Now that the statute of limitations on spoilers has passed, may I have a word about Top Chef? Yes, that’s right, I said STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS, meaning that the people who were live-Tweeting the results Wednesday night broke some major etiquette rules, because it’s one thing to ruin it for those of us who were on TiVo delay, but WAY DIFFERENT to totally Hose(a) the people on the West coast who didn’t even have the CHANCE TO SEE IT. And when your Tweet is nothing more than, “Hosea wins!” I then think you are an even LARGER douche, because you’re not even adding value with your Tweet! You are just ruining it for others! YES, YOU!
Ahem. I seem to have worked myself into a pregnant FROTH over this, so pissed off was I. Because it’s never happened before during a regular episode, much less a FINALE.
Anyway, Hosea. Whatever. Man, do I dislike the guy, and I see nothing attractive about him, and will consider it a service to others if the reunion reveals that he has, indeed, hooked up with Leah on a more permanent basis. Because at least then we can assume that by two totally annoying, destructive people being together that they are at least reducing the damage to other, more innocent victims.
So! I have two things I’ve been wondering about, both non-pregnancy-bitching related, although I will FIRST tell you that I had an internal exam today which is very painful, HOO BOY OH YES IT IS. I had no idea, man. I mean, getting a hand up in there isn’t exactly a piece of cake, but I didn’t realize having someone noodle around in my cervix would feel not unlike that awful scene in Seven, if you know what I’m saying and BLECH I HOPE YOU DON’T. But! Word is that I’m 50% effaced and a fingertip dilated, which, plus a bag of salt and vinegar chips, will get me lunch, if that, and I’m told to “hang tight.” Whee.
So onward to the two things!
1) I really, really thought acrylic French-manicured nails went out in 1987. Am I woefully behind the times on this? I mean, I realize that the Real Housewives of Orange County aren’t exactly the most CLASSY of ladies, given their behavior, but don’t their nails seem so INCONGRUOUS? They’re PLASTIC. And very gross. Ew. Just ew.
2) It is pretty much determined that my daughter will be a Piscean unless she goes beyond March 20 and is born Giant Freaky Overcooked Baby, which: no. This is a little bit scary for me, a Capricorn/Scorpio mix, because while I love Pisces, my mind immediately goes to the most extreme manifestation, which is usually awesome, and generally the kind of person I admire because it’s so different from me.
But because I’ll be her MOTHER, and will turn into the completely crazy controlling Capricorn that I am, unleashing every negative aspect of my personality and sign on her like the WIND, I’m terrified she’s going to be all WIFTY and want to run off to swim with the dolphins or something, which will give me HIVES, because WHAT ABOUT HER FUTURE OH MY GOD, DOLPHINS DO NOT PAY THE BILLS. And it will morph into an epic battle of wills, when really, dolphin-wranglers are probably the happiest of sorts and can do just FINE.
But still, then I’ll be that irritating helicopter mom telling her to go do something practical, and just give up on her freakin’ marine dreams already, because it’s MUCH BETTER TO DO SOMETHING PRACTICAL. AND HAS SHE CONSIDERED BEING A CPA? And while she’s at it, pick up a suit from Brooks Brothers, perhaps the kind with the gold buttons on the cuffs! HURRY. STOP THINKING ABOUT THE DOLPHINS.
I used to be a bit of an astrology buff, and in fact, have a chart to do for a friend (AIEEE, JENNIE WILL DO), but can no longer really claim much beyond the most rudimentary of knowledge. However! I know my own signs rather well, and fit them to a T. And so I ask, do you? Is my fear of Wifty Piscean Dolphin Child completely unfounded?
(Note: this is mostly in jest. Please do not panic that I’m going to send my child back or, I don’t know TO MILITARY SCHOOL, because she decides to paint teapots for a living. Or that I have some sort of THING against Pisces, because OBVIOUSLY NOT.)
Happy weekend! Holla!
*The Sundays. And the only reason I use it is because I believe she uses the term “romantic Piscean” in her whole personal ad parallel, and now it’s in my head.
(Otherwise, some of us will have to be committed.)
(But really, that’s kind of all I’ve got going on, because I AM A LUMP. AN ISLAND. A CONTINENT.)
Hey, have I told you guys that I don’t sleep? Like, at all? I know, I know! I have! People think I’m exaggerating and all, but no no, really, I’m not. I start trying around 10:30, and without fail, I break out into an inexplicable full-body sweat by 11:30, at which point Adam falls asleep and snores ever so gently in tune with the dog, which is too much for my delicate little constitution to bear in this state, and I’m up! I’m up!
Enter hours and hours of television and infomercials mixed with tossing and turning and the occasional driftoff for no more than THIRTY MINUTES at a time, because I’ve been roused by the need to turn over — which believe me, is a process involving lots of heaving and more sweating, plus a body pillow — or I have to pee, or my arm (MY STUPID ARM) is throbbing from carpal tunnel.
Or — and this is the best part — I WAKE MYSELF UP SNORING. And by “snoring” I mean … oh God, you guys, I can’t believe the noises that come out of my face. Imagine a very large, very loud train full of snorting pigs screeching into megaphones. Now imagine that train in your bed. Or you know, ON YOUR FACE.
You see, perhaps, why I have come, however naively, to believe that the one- to three-hour stretches new parents complain about with newborns is beginning to sound downright LUXURIOUS. After all, I get exactly one (1) of those every day, usually between the hours of 7-10 a.m., during which the phone almost always rings, enraging me to the point of … well, blind rage. And even then, I wake up at least twice to pee and/or roll over and/or ALL OF THE DAMN ABOVE.
Here’s something also interesting! Do you know that sometimes stretch marks HURT while they are being created? You can actually feel your skin pulling apart! This of course, makes me think of OTHER nether-like regions pulling apart, only much faster and … oy, folks, OY. I am very excited for her to arrive, but I am not excited about the MODE of her arrival, and am wondering if there is some sort of alien osmosis way of getting her out so that none of us quite realizes it, until suddenly, OH LOOK, A BABY. HOW MAGICAL.
As for the marks themselves, I don’t actually care, because they aren’t that bad yet, AND I’m not inclined to get yanked out about such things, especially when there’s nothing I can do about it, short of duct-taping my skin together (a novel idea!). However, I am not all THIS IS THE SHAPE OF A MOTHER. I WEAR THEM AS BADGES OF HONOR. Um, no. They are what they are, and dude, I’m gonna assume those babies will fade. Or at least hope. If not, please don’t look for my midsection anywhere but underneath my shirts from now until forever and ever, amen.
Anyway, this will all be moot within the month, at least, as she’s due a week from Saturday, and I could go as long as 42 weeks. (Ha ha?) (HA HA HA?)
So. Other than an inordinate amount of very boring preparation and nesting (we have very clean toilets and bathtubs right now, because, you know, she’ll be born potty trained and showering solo, so those MUST BE CLEAN), there is little happening here. I am busy as hell doing things that are probably of little consequence (bills! repairmen scheduling in Florida! PANIC!) and watching my skin rip like an overinflated balloon.
And finally, Top Chef this season was really stinky. Thank God for Real Housewives. Or you know, I could watch something other than Bravo, but why start now?
Adam and I have been hellbound and determined to get all the sleeping, slothing and general do-nothingness we can in these last few weekends, to the point of not even LOOKING at what’s happening around us, because all we have planned — nay, all we WANT — to do is watch Weeds and The West Wing or whatever show we missed the first time around and are now catching up on. I think this went to the extreme when we went out for dinner last night and didn’t even notice the GIANT BONFIRE that could be seen from all points in town, which was apparently wrapping up some kind of town-wide winter carnival that had been happening all weekend long. And yet, when we finally did notice the fire, we almost called 9-1-1, because OMG FIRE WTF.
We’re involved in our community, is what I’m saying. ACTIVELY INVOLVED. I imagine this will change, however, when I am able to do anything for more than three minutes at a time, and I’ll have a baby who would probably like to do something other than watch Weeds (well, eventually anyway). By “anything,” by the way, I mean really mean all things that normal people do. I can’t eat more than an ounce at a clip because my stomach’s in my boob, I can’t walk for any distance because oh my God, my aching back, and for chrissake, I can’t even LAY ON ONE SIDE for more than three minutes, because the sheer heft of my own body makes my whole side go numb.
So! In light of the fact that we’re in a holding pattern here and did little else other than lay about like bumps in pickles, mail thank-you notes and other sundry sloth-like activities, how about a painful meme? I KNOW! I hate them, too! But my brain needs to do something, and I already did the cursed 25 things on Facebook (no, really, IT MADE ME).
This, too, is the worst of all, as it is the COUPLES MEME. HA HA HA. Oh, poor Adam.
What are your middle names?
Mine is Kay; Adam’s is Lewis. I really despise mine (sorry, Mom!), as it seems so … country western song, to me. Blech.
How long have you been together?
Ten years. We started dating in 1999; married in 2003.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We both went to Syracuse and ultimately, had all of the same friends, but I’d only ever heard of this mysterious Adam that everyone knew but I’d never met. He’d graduated the year prior, but had to finish up a credit or two while he worked a full-time job, so understandably, his schedule wasn’t really that of a college student anymore. However, finally, about a week before graduation, we met at a bar and I chatted his ear off drunkenly, and boy howdy, I liked him a whole lot, but we were both involved with other people at the time.
Eventually, after we’d both moved back to Boston a year later, I ran into him on the street on my way to the T and hugged him, we all started hanging out together and … that was kind of it.
Who asked whom out?
Uh, neither of us, I guess. It was an organic kind of thing that happened kind of shortly after we re-met. Although I did have a (bad, irrelevant and superboring) boyfriend at the time that we realized we were getting together and Adam basically demanded that I break up with him because there was sort of no point stopping the train we were on. (I’m making this sound like the Thornbirds or something, but it wasn’t really like that.) And I did exactly that the very next day, and we’ve been together ever since.
How old are each of you?
He was a year ahead of me in school and everything else, but we’re both 33.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
We each have more than one sibling, but we see my sister and his brother the most, probably equally these days, as they’re the closest to us (Boston and Syracuse, respectively).
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I’m going to go with impending parenthood, preemptively.
Did you go to the same school?
Yes. But again, we didn’t really know each other, and while I’d heard of him, I highly doubt he’d ever heard of me.
Are you from the same home town?
Nope. I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania, and he grew up in Boston’s MetroWest.
Who is smarter?
I’m no slouch, but he’s much smarter than me in every useful category imaginable.
Who is the most sensitive?
Neither one of us are super-sensitive types, but he’s not at all, while I am currently experiencing a pregnancy-induced bout of X-TREME SENSITIVITY 2009. I’m even embarrassed at some of the things that come out of my mouth, seriously, because I’m this wee little shrinking violet who is weirdly, hormonally needy. I believe I’ve said, “Will you still love me if/when [insert event here]” more times than I EVER imagined saying it before. I am an awful, miserable, needy sap which, you’re just going to have to trust me, is nothing like me normally.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s not thrilled with it, because who IS this suddenly weird, needy woman who’s all, “WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?” I mean, where is his WIFE, is probably what he’s thinking.
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
HA. Well, considering we live in a wee town with very little of anything decent to speak of, I’d say the diner up the street for lunch, which has the best reubens in town.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
It’s sad to say we’ve both traveled far and wide separately, but we haven’t traveled that far as a couple. Pre-baby, when we took couple-y type vacations, we both worked so much that all we wanted to do was lay on a beach somewhere, so that’s what we did. So, uh, the Caribbean was frequented A LOT.
Who has the craziest exes?
That would be me. All of his exes are lovely, and the kind of women I’d be friends with if they lived closer. And there’s really only one of mine that went crazy, but he seems just fine now. I think.
Who has the worst temper?
Hm. I’m quick to anger, quick to cool. I will yell and rant for five to fifteen minutes, and then it’s over forever. Adam is one of those slow-burn types who takes a while to get angry, but takes just as long to cool down. This works out just as well as you can imagine, although we don’t fight much.
Who does the cooking?
I do, except when Adam makes his Asian stir-fry, which is delicious. He always cooks chicken perfectly.
Who is the neat-freak?
Adam. I thrive in chaos.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh God, it’s like living with two MULES.
Who hogs the bed?
HA HA. I do. Am miserable, bed-hogging cow these days, and now there are pretty much two of me, given the giant body pillow I require to get comfortable. Rolling over is a HILARIOUS ENDEAVOR that often results in thwapping Adam directly in the face with the zipper end of the pillowcase. God.
Who wakes up earlier?
Me, almost always, under normal circumstances. But lately, with my general preggo morning exhaustion, he’s up and at ’em, while I’m prone and sloth-like, considering stabbing my own eyes out for a second more of actual sleep that lasts more than thirty minutes.
Where was your first date?
We had our first “date” by making the impromptu decision to stay up all night and watch the sunrise over Boston Harbor after a night out with friends. My best friend (and roommate at the time), Eve, was also with us, which she now remembers with painful awkwardness (“You guys were GETTING TOGETHER, what the FUCK was I DOING THERE?”), but truly, it was actually perfect that she was there and not at all awkward at the time, because it’s not like it was PLANNED and there was no kissing or hand-holding or anything date-y about it.
Besides, the two of them were better friends than Adam and I were then. They’d known each other for years at that point.
Our first alone-date was when we both opted to play hooky from work and randomly take a boat ride in the Boston Harbor on a gorgeous sunny day.
It’s worth noting that four years later, Adam proposed at that very spot, just behind the aquarium, right before we went out to dinner and drinks with all of our friends in Faneuil Hall.
Who is more jealous?
Neither of us are jealous. I don’t know any married people who are, or is that just me? It would be weird for us. I mean, we’re happily married, so there’s really nothing to be jealous of. It’s not like some appealing person of the opposite sex is going to come in and make any difference in our relationship whatsoever.
How long did it take to get serious?
About a minute. We were talking about getting married like, a week into it. I even told my mother I was going to marry this guy, to which she probably said something like, “Yes, sure, right, whatever.” But I was right.
Who eats more?
Oh God, probably me. But I’m pregnant and uh, Adam’s a snacker?
Who does the laundry?
I don’t let him, or anybody, near the laundry. It’s my weird little anal thing I have. I love doing laundry and it’s a chore I really don’t mind, although I will concede I should do it more often.
Who’s better with the computer?
Considering he’s always been a programmer, technology lead, VP of technology or CTO, I’m going to go with him. I always forget that most people don’t live with computer geniuses who can fix anything, anytime.
Who drives when you are together?
Adam. He claims I’m a bad driver, but WHATEVER. Am behind-the-wheel prodigy.
I’m off to scrounge up something for dinner and watch the Oscars. Oh and then MAYBE I’ll try to sleep, but trust me, no one is counting on this.
*Regina Spektor. She’s wicked hit or miss for me, but I love that song.
One of my favorite posts of all-time on the Internets is Swistle’s The Facts (For Some People), and while I’m sure I’ll appreciate it later, I REALLY appreciate it now, in this Time of Well-Meaning (and Sometimes Scary) Advice. It’s SO FUNNY how everyone thinks their experience is THE universal experience, but what they don’t realize is that everyone thinks that, and yet everyone’s experience is different, and I know this, because I’ve heard it all, I swear. Pregnant people and new parents, I imagine, are particularly privy to this phenomenon, because we are irresistible fresh-faced targets.
You wouldn’t think that this phenomenon would extend to what I EAT, but lo, you would be very wrong. I’m currently stocking my freezer with enough yummy stuff to last for a while so that I don’t have to cook or run out or do anything normal, at least at first. This is hilariously ill-advised to some people, because I will TOTALLY be able to at least cook something BASIC, and am overreacting.
Conversely, the fact that I “only” have somewhere in the range of 40-50 meals frozen is panic-inducing for others, because the facts are that I will NEVER BE ABLE TO COOK AGAIN and I should really consider a bigger freezer packed with enough food to sustain me for a year, at least. No, really. Never again.
And we haven’t even touched on WHAT I’ve frozen which, for the record, is a wide variety of foods featuring all sorts of food groups. “No tomatoes!” some warn me, as they claim tomatoes upset baby’s tummy if you’re breastfeeding. “No dairy!” screech others, for the same reason. “Meat? OMG no meat!” others admonish. “Ditch the gluten!” say others. “It causes gas!” And oh, it goes on.
All this is basically to say that if I took everyone’s food advice, I would be able to subsist on air and the occasional spoonful of Miracle Whip. Nope, not even that. It has chemicals. And forget about mayonnaise, because WHAT ABOUT THE EGGS.
I am amused, not irritated, by this, for the record. Unsolicited advice doesn’t bother me unless it’s related to my early demise because of the wrong birthing choice. There’s advice, and then there’s death-related advice, is what I’m saying.
This is probably why I can tell you that I have very little expectation for what parenthood will be like, except that it will probably be Very Very Bad and Very Very Hard and Very Very Exhausting, not to mention Very Very Tear-Inducing and maybe Very Very Miserable. No kidding. That’s where I’m starting from, and I’m cool with that. Only one way to go but up at that point.
Onward! One of my closest friends’ moms is on Facebook, and it truly provides endless hours of entertainment. He and I have been friends since we were ten, so obviously, I know her quite well, and am familiar with her hot buttons. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t find it hilarious when she responds to his totally benign midday status updates with harsh, borderline hysterical admonishments like (and I’m so not making this up or even exaggerating), “ALEXANDER SMITH, GET OFF THE INTERNET THIS INSTANT. DO YOU WANT TO LOSE YOUR JOB OVER FACEBOOK.”
He’s 33, married, successful and has a kid on the way. HA HA HAAAA. Oh, MOMS.
(And not his real name, obvs, because that would be unfair.)
And finally, three gestational-related events that amused, horrified and delighted me this week:
1) I forgot to mention that the midwhiff from earlier this week asked me if I knew what I was having. And, strangely, when I replied, “A girl!” she promptly asked, “And has anyone talked to you about circumcision?”
MW: “Well, would you like to discuss it?”
Me: “Again, not really, as it’s a girl.”
I’m wondering if she was high or just really, really out of practice.
2) While sitting and/or lying down, it can be hard to realize just how badly you have to pee. That is, until you get up, when all hell breaks loose as the baby’s head drops directly onto your bladder and suddenly you find that you can no longer walk. I got up today and lurched to the bathroom in such an awkward fashion that the dog no longer recognized me and started barking, chasing me and biting my ankles because clearly, I had morphed into an intruder. Good to know in the event that my body is taken over by aliens and/or I become a zombie.
3) Adam’s company threw us a baby shower earlier in the week, which was ADORABLE and so nice and too generous and just … yes. So cute. Among the myriad of ridiculously cute things we received were decorated onesies from each department (one of them an artistic interpretation of some sort of theory of calculating a carbon footprint, complete with mathematical equations), clothes, books, useful stuff and, oh I didn’t realize such a thing EXISTED, but … baby ice skates, designed for a two-year-old-ish midgety person. Yes, WEE ICE SKATES, so that, I don’t know, we can raise the next Katerina Witt or a female Wayne Gretzky. Too cute. Thanks again, guys.
And speaking of, Adam’s working on an environmental-related project that some of you might be interested in being beta users for. If so, you can find the information here. (Added bonus: you may occasionally receive correspondence from the man himself, as Suebob discovered previously.)
My aunt is a graphic designer-slash-promotional material maker-type person, and one of the side benefits to the screen-printing portion is that my family gets every blasted runoff mailed to us in a big-ass package once or twice a year. As a result, I have an ungodly amount of day-of-the-week T-shirts in a size meant for only the largest among us. I used to wear them to the gym and now, I typically wear them to bed, as they are among the few left that sort of cover my belly. I’ve yet to wear them on the proper day — to do so would, at this point, seem weird and a little contrived, because why start now? And besides, Saturday’s shirt is never clean on a Saturday anyway.
However, I included one in the hospital bag, as it’s a comfortable pajama-type thing that I don’t mind getting gross, should there be grossness (and I am promised that there will be grossness). Thursday, I think. I can’t help but wonder in an odd sort of way if this is maybe portentous, in a vaguely ironic sort of way. I shall now look at every Thursday with an eye of deep suspicion. I’m onto you, Thursday.
I like Friday better than Thursday, however. Or, you know, Saturday, so that Adam’s paternity leave can be a wee bit longer. Or whenever. I’m cool with whenever. Provided it is more than a week from now, because …
Yesterday I came down with a mild case of The Herp — by which I mean cold sores — which is distressing for many reasons, but mostly that if I were to go into labor right now, there could be no baby smooching AT ALL which is, not to be dramatic, pretty devastating. There would also be an inordinate amount of hand-washing and panic about where my lips might be and did I touch my lips during all that grunting and panicking? Am I going to kill her with herpes not five minutes after she’s arrived? WHY, HERP, WHY?
I’ve been self-medicating with Abreva, as per usual, which seems to be helping, and I mentioned this during my now-weekly appointment at the OB’s office to a stand-in non-practicing midwife who I will never see again (they were down a doc/midwife due to many babies arriving today) (yay, babies!). My God, she was HORRIFIED, and the first words out of her mouth were, “Okay, you know that’s herpes, right? And do you get them … anywhere else?”
Seriously. First of all, while the two types of herpes are generally the same virus (HSV1 & 2 classifications notwithstanding), not everyone with one has the other. In fact, MOST people with one don’t have the other. And secondly, seriously? Do you think I’d get THIS FAR in my pregnancy, much less LIFE, without knowing I had genital herpes? And wouldn’t make some kind of CONTINGENCY PLAN in case of an outbreak?
I … oh heavens. I’m not sure if it speaks to her mistaken assumption of my ignorance or to that of the general population who would just blithely walk around with painful, itchy open sores on their hoo-has and not think it’s something worth mentioning to the doctor, especially given that someone’s HEAD will be EXITING PAST THAT REGION very soon. Especially a very wee someone with a paper-thin immune system.
She then took my hand and gently advised me against oral sex “during this time.” Again, oh good heavens, what KIND of women does this person work with? So many things wrong with the visual she brings forth, but again, it involves open sores lurching towards private parts, a lack of common sense, and for the love of God no, just no, and again, I question the intelligence of someone who wouldn’t realize this.
This also makes me laugh until I can’t breathe when you consider that I lumber around here like Roseanne Barr and have begun to resemble an elephant. And an elephant with open sores wearing a T-shirt that screams “MONDAY” in giant fake newsprint font on a Wednesday, no less. (No really, I’m wearing one now.) In other words: HOT.
(Aside: don’t Google “cold sores and newborns” because you’ll be regaled with a British couple whose baby DIED because of a cold sore on the mom and … well. Nothing like Dr. Google to add to the panic of an already-panicked time. However, let it be known that it is VERY RARE, and hers was a primary infection — her first — not a secondary one, and long-term Herp sufferers of all kinds pass antibodies to our wee ones through the bloodstream into the placenta, so they are protected to some degree already. And herein ends our herpes medical lesson for the day.)
(This does not mean, however, that I’m not calling an actual doctor tomorrow to see if I can snag some Valtrex, because honestly: BABY KISSING. And DEATH. And … oh MAN.)
She also kept referring to her now-defunct practice as “midwifery,” pronounced “midwhiffery,” which I know, I KNOW, is the right way to say it, but it always makes me think of people taking very deep breaths — whiffs, if you will — of another person’s midsection, perhaps while they’re giving birth. MIDWHIFFERY. It sounds stinky.
Am catching up on e-mail now that my arm is semi-functioning by the way. So if you’re waiting for one from me, feel free to rejoice, as tomorrow is your day. I’m so sure you can hardly wait. Huzzah!
My building is RIFE with passive aggressive notes, and frankly, as Adam and others have suggested, I’m going to start photographing them and placing them on Passive Aggressive Notes, because this shit is RIDICULOUS. At first, it was mildly amusing, but my friends, we have crossed A Line. Ladies and gentlemen, there have been five, count ’em, FIVE notes in less than three days’ time, left at various places throughout the building, for various transgressions.
It started with dog poop. Now, I’m the first to admit that leaving dog poop in public areas is absolutely disgusting, and further, if you have a dog, you know that nothing is a more appealing snack for a poop-eater than days-old dog poop and really, there are a lot of other things I’d rather do than scrape another dog’s feces out of my dog’s chomping maw. Plus, not to pull out my inner environmentalist, but leaving dog poop on the ground is a leading cause of groundwater pollution. I know. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
So while I appreciated the first note that gently suggested that we should all be better about cleaning up after our dogs, I did not appreciate the obvious assumption by some that it was me, as I’m the newest resident with a dog, and apparently they haven’t had any problems before. Every SINGLE time I’m out with Sunny, I catch a neighbor watching me, waiting to see if I’ll pull the bag out of my pocket, WHICH I ALWAYS DO OH MY GOD. I ALWAYS HAVE A BAG STOP LOOKING AT ME.
I have lived in condo associations before, and let me tell you, it only takes ONE STRAY POOP for a bunch of groupthinkers to think it’s okay to leave it. ONE. So dear neighbors: kindly fuck off, as it’s not me. Maybe you should consider whether it’s the same people who let their dogs PEE on the FRONT LIGHTS, tingeing them YELLOW, like an icky Batman symbol of public urination. Oh and P.S., those people are obviously those with boy dogs, which I do not have. Girl dogs don’t lift their legs. Thanks much.
But! It doesn’t stop there! Next up: the rogue parker! A car in our garage had a note on the windshield that read, shit you not:
Dear Corolla Owner:
I see you are enjoying our extra parking space! Lucky for you, as we don’t need it until we move here full-time this summer, but that doesn’t mean it’s free. If you’d like to rent it at a monthly fee, call us at XXX-XXXX, otherwise, move your car now.
– Your neighbors in unit XXX
And YET. IT DOES NOT END THERE! There is the SECOND dog poop note, saying that we can’t let our dogs poop on the front lawn, and that they voted on this TWO APRILS AGO and that we should all research the minutes for details! (Oh yes, please, because I totally have ALL THE MINUTES ON FILE.) And that she’ll clean it up THIS TIME, but only because she almost stepped in it! And better? SHE LEFT THE BAG OF POOP ON THE FRONT STEPS TO PUNCTUATE THE NOTE. Thank you very, very much, old lady, for cleaning up the poop, but it really doesn’t count if you just LEAVE IT THERE.
There was also a less exciting one about the hallway heat, and another about the new mats in the front hallway and making sure we WIPE OUR FEET from all the SALT to keep the FLOORS CLEAN because SOME PEOPLE DON’T OH JESUS, but the real piece de resistance was the package note, left on a delivery from the Land of Nod to the neighbors upstairs. Yes, yes, it had been there for a few days, but it was HEAVY and her HUSBAND WAS OUT OF TOWN and it wasn’t HURTING ANYONE MY GOD. However, the resident note-leaver could not let it lie there, and left a neon green note on it announcing:
This has been here for a while. Any idea who it belongs to?
Um, are you serious? ARE YOU SERIOUS? IT BELONGS TO THE PERSON WHOSE NAME AND ADDRESS IS ON THE FRONT OF THE BOX NEXT TO YOUR NOTE. IT SAYS MOLLY XX, UNIT 405. PERHAPS YOU COULD POLITELY GO UPSTAIRS AND SEE IF MOLLY NEEDS ANY HELP INSTEAD OF BEING A DOUCHEBAG. BECAUSE IT IS A VERY HEAVY PACKAGE AND SHE’S PROBABLY ALONE WITH AN INFANT.
(This, by the way, was my plan, but by the time I went up there, the package was gone. Poor Molly had probably been shamed into strapping it to her back with bungee cords, like a wee beast of burden.)
I’m going to start photographing them, so help me lord. And then I’m totally leaving a passive aggressive note saying that I’m posting them all on Passive Aggressive Notes, because I cannot be alone in my frustration about the never-ending stream of NOTES and what better way to demonstrate, in the most ironically passive aggressive way possible, that NOTES ARE RIDICULOUS. (Um, is that okay, neighbors who read this? Ha ha?)
Well. Thank you for letting me vent. Hopefully you’re off tomorrow for President’s Day, but if not, I’m very sorry. I’ll be here with my loose joints and freakishly pushy baby trying to break her way out the front instead of the regular way, in addition to fighting off the FIFTH COLD OF PREGNANCY, O HELP ME GOD.
I’m thinking about leaving a note asking my neighbors to wash their damn hands and stop leaving germs where other people can innocently pick them up. Oh, and could they please wipe down the mailboxes after they check their mail? KTHANX.
P.S. I have never felt so grossly pregnant as when I can hear stomach gurgly noises fully underneath my boob, because that’s where my stomach has been pushed to. It’s ALL THE WAY UNDER MY LEFT BOOB. Next to my heart. My God.
Today on Twitter, the topic briefly turned to Real Life vs. People on the Internet. Now, I’m the first to admit that those lines blur all the time, and I TOTALLY believe that the friendships we make online are indeed very real (and in many cases, converge into Real Life In Person Shit), so please, when I say People on the Internet, I don’t mean you, or those situations, I mean the People on the Internet who get all up in your grill about not having children vs. having children or the great SAHM debate or Breastfeeding Wars or Birthing Wars or whatever.
I mean, I rarely have these debates in real life, truly I don’t. Yes, yes, I do OCCASIONALLY, but it’s very easy to dismiss the perpetrators, because who cares what a stranger thinks? NO ONE. Frankly, none of my real life friends would do anything but be kind and supportive to me no matter what I chose, so if the lady at the grocery store disagrees, do I honestly give a rip? I mean, I’ll rant about her for a few minutes and call it a day, but beyond that: meh. Grocery Store Lady smelled like mothballs anyway.
And yet, on the Internet, when one or two people play Grocery Store Judgy Mothball Lady, we get all worked up about it and it becomes a Thing and before you know it, we’re Tweeting our asses off about some jerkwad who told us we were wasting our lives by having children (or not) and not becoming the next Carly Fiorina (or for pursuing that avenue), when for all we know, the jerkwad in question could be sitting in a rubber room wearing polyester and eating spray cheese out of a can.
Interesting stuff, that.
Speaking of Carly Fiorina, I can’t help but wonder if she’d been as successful if she’d maintained her given name, Cara Sneed. It doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?
Anyway. I can’t tell you how happy I am that Bravo maintains a near steady stream of Housewives for us to devour, particularly now, on the edge of a period of time when I will have a lot of time in front of the television with a newborn. I mean THANK GOD. I almost wished I hadn’t eaten up the Orange County edition so greedily, but I am BEYOND excited for New York, even if my girl Bethenny likes Vicki and Tamra and gleefully blogs about it (WTF, Bethenny?).
I believe that I am the only person who has any kind of soft spot for Gretchen and wants Tamra and Vicki to be HIT BY A BUS. I mean, I don’t want them dead or anything, I just want them to be scared into being something other than trashy nouveau riche, for the love of God.
In other thrilling gestational news, our final birthing class was last night, which was somewhat anti-climactic, as it focused on newborn care and things like swaddling (am master swaddler and diaperer now, not that it’s hard, plus I have Swaddle Mes and Miracle Blankets). What was apparently disturbing, however, is that I kept slamming the swaddled/diapered baby on the ground when I completed my task, which had Adam in hysterics, but look, I’m SORRY. It’s a PLASTIC BABY.
Also thrilling is the fact that my arm is ENTIRELY NUMB and in a not-insignificant amount of pain, thanks to extended pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel, so if I owe you an e-mail I am so sorry, and I am WOEFULLY BEHIND. Seriously, my whole arm goes all twitchy and loose — including my shoulder — thanks to joint-loosening relax-y type hormones, and I’m hoping it means that my pelvic bones are so limbered up that I will shoot this baby out of my nethers without drugs OR pain in five seconds flat.
Happy Thursday! (The Millionaire Matchmaker’s on tonight! Let us see what Playboy model and/or prostitute she matches with a fake millionaire this season!)
Oh MY. Thank you so much for all of your advice re: supplies, etc. etc. I … I think I have almost everything, although we’re running into a breast pump issue that will soon be resolved, but is the DIRECT RESULT of residing in a wee town with very few resources.
Other side effects include a desperate town-wide run to a variety of stores because I JUST NOW figured out that “newborn” is not the same size as “0-3 months” which is … well, I’m sorry, it’s ridiculous, is what it is, and I really hardly had any newborn-sized anything at all. And while I realize she’ll be a newborn for all of THREE WHOLE SECONDS, I have this irrational fear of drowning her in the wrong-sized onesie, resulting in a lifetime of trauma or, I don’t know, death by onesie. I wonder if you can sue Carter’s for that?
Anyway, we had our hospital tour on Saturday which was … well, not super-helpful, but somewhat necessary, if only to make sure we knew where we were going when the day inevitably comes, provided it’s not too late to change our minds. (Ha ha?) However, there were a few things I most definitely wish she had not mentioned, including, but not limited to:
– This is not usually a busy time of year, but this year, they are positively OVERRUN with births, followed by a lengthy statement wondering what could have been happening nine months ago to make people in such a babymaking mood. Maybe I’m merely immature, but you know, gross. Also, this might have been a fine thing to say, had it not been preceded by …
– “When we’re really busy, we have had to birth babies on these beds right here,” she said as she pointed to SEVERAL BEDS IN THE HALLWAY, that were like, THREE INCHES APART. Perhaps I, and all the other women who were getting it on nine months ago, will be able to squeeze each other’s hands during contractions as we pray that our beds don’t wheel into the visitor’s lounge.
– She walked us by a Mystery Room where women go to not really give birth but, uh, don’t actually have babies … or something. It was all very unclear. I hoped it was women on bedrest or monitoring, but it also could have been something much more … sad, and something I’d rather not think about. And also, if I get placed in the Sad Room of Mystery because they are overrun with birthing mothers, I will freak right the hell out, because I don’t want to be placed in the Room of Mystery and Doom. I don’t want to be doomed.
So basically, although I have no birth plan whatsoever, I am petrified of a) having the skinny doctor I hate be on call; b) giving birth in the Room of Doom; or c) giving birth in the hallway. This means that I will totally have the skinny doctor, followed by a brief stint in the hallway and THEN a move to the Room of Doom. Mark my words.
And here I was afraid the worst thing that could happen was that I’d be stuck in the waterbirth room where the tub was Large and Unwieldy and also, would leave me all naked in the middle of a room without the protection of a bed or a bathroom. (I don’t know why those two things make me feel safer. I don’t. I mean, it’s not like either of them COVER YOUR VAGINA FROM THE MASSES.)
(Also, this reminds me of the birth video they showed us in class where Carl, a man right out of the streets of Revere, no lie, hops in the shower with his ’80s-haired wife while she voice-overs that “they shoulda brought Cahl a bathin’ suit!” And HA HA, guess what’s on our hospital’s recommended packing list? A BATHING SUIT FOR THE PARTNER. Which, I don’t know why, kills me.)
At any rate, I’m sure there was something more interesting and non-self centered or pregnancy related that I intended to go on about, but I’ve completely forgotten and it’s clearly time to take a bath and/or panic about drowning my kid in a footed pajama set or something.
I will say that I will likely post a picture or two tomorrow after I take them (oh, and after our final birthing class where she will doubtless freak us out about postpartum depression) because MY GOD, the belly has taken over, and today when I hit the health food store, the woman justifiably asked if I was due five minutes ago. Because yes, I will finally admit, it looks that way at 36 and a half weeks.
And hey, what’s the real deal on baby wipes? Are they REALLY not flushable? Because COME ON.
*Reindeer Section. Man, my music selections have gone stale since I stopped having any time to find anything new.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t stand when female-female hostility is immediately pinned on envy. It’s overplayed and only rarely, in my experience, is it actually true. And sadly, what’s amusing to me is that it seems that the pettiest among us are the first to lay it out there as an excuse.
“Oh, she’s just JEALOUS.”
Ninety percent of the time, I feel like shouting, “No no, darling, you WISH she were jealous, is the thing. I think she’s just pissy, for some indiscernible reason. Which is fine! It does not mean she covets your hair or your intellect. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t. Although both are lovely! Really!”
That paragraph, by the way, has absolutely no relevance on anything in particular that’s happened recently, except that I *do* think that Etta James really *is* envious of Beyonce, ergo her promised ass-whipping. Hell, I’m not even a jealous person, and I’m envious of Beyonce, if only for her would-be-whipped ass. And thighs. And brickhouse body in general.
Actually, right now I’m envious of anyone who has a body that doesn’t fatigue on a dime, because I took my sorry, pregnant non-brickhouse ass to the grocery store today and had to promptly lie down the second I got home. God, that was PAINFUL and particularly exhausting, and made me feel absolutely ridiculous, because seriously, it was a trip to the grocery store for some taco supplies and fruit, not the Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon.
Look, I’m not going to go on too much, because really, I have an ulterior motive. I’m panicking about baby supplies, and though I *think* I have most of the necessary stuff (yes, we have a car seat, of course), I could really use a prepare for departure and cross-check up in this piece, so I *am* curious:
What are the things you, if you have kids, absolutely could not live without in those first few weeks? And of course, if you don’t, what did your friends have that they told you about?
Edited to add: Dude, this is so not considered assvice. I asked for it! I DID! And if you’re being assy about the advice-y, I will ignore you. And it will be fine!
(Incidentally, I remember my friend A asking my then-boss, who is kind of … manly and attractive … what the bare necessities were before her first daughter was born and he, humiliatingly, very earnestly replied that his wife couldn’t live without stool softener. I will never forget that. And if she’s reading this, neither will she. STOOL SOFTENER. Imagine, if you will, a totally hot guy telling you the first thing you should buy, like RIGHT THIS MINUTE, is stool softener. )
*Totally irrelevant to the post at hand, but it’s Breathe. Dude, do you guys remember them? Like, the whole pathetic ballad band with the weird dude and the pansy voice? I … I can’t stop thinking about them lately, after hearing “Hands to Heaven” in the dentist’s office, and their album is thus far unavailable online. I LOVED them. LOVED. And they were terrible! And yet so good! So BritPop ’80s!
And this video, blurry as it is, has been KILLING me all day. KILLING ME.
One of the bassinet sheets I ordered arrived today and came with a set of Kotex samples, which, in addition to being rather odd, reminded me that OH RIGHT, I haven’t gotten my period since LAST JUNE. But ah, thanks for the heads up, Kotex! And GAWD, could you imagine if, among the myriad of injustices that make up the pregnancy experience, you got your PERIOD, TOO? I totally think that’s grounds for demanding your money back, or at least standing in a rainstorm and expecting diamonds to fall into your pockets, because that’s what you deserve.
Thank God it’s generally a biological impossibility.
It also reminded me that I have NO IDEA where my, uh … supplies … are, for when that day inevitably happens. Although really, rest assured I’m all stocked up on maxi pads, thanks in part to Adam, who learned alllll about the reasons why in birthing class and is getting quite the gleeful kick out of reminding me that yes, yes, HA HA, maxi pads will be a necessity post-partum. (GAAAK)
Moving on! We had our penultimate birthing class last night, and I’m pleased to report it was our most painful yet. It involved a visit from a local pediatrician, and wow, I did not like her, whereas Adam DESPISED her and ranted for an entire hour after the class ended about how desperately he wanted to tell her to stuff it. The problems were several-fold:
– She’s very pro-vaccine, which, while fine and even educational and admirable, was presented in a way that was actually offensive to those who even QUESTIONED the validity of her position, as a woman in our class did, and HOO BOY did she pay for it. Basically the doctor announced that her children were going to die of meningitis, and if that’s what they wanted for their unborn son, then by all means, go right ahead, just don’t say she didn’t warn them. Oh, and when her kid has a fever, she might as well PANIC and get her ass to the EMERGENCY ROOM. Her point was that these awful diseases are coming back, but I …
I think there could have been a more … gentle way to say that, but you know, I could be wrong.
– And yet … she’s pro-attachment parenting AND pro-co-sleeping, which again is fine, except that that’s the only way she sees it working, because that’s what SHE does with her kids. I mean, she nearly started spitting nails when she referenced the bouncy seat (“worst invention ever”) and I was waiting for her to tell us that Ergo now makes waterproof baby carriers designed so that you can shower with your baby, no kidding, because oh my God, you CANNOT PUT YOUR BABY DOWN. EVER.
And she still sleeps with her seven- and nine-year-old and she loves it! And further, she says, if you start it AT ALL, you’d better be prepared to FINISH IT. FOR LIFE!
In other words, if you sleep with your child until she’s 18 months, you’d better be prepared to sleep with her until she’s 18 YEARS. Why yes! She said that! Did you know that your teenage boy will still want to sleep with you when he’s fifteen? Ditto your daughter who’s a junior in high school. She won’t even want her own room! And if you don’t want that, you’d better never let your child into your bed. Ever. OH MY GOD I’M SO SURE.
– I … oh God, I could go on, but you’d be asleep. And again, it’s not that I don’t appreciate her opinion on some things, it’s the WAY she presented it. She did not see us as unique snowflakes! We are merely PAPER CUTOUTS OF FAKE SNOWFLAKES MADE WITH GENERIC PATTERNS FROM COSTCO.
I really dislike people who only see one way of doing things to the point where they belittle others’ viewpoints (see also: politics). I think the least we can do is hear each other out and treat each other with respect, even while saying hey, I get where you’re coming from, but in my professional opinion, you might want to reevaluate (such as the couple with vaccination concerns). And I’m sure the last thing a concerned, hormonal woman wants to hear is that she’s doing it ALL WRONG. My God.
I only hope that the one (yes, ONE) other pediatrician’s office in town is less militant (we’re going there next week), otherwise ho ho HO, baby girl, we’re driving up up and away for your well-baby visits! STRAP IN.
One more birthing class. Four more weeks of pregnancy. A lifetime of parenting assvice. Thrilling!