First, a confession apropos of nothing: You know that song “MMMBop?” I … I kind of love it. No, I TOTALLY love it, and I’m always happy when it comes on the radio. And I know all the words. And the Hanson brothers are so delightfully wholesome that I can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy towards them, okay? *I* want squeaky-clean children whose delicate internal systems have seen nothing wilder than the occasional glass of chocolate malt. How do I arrange that?
This weekend, by the way, we’re off to the wilds of Virginia to hang with the in-laws in a belated Thanksgiving celebration that is not likely to involve turkey, which saddens me, despite the fact that I just ate leftovers YESTERDAY. (That’s the last of them in their current form. I know, look, I KNOW I was pushing it, but still. So good.) I can attribute this constant turkey craving to last week’s Top Chef, where we were supposed to believe they were serving Thanksgiving dinner around Thanksgiving, but given that they were wearing short sleeves outside in Rochester, anyone could realize it was probably JULY. I would also like to add that I have never held greater disdain for Padma than I do this season. I just want her to a) stop talking; and b) put her boobs away. And typically, I’m a fan of extra boob. But no, Padma. No. Put them away.
By the way, after no fewer than three lengthy conversations with my general contractor brother, I have determined that the shower is a) likely fixable, hooray! and b) will probably only cost around $2,000. Which: I KNOW. TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. But look, yesterday we were at around $5-$6K, so while I’m still half-peeing myself over it, I’m mysteriously viewing it as a three thousand-dollar savings. Next up: a luxurious Caribbean vacations with our windfall! HAHAHAHAHA … ha? No?
No.
I ran into two people I know while picking something up downtown today, and both of them remarked on my girth which, once again, oh dear crap, no. No. I’m not particularly vain (though more on that later), but really? Is greeting someone with “Wow, you’ve gotten so BIG! You look UNCOMFORTABLE!” really the best thing to say to someone who’s already so aware of their size that they’re WADDLING? Really? I put on my pajamas last night and folded laundry at the foot of the bed and Adam just announced, “Wow, you are PREGNANT. Like all bumping around and stuff.” I glanced in the mirror and realized I looked precisely like Tweedledee and/or Tweedledum. It’s a very graceful feeling, you see.
I will likely post pictures of my terrifying girth tomorrow, just because, but I have to admit that the reason I haven’t is because last week’s haircut was the worst, and I mean, THE WORST haircut I’ve received in recent memory. It requires at least 20 minutes of careful construction so as not to horrify, and I’ve never, and I mean NEVER, spent more than five minutes on my hair.
It sticks up in parts! And is spiky and butchered and short in some areas, mysteriously long and strange in others. I … I don’t even know what’s going on here, but I’ve already been through two (2) salons in this town of approximately five people, and if I move on again, I’m one false move away from gaining A Reputation, not unlike the one my dentist has with every plumber in town. Dude’s been BLACKLISTED, y’all, and let’s all pray that he never has a toilet stop up, because no one will help him after he haggled a little too harshly with one of the plumbers in town. And what’s even sadder is that I know about it — hell, everyone knows it — and he has no idea, for no one will tell him, and he continues to publicly lament about how he wants to remodel his bathroom but no one is available to do the work. You know, in a recession, when plumbers are flush with extra-large projects.
This is life in a small town, I’m afraid. I could become Dr. Kleinfeldt of hair salons. It’s not that big of a leap, my friends.
And finally, two things of no particular importance:
– David Gregory is rumored to replace Brokaw on Meet the Press. FROM THE BEGINNING, I have said that I would be fine with many options, so long as it wasn’t David Gregory, who a) looks like a Muppet; and b) is a douche. I know he’s a douche. I have no proof that he’s a douche, as we’re not friends, but trust me: if you met David Gregory in person, he would be a douche. I am positive of this. POSITIVE. And is that really the tone we want to set on Meet the Press? A DOUCHEY one? I didn’t think so, and I can’t be sure that Tim Russert, the earthiest of down-to-earth non-douchey dudes, would be behind this. WWRD?
Not this, though he’d be too kind to say so.
I cannot think of a single celebrity who has passed on that I have missed as much as I miss Tim Russert. More than Peter Jennings, even. I miss him daily.
– I found pumpkin eggnog in the grocery store today. PUMPKIN EGGNOG. MADE WITH PUREED PUMPKIN. It’s like a PUMPKIN PIE IN A GLASS. Is Hood a New England-only brand? Because if it is, and you can’t find it, then I am very, very sorry for you. However, if you’re a New Englander, run, do not walk, to your nearest retailer for the pumpkin eggnog. And then die of happiness.
Happy Wednesday!
*The Decemberists
December 2nd, 2008
Despite repeated warnings, I remain in utter shock at how horrible Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull was. Um, OH MY GOD. HORROR OF HORRORS. When the film finally wrapped in the most absurd way imaginable, both Adam and stared at the screen a little dumbfounded, because seriously, that shit was … well, it was beyond the point of ridiculousness and involved some of the worst acting I’ve ever seen, not to mention … ALIENS. MY GOD THERE WERE ALIENS, ARE YOU SERIOUS? And I must know: Has Shia LaBeouf gotten any work since? Did anyone believe him? Anyone? ANYONE?
It was … it was worse than watching Adrien Grenier play Vincent Chase pretending to be an actor, particularly in Smokejumpers. It was soul-suckingly bad, not unlike this last season of Entourage.
Hey, how was your Thanksgiving? Because ours was THE AWESOME. It’s going to take somewhere in the range of an entire army to convince me to ever leave the house on Thanksgiving ever again, because there is nothing better than cooking, eating and laying about like gluttonous little piglets without ever (and I mean ever) getting out of your pajamas. Also, if you were ever considering whether to put cream cheese AND butter AND half and half in your mashed potatoes, a la Pioneer Woman, let me state the obvious and tell you that it is THE BEST IDEA EVER and that you must, you absolutely must do this. Now. Now is good.
Pregnancy has taken a bit of a turn for the worse, as it seems in the last week or so that I have realized that I will not be Perpetually Pregnant, but will, in fact, give birth to an actual person after this and it’s turned up the anxiety to 11, because there is SO MUCH TO DO AND THAT’S LIKE, TOMORROW. However, instead of being anxious about actual baby-related stuff, I’m channeling it into the most useless panics ever, including whether our new tenants will get us sued because their dog bites someone. Never mind that the dog is elderly, can barely make it up the stairs, much less attack, and has large swaths of skin literally falling off of her from old age. No, these facts aside, I am sure she will suddenly morph into ATTACK DOG AND EAT ALL THE CHILDREN IN THE WHOLE STATE OF FLORIDA AND WE WILL DIEEEEE. See also: irrational panic about toxic mold, carbon monoxide and whether pigs have wings.
Things I was not particularly afraid of include shower tiles popping off of the master shower, which will likely result in uh, thousands of dollars in repairs (retiling! shower pan replacement!) and a new shower for brand! new! tenants! Hello, please move into our house! OH WAIT. Thanks for the heads up about the shower tiles! NOW LET US RIP APART YOUR SHOWER BEFORE YOUR CEILING CAVES IN.
Let us all thank God that there is another shower for them to use. And someone, if you would, please hand me a cocktail or perhaps some heroin. OH WAIT.
Oh life. Such a heartless purveyor of cruel, cruel jokes.
By the way, and I feel that I might have mentioned this before, but I’m not drinking any alcohol this pregnancy, not because I’m particularly uptight about those things — though I completely understand why some people are — but because the smell of any and all alcohol induces vomiting. I tried to throw some vodka into a sauce a few weeks ago and … well, it did not go well at all, and reminded me that being pregnant is nothing if not the feeling of being constantly hungover after a hardcore tequila bender.
Speaking of pregnant, I had my boob looked at again today — I have a cysty thing that’s really no big deal, but I have to have it looked at every six months — and when the medical assistant and doctor asked if there were any changes to my breasts since I’d last been there, I could only say, um, everything? Have you SEEN them? WHAT ARE THESE THINGS? WHAT ARE THEY? WHY DO THEY HAVE STRETCH MARKS ON THEM? ALSO I AM NOW WEARING A SIZE BRA DESIGNED FOR WOMEN WHO NEED EXTRA SUPPORT AND IT HAS FOUR HOOKS. IS THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU?
As I was leaving (everything is fine), I made my appointment for six months from now, which is JUNE, which is WHEN I WILL ACTUALLY HAVE A BABY, God willing, knock on wood, etc. And when she asked what time would be convenient, I realized I had to make a time that would be convenient for Adam to come home early from work to watch our three-month-old daughter. I drove home in stunned silence, because again, it’s just not sinking in, folks. And further, I’d be lying if lately I haven’t been thinking that this whole procreation thing was a very, very bad idea and is it too late to back out? Because what were we THINKING? We can’t handle any of this! We are not ready! NOT EVEN A LITTLE.
This thought is quickly buried, usually with the assistance of a swift kick in the cervix, because already, of course, I can’t imagine a second without her. She’s with me all the time, and although I can’t wait to meet her, I can already tell I’m going to miss the time when she’s inside, not out there. Inside, at least, I can protect her with, I don’t know, my womb of steel or something.
But still. It’s all very overwhelming. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. And you know what else? I’m scared.
And finally, because I don’t know anyone who’s seen a decent movie lately (INDIANA JONES I HATE YOU), might I recommend re-watching (or watching, if you haven’t already), The Boondock Saints? Such a beautiful little movie I’d forgotten existed.
And then, also if you haven’t already, watch the accompanying documentary Overnight on the asshole writer/director, Troy Duffy, who presents such an unprecedented level of douchebaggery that it’s creepily enjoyable to witness, and you’ll find yourself screaming, “Are you SERIOUS RIGHT NOW? ARE YOU THAT STUPID, OH MY GOD?”
Because he is! He is that stupid! AND IT IS SO SATISFYING. And it’s also where the Entourage Medellin plotline was directly ripped from, Weinstein brothers and all. Riveting stuff, particularly if you’re a fan of Boondock Saints.
Have a happy Tuesday! I will be gathering estimates for shower pan replacement and retiling! And maybe mold removal! And … oh God. Just stick a fork in my eye, please.
*Reindeer Section
December 1st, 2008
