself not to cry.
When I was at my mom's house a month or so ago, I cut Jake's sandwich into four triangles, then set the triangles into little butterfly shapes. Jake took the plate from me (two hands!), looked at it, screamed, threw it, and ran to the living room underneath a blanket. He sobbed "i so sowwy mommy, i so scareda butterfwies. i go pickit up". Really?
Really?
This morning we read The Hungry Caterpillar. As we got closer to the end, Jake started backing away. From four feet to the side he said "oh! a butterfwy! a beautiful butterfwy! a beautiful SCARY butterfwy!".
Seriously, how do you break a kid of such a ridiculous fear? I work with two girls who will lose their schnikes if they see so much as a moth. They say that butterflies are just creepy bugs with pretty wings. I say that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.
Jake is mildly afraid of bugs, but I just tell him that bugs are so little and he is so big and there is no reason to be afraid. Then I turn to the side and puke while my brain screams.
What is your kid afraid of? How about you?
Me, it's severed heads and firey autocrashes. But you knew that already.
Butterflies.
One of his first sentences was "Don't cry butterfly" and he would say it every time he saw a butterfly or a picture of one. I thought it was so cute that he was being all rhymie and sympathetic to sad butterflies everywhere. No. Turns out he was telling himself not to cry.
When I was at my mom's house a month or so ago, I cut Jake's sandwich into four triangles, then set the triangles into little butterfly shapes. Jake took the plate from me (two hands!), looked at it, screamed, threw it, and ran to the living room underneath a blanket. He sobbed "i so sowwy mommy, i so scareda butterfwies. i go pickit up". Really?
Really?
This morning we read The Hungry Caterpillar. As we got closer to the end, Jake started backing away. From four feet to the side he said "oh! a butterfwy! a beautiful butterfwy! a beautiful SCARY butterfwy!".
Seriously, how do you break a kid of such a ridiculous fear? I work with two girls who will lose their schnikes if they see so much as a moth. They say that butterflies are just creepy bugs with pretty wings. I say that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.
Jake is mildly afraid of bugs, but I just tell him that bugs are so little and he is so big and there is no reason to be afraid. Then I turn to the side and puke while my brain screams.
What is your kid afraid of? How about you?
Me, it's severed heads and firey autocrashes. But you knew that already.
4.23.2008
the general state of things
Wow, Pennsylvania. Wow.
I'm really disappointed in you. Hillary, eh? It's not that I think she is as much as a c-word-faced biznatch as most of the other young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded Barack supporters do, (because you know- young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded people are the ones who support Obama. Not that young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded people know what they are talking about or anything...) I'm just surprised that the majority of PeeA-ers voted for her.
It's easy to forget that Pennsylvania isn't Philadelphia. I am surrounded by a bazillion people of all collars (so clever. I just made that up now) holding Obama signs in each hand. T-shirts, dog leashes, bumper stickers, onesies, hats, all Obama all the time. There are as many black people as white people in Philadelphia. The poor, the meek, the tired, the hungry, factory workers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs live together in equal numbers and not-quite perfect harmony. But we kind of all melt together and make it work for the most part, becoming this huge entity that looks nothing like the rest of our state. Obviously. Just look at the poll results.
Oh well. Good for those disgruntled yokels for climbing down off the tractors and taking a break from pushing out babies and getting to the booths. And really good for them being registered Democrat in the first place. Maybe people are smarter and more independent than I think they are.
You know, Jesus would vote Democrat. Because he loves you and cares about you. Unlike Republicans who love themselves and care about their wallets and killing your sons. I'm just saying that because I'm tired of people hiding behind their faith.
I should delete that but I won't.
I took Jake to the polls yesterday. It was his second trip ever and as soon as we walked in the voting room he said "oh, mommy! we go in dare and push da buttons!" and pointed to the booth. I was so proud.
He also thanked a soldier the other day on the street without any prompting. I probably didn't mention it here, but I'm teaching him respect for soldiers, police officers, and firemen. Have you thanked a soldier lately? You should. It's the least you can do.
I could add some humor here and go on and on about South Philly politics and how funny the door-to-door canvassers are and how people wear lots of makeup and fur coats/ sweatsuits and gold chains to the voting site and how happy I am that Johnny Doc didn't win but I can't say that here because Jake needs a mommy, not a dead body in the bottom of the Schuykill. Turns out you need more than a bunch of union guys and junkies to win an election for you.
Go figure.
I'm really disappointed in you. Hillary, eh? It's not that I think she is as much as a c-word-faced biznatch as most of the other young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded Barack supporters do, (because you know- young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded people are the ones who support Obama. Not that young, highly-educated, upwardly-mobile, forward-minded people know what they are talking about or anything...) I'm just surprised that the majority of PeeA-ers voted for her.
It's easy to forget that Pennsylvania isn't Philadelphia. I am surrounded by a bazillion people of all collars (so clever. I just made that up now) holding Obama signs in each hand. T-shirts, dog leashes, bumper stickers, onesies, hats, all Obama all the time. There are as many black people as white people in Philadelphia. The poor, the meek, the tired, the hungry, factory workers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs live together in equal numbers and not-quite perfect harmony. But we kind of all melt together and make it work for the most part, becoming this huge entity that looks nothing like the rest of our state. Obviously. Just look at the poll results.
Oh well. Good for those disgruntled yokels for climbing down off the tractors and taking a break from pushing out babies and getting to the booths. And really good for them being registered Democrat in the first place. Maybe people are smarter and more independent than I think they are.
You know, Jesus would vote Democrat. Because he loves you and cares about you. Unlike Republicans who love themselves and care about their wallets and killing your sons. I'm just saying that because I'm tired of people hiding behind their faith.
I should delete that but I won't.
I took Jake to the polls yesterday. It was his second trip ever and as soon as we walked in the voting room he said "oh, mommy! we go in dare and push da buttons!" and pointed to the booth. I was so proud.
He also thanked a soldier the other day on the street without any prompting. I probably didn't mention it here, but I'm teaching him respect for soldiers, police officers, and firemen. Have you thanked a soldier lately? You should. It's the least you can do.
I could add some humor here and go on and on about South Philly politics and how funny the door-to-door canvassers are and how people wear lots of makeup and fur coats/ sweatsuits and gold chains to the voting site and how happy I am that Johnny Doc didn't win but I can't say that here because Jake needs a mommy, not a dead body in the bottom of the Schuykill. Turns out you need more than a bunch of union guys and junkies to win an election for you.
Go figure.
4.21.2008
ask me
I've been wracking my brain lately for the best momming advice I ever received so I can pass it along to Adrianne, who is positively dying to squeeze my niece out.
Spending my days surrounded by nurses and therapists and social workers and early childhood development pros and people who actually have the job of being emergency response teams to new moms (because new moms DEFINITELY need an emergency response team waiting in the wings) has its perks. I heard everything known to womankind about being a parent. I have all the latest research at the tips of my fingers and more on its way every second. I know all the right moves, because I hold the playbook in my lap. Do I use it? More often than not, but even a total anal retentive spaz like yours truly knows that allowing a damn lollipop after dinner is easier than a headbashing screaming fit despite the fact that your child doesn't give two craps about proper oral hygiene or sugar rushes and letting your non-trained kid pee his pants is remarkably easier than finding a bathroom while you are on public trans thirty feet below street level.
Somewhere in between the thousand words of advice and the stacks of parenting manuals and the people who think that you should do to your baby what they did to theirs THIRTY EFFING YEARS AGO despite medical research and breakthroughs a few people pulled me aside and whispered that motherhood was hard forever but especially hard at first, and no matter what you feel or experience you are normal.
Feel tired? Normal.
Wide awake? Normal.
Ugly? Normal.
Miraclesque? Normal.
Fat? Normal.
Overwhelmed? Incapable? Superhuman? Ecstatic? Depressed? Ready to run away? Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal.
Everything and anything you feel is normal, even if it involves a very small human sailing out a very high window. Feeling is normal and okay, btw. Doing, however, is not. Call one of those emergency response people if you find yourself unlatching the screen.
And the really sucky part? People keep telling you to enjoy this time, because this is the easiest because all they do is sleep and eat. Okay jerkface. I'm on Deathwatch 2006 over here because my baby might have some birth defect in his lungs or heart that went unnoticed or some sort of allergy to something I ate that is in my breastmilk or the blanket might be on his face and you are saying this is easy?!?! Take it somewhere else, you horse'sass.
Sorry. I'm still a bit bitter at all that.
So yeah, it is hard. And so much more complex than you are capable of imagining because the human brain is wired so you can do it and to not comprehend it. It's so difficult because it is the deepest, truest love ever. And love is hard. And I wish I could put it in better words, but there you have it- the best advice I've got.
Spending my days surrounded by nurses and therapists and social workers and early childhood development pros and people who actually have the job of being emergency response teams to new moms (because new moms DEFINITELY need an emergency response team waiting in the wings) has its perks. I heard everything known to womankind about being a parent. I have all the latest research at the tips of my fingers and more on its way every second. I know all the right moves, because I hold the playbook in my lap. Do I use it? More often than not, but even a total anal retentive spaz like yours truly knows that allowing a damn lollipop after dinner is easier than a headbashing screaming fit despite the fact that your child doesn't give two craps about proper oral hygiene or sugar rushes and letting your non-trained kid pee his pants is remarkably easier than finding a bathroom while you are on public trans thirty feet below street level.
Somewhere in between the thousand words of advice and the stacks of parenting manuals and the people who think that you should do to your baby what they did to theirs THIRTY EFFING YEARS AGO despite medical research and breakthroughs a few people pulled me aside and whispered that motherhood was hard forever but especially hard at first, and no matter what you feel or experience you are normal.
Feel tired? Normal.
Wide awake? Normal.
Ugly? Normal.
Miraclesque? Normal.
Fat? Normal.
Overwhelmed? Incapable? Superhuman? Ecstatic? Depressed? Ready to run away? Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal.
Everything and anything you feel is normal, even if it involves a very small human sailing out a very high window. Feeling is normal and okay, btw. Doing, however, is not. Call one of those emergency response people if you find yourself unlatching the screen.
And the really sucky part? People keep telling you to enjoy this time, because this is the easiest because all they do is sleep and eat. Okay jerkface. I'm on Deathwatch 2006 over here because my baby might have some birth defect in his lungs or heart that went unnoticed or some sort of allergy to something I ate that is in my breastmilk or the blanket might be on his face and you are saying this is easy?!?! Take it somewhere else, you horse'sass.
Sorry. I'm still a bit bitter at all that.
So yeah, it is hard. And so much more complex than you are capable of imagining because the human brain is wired so you can do it and to not comprehend it. It's so difficult because it is the deepest, truest love ever. And love is hard. And I wish I could put it in better words, but there you have it- the best advice I've got.
4.17.2008
25
I promised myself I would skip to every-other-month monthly reporting so I'll spare you the twenty-five month sap, but I will tell you that when Jake and I were at the park on Wednesday, he found a little friend at the bottom of the sliding board and ran off with her (read: pulled her along by the hand) looking over his shoulder and waving, shouting "bye mommy, have fun atta park! see ya later! take care! be safe!".
Could you just die or what?
Could you just die or what?
4.15.2008
what goes on in my brain on company time. part one.
Sometimes I wonder how karma hasn't torn me a new one. Like right now, when I saw a link to a feature in the online paper that read: "Q&A with Marlee Matlin". And I almost totally lol'ed at work because all I could think of was this:
Q: Hello Marlee, how are you today?
A: What?
Q: How are you today?
A: What?
Q: How... forget it. Are you enjoying Dancing with the Stars?
A: Excuse me?
Q: DANCING WITH THE STARS! Are you enjoying it?
A: Dancing up on bars? I'm not sure what you are talking about.
...and so on.
See, I can say stuff like that because I was deaf. Once. Sure it was over twenty-five years ago and I've had corrective surgery and now I can hear dog whistles, but as a fellow hearing-impaired person I can make those types of jokes and all you can do is chuckle uncomfortably and feel sorry for those who have suffered the same plight as Marlee and Me. Its a cold dark and lonely world for us. Well, her. I'm all better.
Although I do know how to say "my mother has my hearing aid" in sign language and with a dead on slur. Sometimes I pull that out in bars when creepy guys are talking to me. It works almost as well as telling them I'm married, and when they ask why I'm not wearing a ring I tell them it's because I'm four months pregnant and my fingers are swollen. Then I resume drinking.
Q: Hello Marlee, how are you today?
A: What?
Q: How are you today?
A: What?
Q: How... forget it. Are you enjoying Dancing with the Stars?
A: Excuse me?
Q: DANCING WITH THE STARS! Are you enjoying it?
A: Dancing up on bars? I'm not sure what you are talking about.
...and so on.
See, I can say stuff like that because I was deaf. Once. Sure it was over twenty-five years ago and I've had corrective surgery and now I can hear dog whistles, but as a fellow hearing-impaired person I can make those types of jokes and all you can do is chuckle uncomfortably and feel sorry for those who have suffered the same plight as Marlee and Me. Its a cold dark and lonely world for us. Well, her. I'm all better.
Although I do know how to say "my mother has my hearing aid" in sign language and with a dead on slur. Sometimes I pull that out in bars when creepy guys are talking to me. It works almost as well as telling them I'm married, and when they ask why I'm not wearing a ring I tell them it's because I'm four months pregnant and my fingers are swollen. Then I resume drinking.
4.08.2008
vegas
If I tell you about my bridal shower/bachelorette weekend in Vegas, you'll shake your head and call shenanigans on my story, but it's true. In bed by 2am on Friday night, midnight on Saturday and eight on Sunday. Eight at night, that is. Not eight the next morning. By eight each morning I was up and showered and out the door.
Because the rules of Vegas apply in the blogosphere, I'll just tell the story of my weekend. The other three girls are on their own.
Believe it or not, I'm not one for revelry if I'm not within stumbling distance of my front door. I get kinda anxious if I don't know exactly where I am and have a good escape plan just in case of fire or terror or weather related disasters or tiger bites. I had a good time on Friday night, despite my three-hour plane delay and winding up in the middle seat on a five point five hour flight with an especially bad case of the JimmyLegs. We went to the MGM Grand to tear it up a bit at Studio 54 but I ducked out with the other East Coast girl around 1 or 2 Vegas time. It was way later on our clocks. Of course the other two ended up winning hundreds of dollars at the tables in our absence but such is life for a girl like me.
Saturday was the shower at the Stratosphere, a few hours poolside, and dinner at Rao's in Caesar's Palace. I had a drink at a lounge in Treasure Island but excused myself because I was feeling awful. All coughing and phloemy and gross and teary eyed and jetlagged. Not cute. Why be miserable when you can go home and catch Christopher Walken on SNL? For a minute. I think I was asleep by the end of the first sketch.
I was up on Sunday morning before the last of our party-goers got in. I jumped in the shower and walked up and down the Strip a few times (with an iced latte and wearing shorts and flip flops. Take that Chillydelphia), stopping into New York New York to see a man about some roasted nuts and over to the Bellagio to check out the gardens. I had lots of fun watching the yokels stick their noses to the glass at the schmancy stores in that shopping concourse.
"Well, I'll be! Looky here, Ma! Prayda! Channel! Hermays! Gushi! I jest doan-fer the life-a-me unnerstand why anyone decent and godfearin' would go ahead and pay alls that money for a pocketbook. I could up and buy us a new combine mashine fer the price of that there sissy-lookin' suit."
Or you know, whatever it is that people from Middle America say. Or wherever they were from.
Sunday went by in a lazy blur, I spent it bumming around town and by the pool while the other girls um, well, I guess they were at church. Sure. The other girls were at church while I was taking some much-needed guilt-free me-time. While out, I put a dollar in the penny slots machine at The Flamingo, lost it, and quit gambling. One dollar is one dollar too much to spend on gambling if you ask me. I have enough addictions. What the hell do I need another for?
Later in the afternoon, I spent some quality time taking a walk with the Bride-to-Be who I haven't seen in about a year. We collected tons of Vegas Trading Cards from the Mexicans working the Strip and stopped at Fatburger, my all-time favorite restaurant in the whole world. Rumor has it that there is one in Atlantic City, but it is really in my best interest to not find out. But if there is and you go, I'll take a Boca with cheese on white with egg no onion.
Please.
After burgers and sunshiney exercise we needed a nap so we crashed in the best bed in the whole wide world. Seriously. My entire body and soul was restored by the downy wonderness that was available to me for my sleeping pleasure. There was a First 48 marathon on A&E and I got to feel really smart because the other girls are non-CrJ people and they ask all sorts of crime and justice questions and I get to impress them with all the knowledge I bought from Temple U. that I never get to use in the real world anymore.
We ordered pizza (bad pizza. Thumbs down to Paradise Pizza, recommended by the concierge. While I'm on it, I'll just say that I forgot how gross bagels are on the west side of our country. And tomatoes are gritty and mealy and terrible. How do you people live? What do you do when you are jonesin' for a veggie creamcheese, cuke, and Beefsteak on a toasted asiago bagel? Do you just starve?) and stayed in bed until dawn. Then I got up walked around some more, went back to the condo, got to the airport, jumped on a plane, walked down to find Dave who I thought was driving in circles around the airport until I was standing outside but instead was greeted by my little boy who ran all the way across baggage claim screaming "mommy! mommy! mommy! mommy! big hugs mommy! i missed you mommy! i kiss you mommy! i love you mommy! airport mommy! stairs mommy! cars mommy! airplanes mommy! let's go mommy! i love you mommy!".
Then we got in the car and went to the diner and ordered some food but Jake puked all over me (what's with all the puking all of a sudden? we didn't puke before, why now? why Jake? why me?) before the food came out so Dave took Jake to the bathroom to clean him up while I apologized profusely to the people at the next table over who were nice enough to give me their napkins while I somehow salvaged the corn and banana and French bread that is really really good and begged a bleach rag off the busboy to take care of the booth and asked the waitress for our order to go and then it was my turn to go to the bathroom to clean off my pukey pants and Jake had to come because he can't be apart from me for more than two seconds and I had to ask him not to touch the toilets while I rubbed chunks off my jeans and got little papertowel bits all over myself and then we went back home and ate out of styrofoam and my food was good but Dave's was gross so he ate Jake's omelet and Jake ate pears but he calls them peaches and he couldn't get them on his fork and he whined and laughed and cried and asked for a bath and then opposed his bath so vehemently that I actually listened to him and only did what was minimally necessary to get the puke smell off and then I took him out of the bath and he felt really hot so I gave him some Tylenol and took him to bed and he was finally happy and then I was happy and I couldn't help but take a nice deep breath and think about how glad I am that life is back to normal.
Because the rules of Vegas apply in the blogosphere, I'll just tell the story of my weekend. The other three girls are on their own.
Believe it or not, I'm not one for revelry if I'm not within stumbling distance of my front door. I get kinda anxious if I don't know exactly where I am and have a good escape plan just in case of fire or terror or weather related disasters or tiger bites. I had a good time on Friday night, despite my three-hour plane delay and winding up in the middle seat on a five point five hour flight with an especially bad case of the JimmyLegs. We went to the MGM Grand to tear it up a bit at Studio 54 but I ducked out with the other East Coast girl around 1 or 2 Vegas time. It was way later on our clocks. Of course the other two ended up winning hundreds of dollars at the tables in our absence but such is life for a girl like me.
Saturday was the shower at the Stratosphere, a few hours poolside, and dinner at Rao's in Caesar's Palace. I had a drink at a lounge in Treasure Island but excused myself because I was feeling awful. All coughing and phloemy and gross and teary eyed and jetlagged. Not cute. Why be miserable when you can go home and catch Christopher Walken on SNL? For a minute. I think I was asleep by the end of the first sketch.
I was up on Sunday morning before the last of our party-goers got in. I jumped in the shower and walked up and down the Strip a few times (with an iced latte and wearing shorts and flip flops. Take that Chillydelphia), stopping into New York New York to see a man about some roasted nuts and over to the Bellagio to check out the gardens. I had lots of fun watching the yokels stick their noses to the glass at the schmancy stores in that shopping concourse.
"Well, I'll be! Looky here, Ma! Prayda! Channel! Hermays! Gushi! I jest doan-fer the life-a-me unnerstand why anyone decent and godfearin' would go ahead and pay alls that money for a pocketbook. I could up and buy us a new combine mashine fer the price of that there sissy-lookin' suit."
Or you know, whatever it is that people from Middle America say. Or wherever they were from.
Sunday went by in a lazy blur, I spent it bumming around town and by the pool while the other girls um, well, I guess they were at church. Sure. The other girls were at church while I was taking some much-needed guilt-free me-time. While out, I put a dollar in the penny slots machine at The Flamingo, lost it, and quit gambling. One dollar is one dollar too much to spend on gambling if you ask me. I have enough addictions. What the hell do I need another for?
Later in the afternoon, I spent some quality time taking a walk with the Bride-to-Be who I haven't seen in about a year. We collected tons of Vegas Trading Cards from the Mexicans working the Strip and stopped at Fatburger, my all-time favorite restaurant in the whole world. Rumor has it that there is one in Atlantic City, but it is really in my best interest to not find out. But if there is and you go, I'll take a Boca with cheese on white with egg no onion.
Please.
After burgers and sunshiney exercise we needed a nap so we crashed in the best bed in the whole wide world. Seriously. My entire body and soul was restored by the downy wonderness that was available to me for my sleeping pleasure. There was a First 48 marathon on A&E and I got to feel really smart because the other girls are non-CrJ people and they ask all sorts of crime and justice questions and I get to impress them with all the knowledge I bought from Temple U. that I never get to use in the real world anymore.
We ordered pizza (bad pizza. Thumbs down to Paradise Pizza, recommended by the concierge. While I'm on it, I'll just say that I forgot how gross bagels are on the west side of our country. And tomatoes are gritty and mealy and terrible. How do you people live? What do you do when you are jonesin' for a veggie creamcheese, cuke, and Beefsteak on a toasted asiago bagel? Do you just starve?) and stayed in bed until dawn. Then I got up walked around some more, went back to the condo, got to the airport, jumped on a plane, walked down to find Dave who I thought was driving in circles around the airport until I was standing outside but instead was greeted by my little boy who ran all the way across baggage claim screaming "mommy! mommy! mommy! mommy! big hugs mommy! i missed you mommy! i kiss you mommy! i love you mommy! airport mommy! stairs mommy! cars mommy! airplanes mommy! let's go mommy! i love you mommy!".
Then we got in the car and went to the diner and ordered some food but Jake puked all over me (what's with all the puking all of a sudden? we didn't puke before, why now? why Jake? why me?) before the food came out so Dave took Jake to the bathroom to clean him up while I apologized profusely to the people at the next table over who were nice enough to give me their napkins while I somehow salvaged the corn and banana and French bread that is really really good and begged a bleach rag off the busboy to take care of the booth and asked the waitress for our order to go and then it was my turn to go to the bathroom to clean off my pukey pants and Jake had to come because he can't be apart from me for more than two seconds and I had to ask him not to touch the toilets while I rubbed chunks off my jeans and got little papertowel bits all over myself and then we went back home and ate out of styrofoam and my food was good but Dave's was gross so he ate Jake's omelet and Jake ate pears but he calls them peaches and he couldn't get them on his fork and he whined and laughed and cried and asked for a bath and then opposed his bath so vehemently that I actually listened to him and only did what was minimally necessary to get the puke smell off and then I took him out of the bath and he felt really hot so I gave him some Tylenol and took him to bed and he was finally happy and then I was happy and I couldn't help but take a nice deep breath and think about how glad I am that life is back to normal.
4.03.2008
it's really just a beach town. right smack in the snowbelt.
Jake and I spent four days in Erie last weekend. Going home is always so weird and sad and happy and bizarre and blogworthy but I never know what to say or how to say it when I finally get a minute in front of my computer. How do you talk about the way your kid reacts to endless line of school buses that comes up Caughey at 2.30 in the afternoon? Or the way the snow falls at the end of March and sticks to everything for a whole entire day? Or what it is like to see a kid wearing a letter jacket from your high school? How about the fact that the only businesses that actually stay in business in that town are bars and motels? About how everyone keeps getting older in real life even though they stay young in your brain? I can't think of a way to describe how good the food is up there and how much I cram down my throat while I'm there. Salads have french fries on top! Sandwiches have french fries and cole slaw in them! French fries! Greek fries! Greek dogs! Greek sauce! Pizza subs! Perch sandwiches! Hot subs! Combo subs! House dressing! Ranch dressing! Chicken and biscuits! Gravy and biscuits! Pepperoni balls! Twist cones! You think you know what that stuff is, but you don't unless you've been to Erie. Everything is so exactly the same but entirely different than it was when I moved out way back in nineteen naughty four.
I thought I could spend a good portion of my weekend sleeping and doing nothing while my mom ran Jake around town to show him off to her friends. Not so much. I carted him around to see family and friends on Friday because my mom had to work. The nerve! I think I hit a low point when I was walking aimlessly around Walmart at 8.45am on a weekday because I was awake and bored and I needed a few things that weren't FAA-acceptable and I didn't want to brave the traffic on Upper Peach. Me, Jake, and a bunch of other moms and kids and old people, all selling our souls to save a buck. All I could think about was that this would totally be my life if I lived here. I was wearing the same clothes I wore the day before AND to bed, Jake was playing with a car that I didn't intend to buy yet took out of the package for him to play with (totally okay to do at Walmart, right?) so he would behave. My hair wasn't combed, my breath smelled like coffee and gum because my teeth were unbrushed, Jake had a smudge of something on his face, and I was surrounded by people who thought it was okay to leave the house without beltloops.
Repeat after me: Never leave your house without beltloops.
Oh, and remember when I said Jake never gets sick? And how I knocked on wood? I have a confession, I never knocked on wood and sure enough Jake ended up with a bad case of the pukes and poops on Saturday. Nothing worse than the old P&P's. Luckily my mom was there to help clean up. I have never in my life had to deal with someone else's sick (save for the newborn spit-ups) so it was really good to be able to scream for my mom when my kid was denotatively dripping with grossness. I wasn't cut out for that part of being a mother. My brother's car got the worst of it when Jake puked all over the backseat. The poor boy had to sit in a pool of his own vomit all the way from the nursing home where my grandmother, aunt, and uncle were waiting on us for a nice dinner down to my mom's house, saying "mommy, i puked. i puked in car. i sorry i puked in car. mommy, i hold you please. please". Have I ever written here about how Jake is a chronic apologist? It makes you feel really crappy when your two year-old apologizes for everything that goes wrong in the house and in the world, as if it is his fault. And when he wants you to hold him, he asks to hold you. How do you say no to that? His big eyes blink a few times and he puts his arms up and asks to hold you.
Gawh.
Anyway, Sunday was Payton's Shower and Adrienne got loads of stuff. Moms and Wives, remember that post-shower feeling of having all that crap in your house and no real place for it? I don't ever want to feel that way again. But I digress. Of course we were late because Jake wouldn't wake up for the world and we were on Puke Watch '08 during the whole thing but he did pretty well. We all took turns entertaining him and kept him confined to the back of the room so he wouldn't attack the gifts/cake/guests. Because he will. I know this because I've seen it happen.
Sunday night my mom made a giant pan of lasagna and bought an antipasto and had my aunts and uncles and two best friends from high school over. My brother was there and everything. The grownups sat in the living room and we kids sat at the table. It's nice to feel like you are fifteen again, even if your brat is sitting at the table with you, reminding you that you aren't.
Monday we flew back home. Jake puked on the plane. But it was totally okay because he puked in my hand and didn't get any on the lady sitting next to us or our clothes or the seat. In my hand, readers. In. My. Hand. He puked in my hand so it made everything okay.
This is my life.
I thought I could spend a good portion of my weekend sleeping and doing nothing while my mom ran Jake around town to show him off to her friends. Not so much. I carted him around to see family and friends on Friday because my mom had to work. The nerve! I think I hit a low point when I was walking aimlessly around Walmart at 8.45am on a weekday because I was awake and bored and I needed a few things that weren't FAA-acceptable and I didn't want to brave the traffic on Upper Peach. Me, Jake, and a bunch of other moms and kids and old people, all selling our souls to save a buck. All I could think about was that this would totally be my life if I lived here. I was wearing the same clothes I wore the day before AND to bed, Jake was playing with a car that I didn't intend to buy yet took out of the package for him to play with (totally okay to do at Walmart, right?) so he would behave. My hair wasn't combed, my breath smelled like coffee and gum because my teeth were unbrushed, Jake had a smudge of something on his face, and I was surrounded by people who thought it was okay to leave the house without beltloops.
Repeat after me: Never leave your house without beltloops.
Oh, and remember when I said Jake never gets sick? And how I knocked on wood? I have a confession, I never knocked on wood and sure enough Jake ended up with a bad case of the pukes and poops on Saturday. Nothing worse than the old P&P's. Luckily my mom was there to help clean up. I have never in my life had to deal with someone else's sick (save for the newborn spit-ups) so it was really good to be able to scream for my mom when my kid was denotatively dripping with grossness. I wasn't cut out for that part of being a mother. My brother's car got the worst of it when Jake puked all over the backseat. The poor boy had to sit in a pool of his own vomit all the way from the nursing home where my grandmother, aunt, and uncle were waiting on us for a nice dinner down to my mom's house, saying "mommy, i puked. i puked in car. i sorry i puked in car. mommy, i hold you please. please". Have I ever written here about how Jake is a chronic apologist? It makes you feel really crappy when your two year-old apologizes for everything that goes wrong in the house and in the world, as if it is his fault. And when he wants you to hold him, he asks to hold you. How do you say no to that? His big eyes blink a few times and he puts his arms up and asks to hold you.
Gawh.
Anyway, Sunday was Payton's Shower and Adrienne got loads of stuff. Moms and Wives, remember that post-shower feeling of having all that crap in your house and no real place for it? I don't ever want to feel that way again. But I digress. Of course we were late because Jake wouldn't wake up for the world and we were on Puke Watch '08 during the whole thing but he did pretty well. We all took turns entertaining him and kept him confined to the back of the room so he wouldn't attack the gifts/cake/guests. Because he will. I know this because I've seen it happen.
Sunday night my mom made a giant pan of lasagna and bought an antipasto and had my aunts and uncles and two best friends from high school over. My brother was there and everything. The grownups sat in the living room and we kids sat at the table. It's nice to feel like you are fifteen again, even if your brat is sitting at the table with you, reminding you that you aren't.
Monday we flew back home. Jake puked on the plane. But it was totally okay because he puked in my hand and didn't get any on the lady sitting next to us or our clothes or the seat. In my hand, readers. In. My. Hand. He puked in my hand so it made everything okay.
This is my life.
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