Archive for April, 2010
First of all, it snowed several inches last night and this morning. Yesterday afternoon, I could handle, and it seemed almost quaint. How very Vermont, I thought. How … special, that just before we leave, it’s snowing! Just the kick in the ass we needed! See you later, Vermont! I love you!
Then, this morning, I woke up (at 5 a.m., thank you Sam, and also, what the hell? FIVE AM IS TOO EARLY) and it was an effing WINTER WONDERLAND out there. Sam’s little face was pressed against the window marveling at it. Tons and tons of heavy, wet snow — like, actual accumulation. Enough, if you can believe it, that schools were delayed and/or canceled all over and my friend Kate lost power (still doesn’t have it, in fact) and got more than a foot of snow.
A few days ago, I was wearing a T-shirt and capris. I mean, what IS this? I went to Syracuse, for chrissake! I know spring snow! It snowed the day before my college graduation! And yet six inches to a foot three days before May, really? REALLY, VERMONT?
I mean, come on, if you’re trying to push me out, this is the way to go. Fine, I’ll leave, if you’re going to be a cold, wet crankypants about it. FINE. Massachusetts is warmer, anyway, AND it’s a coastal state! Up yours, Vermont!
(I’m sorry, Vermont! I’m just kidding! I love yoooooooouuuu!)
So! In Mashed Potato Watch, in case you weren’t following along on Twitter, we had a plumber come. A plumber who was almost cocky in the beginning and found the whole thing mildly amusing when he squeezed our supposedly-tiny job in between several OTHER jobs and was all, this shouldn’t take but a moment folks! Oh, mashed potatoes! How adorable, he almost tittered.
An hour and a half and not one, but two different snakes later, he was singing a different tune. I heard him on the phone with his colleagues, “Well it ain’t working, because there’s a whole goddamn box of mashed potatoes down there.” Pause pause pause. “Yes, I TRIED that … No. No. I don’t think you heard me: A WHOLE BOX OF INSTANT MASHED POTATOES … Fine. Fine yes fine. I’ll get the bigger snake. This is ridiculous… FINE. Fine. I’m TRYING. FINE.”
And so on. For more than three hours, to the tune of $300. At one point Adam asked him to put it on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the worst. “Well, we just moved from 7 to 8,” was his reply. By hour three? He said we were at a NINE POINT FIVE. We were one half-point away from him having to bring in some kind of JET thing into the house — something he’d never had to use in a kitchen and, he explained, something we most definitely do not want.
“The pressure has to go somewhere, and if it doesn’t push out the clog, it usually ends up all over the walls and stuff. It just shoots everywhere, and we have to line the house with plastic. Like a giant fire hose of nasty plumbing stuff, you know?”
Oh boy, did I know. Or rather, I did not want to know. And when he left, it seemed I wouldn’t have to know, for things were moving freely.
But you know what? IT SEEMS I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KNOW. Because hours after he left, we cleaned up after dinner and VOILA! THE SINK DID NOT DRAIN. And then Adam got all excited, like HE is a plumber (“I watched what he did, and I can totally do it, Jonna”), and he put our snake down there, and a few hours (!) into it, he came over with a snake that smelled like … well, vomit, actually, and waved it in my face excitedly, “LOOK I GOT POTATOES! POTATOES ARE ON THIS THING! I GOT POTATOES!” And behold, yes, there were chunks of mashed potato at the end of the 30-foot snake he was noodling around with there, and … oh whatever.
It was to no avail. The plumber is coming back tomorrow, and people, I am never eating mashed potatoes again. Or any potato product. French fries, you’re dead to me.
(I’m also going to whisper that after the plumber left, Adam used the garbage disposal. “What’d you put in there?” I asked, tentatively. And it turned out, he’d put in some PORK LOIN down there, and now I’m like, FOR GOD’S SAKE, YOU ARE BANNED FROM THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL. BECAUSE SERIOUSLY, ADAM, PORK LOIN, ARE YOU SERIOUS OH MY GOD.)
The movers arrive Tuesday. Tuesday! Tentatively, that is. I mean, they’re coming tomorrow to do an estimate and … yeah. Our lease is signed, sealed, delivered, deposits made and now it’s all like, DUDE. We’re moving! How did this happen? I’m currently making the final plans with local friends (MEG WE NEED TO PICK A TIME), and I’ve got big girl evening plans at a big girl place with big girl drinks with my friend Kate, and what kills me is that it will be the first and likely last time we do this, and what took us so long? BAH.
The house is packed, mostly (see also: silverware, no coffee spoon and oh, it’s probably for the best because we can’t wash anything anyway) and yet, it doesn’t seem real. But you know, having done this twice before, I know that nothing seems real until you get there, and the first few weeks are almost vacation-like, as you wait for your two weeks to be up before returning to your real life. Your real life, which is still going on in the state you just left. And then one day, without even realizing it, you notice that this is your real life, and it’s pretty good.
Wow, that was … deep, right? OMFG, please punch me in the face.
It’s weird, in a way, to think we might not ever do this again. Nice, and a little comforting, now that the emotional rawness of it all has worn off. Missing my friends is the last remaining heartache, and that won’t ever go away, honestly, but we’ll email and talk, and I’ll see them again. I will! (SNIFFLE)
Finally, I spent some quality time reading my own archives recently — it always happens when a family member or longtime friend is combing through them. I wonder what’s in there, and what I was like back then. And wow, was I insufferable and depressed and HELLO INTROSPECTIVE. HELLO JONNA, PLEASE GROW UP AND THANK YOU.
I’m sorry, Dad. Also, to the rest of you out there, reading through your own archives is a spectacularly bad idea, because all you want to do is hit DELETE DELETE ANNOYING DELETE, SHUT UP WHINY GIRL, DELETE.
I hope you guys have a great Thursday! Obviously I won’t be around much the next few days, because, um, moving. You know. (OMFG)
*Genesis, from 1972.
April 28th, 2010
(Wait, are we all not on a team? Are you not on my moving team? Do you want to be on my moving team? Quick! Come wrap some glasses! GO TEAM!)
So, we’re moving. And I am MUCH happier about it, as I suspected I would be once I figured out where we’d be going, and I went back to the area and we figured out where we want to live, etc. etc. SO MUCH HAPPIER ABOUT IT. Thank you for talking me off of the ledge. We found a house! That we love! With a giant yard for pug and baby to roam freely! And it’s so PEACEFUL out there, which is nothing like where we used to live in Boston, and … what a grand idea this is suddenly seeming like. Now, if only I could bring my friends.
Can I please bring my friends? Friends who are reading this, would YOU like to move to Boston?
That remains the saddest part of it all, and REALLY, by me acting okay with the move, it does not mean I won’t miss you. I PROMISE. I AM BEREFT.
MetroWest Bostonians, holler at me! And further, if you see someone who looks like me in the Natick Mall, it could very well BE me! Look at that!
So, that’s the good news. Really! The good news! Other good news: We got some actual sleep in the hotel, as we got a suite, as per EVERYONE’S recommendations, and HOO BOY, it was a NEW WORLD up in this piece. Sam slept! We slept! We woke up in the morning without wanting to die! LOOK AT US GO, SMRT PEOPLE THAT WE ARE. WE GOT THE BABY HER OWN ROOM.
At any rate, that’s kind of where the good news ends, and don’t get me wrong, it is all good news, and I will take it served hot, with a spoon and with a hearty helping of pleasure. What is not good news is that I lost my wallet somewhere in MetroWest — err, MetroNorth? What is Lexington, anyway? — and I had to go through EVERYTHANG and cancel all my credit cards and get new insurance cards and put an alert on my credit in case anyone tries to steal my identity and BAH BAH BAH. What perfect timing! Tomorrow we get to ride for an hour to visit the DMV so that I can get a new license and begin the process of reconstructing the flexibility I once had. You know, to leave the house by myself with access to money and the ability to drive.
And this was all happening RIGHT before an in-depth, up close and personal examination of my credit history! HUZZAH.
(All seems to be well. Identity secured, precautions taken, etc. Mess with me at your peril, malfeasance-doers!)
We COULD be moving in like, um, a week. Maybe. On the fast end. Which is insane, but it might happen if the movers can’t do anything later and hello, does anyone have a paper bag for me to breathe into? My whole body aches from bending over and packing and dragging boxes through our once-tidy house, and this afternoon, Sam came royally undone as we packed up a good portion of her room, because there we are, putting her precious possessions in boxes and it’s like, what the hell, Mom and Dad? Where my books at? You said that stuff was MINE and you LIED and … oh look! A toy hammer! All is forgiven.
Well. I also packed all the silverware and had no spoon for my coffee this morning and then later, oh HO HO LATER, Adam went on some kind of CLEANING FRENZY and decided, for reasons that still make no sense to me at all, to dump an entire FAMILY-SIZED JUMBO BOX of Hungry Jack instant mashed potatoes (HUNGRY JACK. Is that supposed to be appetizing? Like a hungry … lumberjack?) down the disposal and added water! HOT WATER. As in, he MADE AN ALARMING AMOUNT OF INSTANT MASHED POTATOES IN OUR GARBAGE DISPOSAL! And they expanded! And blocked the sink!
Which, you know, DUH. And for some reason, he insists that he asked me if this was okay and I guess I said yes, but I was distracted at the time, and you know, I didn’t think he’d put the WHOLE BOX DOWN THERE AT ONCE and I don’t even know why he didn’t just pack them or throw them away or … oh, what’s the use in dissecting it all, really. Just imagine, if you will, having this conversation with your husband:
Me: Is it clogged?
Him, exasperated beyond all belief: OF COURSE IT IS. I AM MAKING A BOX OF FUCKING HUNGRY JACK MASHED POTATOES IN OUR SINK.
Oh, hindsight, you are a cruel bitch. A cruel potatoey bitch.
This certainly puts the mild irritation of two-day old apple juice spilling in your diaper bag into perspective, doesn’t it? (Hint: it smells like a bar floor that’s been mopped with Woodchuck. DELISHUS.)
What’s saving me right now? I’m embarrassed to tell you. It’s … it’s the Glee “Power of Madonna” soundtrack, and y’all, I don’t even LIKE Madonna. It’s Jesse St. James, who I now have a futile crush on, and yes, of course I checked and yes, of course he’s gay and as it turns out it doesn’t matter! I crush anyway! And yet, I checked! EVEN THOUGH I AM HAPPILY MARRIED AND HE IS GAY. You see how these things work?
Hey, have a happy Monday!
*Um. I only have it from the Glee cast, so … Glee cast! Rachel Berry! Wait, you mean there’s someone else?
April 25th, 2010
Last week was awesome! Yes, awesome. Just awesome. We were in Boston from Sunday to Tuesday, I think? I don’t even know. What I DO know is that I shall never — and folks, I mean NEVER — sleep in the same room as my beloved child again. She did not sleep. Oh, you think I’m exaggerating! Oh ho ho HO! Ask Adam, who had a breakfast meeting on Monday morning and did not get a second of sleep the evening prior! No, really, not one second, as he suffers from insomnia and was awake still when she woke up for the day! She was mysteriously awake awake AWAKE! from 1-3 a.m., rising for the day no later than (NO LATER THAN) 4:45 a.m. It was a horror show. I cried more than she did, of that I am sure.
And yet. We’re moving there for real this time. Longtime readers may remember that five years ago (OMFG five), we left Boston for Florida, then Vermont and now … well, now, we go home, I guess. For good. For good! We’re done moving around, done tripping around the country to see where the next job takes us, and it’s just … well, it’s weird, to me, I don’t know why. On the one hand, I’m excited, because our families are there. Friends! Friends I’ve had for multiple decades! Hell, Megan is there! TwoBusy is there! Many of you are there!
Emotionally, though, I’m having a hard time with it. In part — well, majority — it’s that I love it here. Oh sure, I moved here knowing it was but a temporary stop, but I really did grow to love it here. Sam was born here. I won’t get to have her sibling at the same hospital. Hell, Sam’s sibling will be born in a different state. My friends! Oh, my friends. I love them so, and leaving them kills me.
And, as I’ve mentioned, when I left there, I was a very different person and to be honest, I’m afraid of turning back into her. I was stressed all the time — and I mean, all the time, from I’m not even sure what. I worked constantly, and had this irrational fear that if I quit and/or lost my job, or fell even one tiny rung on the ladder of my not-so-illustrious career, the world would come crashing down and my life would be ruined. Oh, you think I’m exaggerating, but oh, I am not. I suppose it was infinitely more complicated than that — no, I know it is — but that’s how it manifested itself. By the time we arrived in Florida, I was a twitchy mess in need of a spa treatment and some intensive therapy (which I got — well, the therapy, anyway).
(Side note: this, in part, but my no means all, is why I freelance and stay home with Sam. I am much better suited to a flexible work arrangement that allows me to focus on my family and we are lucky that we can do it. I know, I know, it sounds like a cop out, and believe me, I know how lucky I am — I do. But you must trust me: my anxiety was something to behold, and though I am greatly improved, I don’t think I’m cured enough to go back to it while my kid(s) are small. At least not in the Boston area, where the whole thing began. It was like, disability-level crippling and I … I’m embarrassed writing this, because it sounds so inane and full of shit, but dudes, I went to therapy and medication to deal with it, and again, SUPAH COMPLEX.)
And that’s a pile of shit that has me in some kind of strange PTSD purgatory that I have to work through while mourning the loss of a life that I built here, and look forward to a building a bright future back home.
In short, on top of the logistics of potentially finding a place to live, packing up our entire house and moving to a new place, did I mention this is all happening IN TWO WEEKS? Oh, didn’t I? Sorry about that.
It’s happening in two weeks.
Bottom line: I am having a hard time. A very hard time. Emotionally, stress-wise and every way imaginable.
I am having a hard time.
In other piles of shit (wow, this is joyful, isn’t it?), there is finding a place to live in a metro area where houses and apartments disappear before the listing has been active for more than an hour, and ergo, we may find ourselves in some kind of extended stay hotel arrangement for a month before we find a permanent place and doesn’t THAT sound like a spectacular situation for a learning-to-walk toddler? And ho ho HO! We return sometime this week to look for housing while simultaneously finding out if that situation will work out! I’m sorry MetroWest. I am well and truly sorry about the late-night screaming my child is about to release upon you like the tentacles of the kraken.
I missed you guys last week. I hope to see you more this week.
April 18th, 2010
The other night we had thunderstorms, and Sunny was up until … 2:30 a.m. What the FUCK, you guys? I love my dog — really, I do — but the percentage of dog-to-baby night wakings in the last six months has tilted in the direction of the DOG. THE DOG. THE DOG. We’ve had night puking! Kennel cough! Thunderstorms!
THUNDERSTORMS. She was up all night crying, refusing to go to bed, making a thousand trips in and out of the baby’s room, waking the baby and .. and so on, until 2:45, when she was finally too tired to fight anymore. It goes without saying that Sam woke up at 5:30, right? Right, of course it does. Right. If there was a way for me to score myself a trip to the emergency room by scooping out my own damn eyeballs, let me tell you, I would have gladly done it. Gladly.
I mean, Jesus, we lived in Florida, where it thundered on an hourly basis. What pansy-ass dog have we raised, who can’t handle a little lightning without coming uneffing GLUED, right? Especially when she was BORN in the lightning capital of the world, what the everloving EFF?
It’s a good thing she’s cute and sweet, and doesn’t ever complain when the baby plays with her ears, because no matter how many times we admonish, “GENTLE! GENTLE!”, sometimes those ears get pulled. And instead of biting or lashing out, Sunny’s solution is to roll over, belly-up, crying uncle and licking Sam’s face. She’s a keeper, that one, even if we’re all so goddamn exhausted from her infantile shenanigans.
But still, my God, I don’t think anyone guesses or anticipates that one of the most annoying things about parenthood isn’t the baby. It’s the DOGS. And yet, this is such a universal feeling — every single one of my be-petted friends, and I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE, has reported hating their dogs at some point, particularly in the early days. I think it’s that babies suck every last drop of inconveniently-timed nurturing out of us, that by the time the dog needs something (AT 2 A.M., JESUS), we’re fresh out of giving a shit.
(Not that Sunny wants for anything. Please. Bitch be snuggled up in my armpit as I type this.)
Look, I kind of got nothin’, as we’re heading back to Boston early next week. This trip involves the oh-my-fuck search for housing if we end up having to go there and … well, THAT should be fun, trekking all over the major metro area in my sister’s minivan with my kid strapped in the back seat. See also: Looking at houses with no idea if you’re actually going to live there or not, because you don’t know if you’re moving, or not, but you have to look because if you ARE going to move, you have to do it SUPER FAST and … blergh, is really all that is. BLERGH.
You know what else is blergh? Owning a house in Florida that is basically unsellable. That is MEGA BLERGH. I kick around what to do with this albatross on a
hourly daily weekly basis, and it almost always involves palm sweating and high blood pressure. The issue, for those new to the story, is this: We bought a house in Florida when we lived there, for a (very) reasonable, affordable below-market price. To live in, not to flip. We lived in it. Market exploded, then imploded. Work brought us back up north. Large percentage of neighbors paid three times what we did for similar houses in our development (Would YOU pay not far from a million dollars for a 2,000 sq foot, 3bd, 2ba TOWNHOME? No. No, you would not. So why did some of them buy THREE at that price?) Said asshole jerkface investors with truckloads of capital and no intention to live in the house unfortunate “neighbors” are now foreclosing, leaving homes in our neighborhood selling for $100K or less.
Yes, really. Oh, foreclosure! You’re such a good deal!
Ergo, we are stuck with this sucker (which is rented out at a small loss, currently, such is the sad state of the Floridian market) and it makes me rather, um, enraged. Because we could end up in a short sale or something similar, which ends up pummeling your credit while simultaneously involving a significant amount of ASS PAIN, but because it’s not our primary residence, we qualify for approximately none of the housing “fixes,” like mortgage modification, principal reduction, etc. But what’s the alternative? Owning this thing for another 20 years, when the market returns? Meanwhile, its mere existence on our balance sheet saps our will to live?
And there is no one to blame! No one saw this coming! OK, fine: I blame banks. And people who bought six houses with no intentions of living in any of them. But still! STILL!
So now we may be off going somewhere else and likely renting again until we figure out what to do with this thing, and OH I AM SO SICK OF IT. I am sick of being a homeowner, a tenant AND a landlord. It is by far the most exhausting combination, on this you must trust me. And while yes, it’s possible that we could afford to buy another house WHILE still owning our Florida house, let me tell you, THAT is the only combination that is more lethal than the one I’ve got now. Yes, let me own TWO houses while being a landlord and … oh my God, just institutionalize me now, why don’t you, please. Just get out the straitjacket and throw me overboard.
I’m sorry, that’s obviously not why you came here, is it? Clearly I’m a little stressed by all this (along with other thrilling blogger events of last week), as just this morning, I dreamed that there was some sort of blogger playdate, and I remember that the Artist Formerly Known As Schnozz was there (she doesn’t have children), along with Amalah and Anna and Jennie and … my dad had an affair with a friend of Amy’s, and somehow her friend ended up pulling a gun and there was a SHOOTING. A SHOOTING! At a playdate! But it was fine, because our kids were wearing kevlar and … oh, it’s so blatantly obvious that I need to relax, right? RELAX. Like Frankie says. It will all work out.
After all, I have my retirement home bought already and everything! Florida, here we come!
April 8th, 2010
So, can we get back to talking about important things? Like my toilet seat for example. (What?) Toilet seats, by and large, are something people give very little thought to, unless they’re terribly offensive like, say, those shag ones that are nothing but pee molecule magnets. Or the cushy plastic ones designed for “comfort” that do nothing but leave a ring around your ass, because the plastic seam is sharper than a razor blade. Those, too, seem to attract pee spots like nobody’s business, and I get SO SKEEVED sitting on them. Toilet seats shouldn’t have texture! They should not be soft! They should be solid and hard, yet well constructed — not so comfortable as an easy chair, but not medieval torture devices, you know what I’m saying?
This is the toilet seat that we had. It was nice, that toilet seat. Very utilitarian, yet comfortable. Hard, but with just the right amount of curves. I didn’t know how much I loved that toilet seat until yesterday, when the seat cracked.
Um, what? Yes, the seat cracked. Now look, Adam and I are not obese people. We’re rather slender, in the grand scheme of things, really, with neither one of us topping anywhere near 200 pounds, even, so … why, toilet seat, why? Further, this would have been no big deal, as it’s just a crack, right? A crack!
But oh, you guys, yesterday I went to the bathroom, and right when I sat down, the crack … broke open to a full rift, and expanded (that was a nice feeling, as you can imagine. I could practically hear the “FOOM BABA FOOM BABA!” from Lardass’s famous scene in Stand By Me). And then contracted. With my backside in it. I was effing TRAPPED in the toilet seat, no kidding. If I pulled, I would leave behind skin. SKIN! And yet there was no way to extricate myself without … well, I don’t even KNOW, you guys, except to say that I finally did pull, and it was NOT GOOD. NOT GOOD AT ALL. The aftermath involved skin! And a not-insignificant amount of BACKSIDE bloodshed! And … you know, being trapped to a toilet seat that I just BROKE.
Awesome, yes? Awesome.
Next up: that stellar moment in the master bathroom when I didn’t realize my Venus razor was still on the edge of the tub until I looked down and saw Sam chewing on it. The end with the triple blades on it. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I was RIGHT THERE and then I just started SCREAMING and then tried to gently pry it from her lips without causing any damage (success!), but unfortunately, the SCREAMING scared the shit out of her, so I had a kid in utter disarray anyway. (I always make sure it’s out of reach. Always. Except for the day she was dorking around in the master bathroom, which she’s NEVER IN and … oh God. First jalapenos, and now this.)
Also, you know what is not awesome? A new toilet seat — the nice, awesome toilet seat that we had — is $120. For something you sit on to PEE and POOP.
I … what?
($120. I’ve paid less than that to repair my entire air conditioning system, for chrissake.)
Anyway! A few quick takes:
– Keurig owners, if you’re looking for ridiculously awesome flavored coffee that isn’t weak and doesn’t taste like pony piss, look no further than Green Mountain’s Chocolate Glazed Donut-Donut Shop coffee. It tastes JUST LIKE a chocolate-glazed donut and … oh DELICIOUS.
– I have a terrible no-good self-centered habit of thinking that the moment I discover something is the moment that thing comes into existence. See: hummus, circa 1995, when I had it for the first time. I was all but shrieking “HAVE YOU GUYS TRIED THIS NEW THING CALLED HUMMUS?” upon returning home during college. Ah, sheltered life, you did not serve me well in some areas.
Anyway, today’s latest hummus is a product that I remember USING a a child, and yet I feel somehow that this is my personal discovery and I’m all, LOOK AT ME! THIS IS AMAZING SHIT, HAVE YOU GUYS HEARD OF THIS? Johnson’s No More Tangles detangling spray, y’all! Do you know that I was actually CONDITIONING my daughter’s hair with ADULT conditioner, because I couldn’t figure out how to get the tangles out of her insanely kinky curls? Um, ding dong, HELLO.
– This reminds me of my friend Shawn who feels somehow that he personally discovered Nirvana back in the early days. To hear him tell it, he was William Miller to Nirvana’s Stillwater. But that’s not my point! No, my point is that he recently got engaged (holla!), and people, this is a miracle. This is a man who never asked a girl out on a second date because she dared order — and eat! — a bacon cheeseburger during their first dinner together. The bacon cheeseburger of doom.
Happy Wednesday! We have, uh, an exciting day of immunizations planned. OMG.
April 6th, 2010
First of all, we had no idea it was Easter weekend until my brother-in-law called to wish us a happy one, and I *think* I recovered nicely with a hey, uh, you too! How ARE you guys doing with the … eggs and all?
I think we’re sort of failing at parenting in some ways, and by that I mean the ways of doing things like holidays and birthdays and other “meaningful” events. For now, the excuse is that she’s too little to know — and really, she is — but I’m wondering if I’ll know when she is aware enough to care. Like, am I already short-changing her some magical Easter egg hunting experience? I don’t think so, seeing as she’s still firmly in the two-nap camp and leaving the house before 3 p.m. is a colossal pain in the ass, because lunch falls between the two naps and unless we’re going OUT for lunch, any endeavor longer than 45 minutes or so is a total crapshoot of eye-stabbing misery if you catch her on the wrong day.
We skipped a birthday party altogether — we sort of had two, one with my sister’s family, and another with my parents a few days later — and though we got her some presents, they were relatively few, because this is a kid who will scream with joy while waving an empty Kleenex box over her head, you know? And yes, we had a cake, as you’ve seen, but there were no friends, no other families, no throngs of lumplike one-year-olds Frankensteining around our relatively small house. My belief is that such things are excessive and rather silly, at least from a kid point of view (if it’s for you, the parent, and it’s important to you, by all means), but maybe I’m just mean, and my kid will grow up in a party-deprived rage on a bell tower some day.
This is the shit, though, that I worry about. I like birthdays, and I think they’re important to celebrate, but I don’t want my kid(s) growing up to expect some kind of wild RHoOC party while I fret and hand-wring over whether $12,000 was a reasonable budget, or whether I should have sprung for the beluga-flavored cupcakes and princess-themed paparazzi entrance for nine-year-olds. I mean, my most memorable birthday party was in my parents’ basement and involved homemade pizza and punch, I think. Well, except for my third birthday, which was ceremoniously held at Weiner King (yes, really), where I, and a bunch of other three-year-olds, dressed our own hot dogs with too much mustard and spilled ketchup down our fronts.
If you were wondering, the Weiner King is no longer there, and is now, I believe, a Long John Silver’s.
Longest way ever of saying: Oops, we forgot Easter. This is what happens with two non-Christians with far away families: You end up barfing alone and forgetting Easter even exists.
Finally, without rehashing anything, but because I keep stepping in it lately, I just want to add: I’m generally a pretty up-front person. Oh, I snark and gossip with the best of them at times, I won’t lie, but mostly, what you see is what you get. I don’t even think anyone would be surprised by what I’ve snarked about, because I pretty much say it up front.
For me, that’s important, and it’s the kind of person I not only am, but it’s the kind of person I’m generally attracted to. I think part of being authentic is being consistent and honest, even if that means people don’t like what you have to say. I find it a little gross when people act SHOCKED! that people have the balls to utter the questions/thoughts/whatever that everyone else is thinking, and everyone knows it, but no one says it out loud. I mean, PEOPLE. You’re thinking it! Are you a bad person? No. And neither am I just because I’m honest about it and say it out loud. Hell, I’ll even say it TACTFULLY, I promise. And I don’t need you to say it, too, but I don’t need your condemnation and surprise when I do.
I am not malicious. I am generally very loyal. I like most people. That very likely includes you. I keep confidences very, very well, and I’m not going to turn on you, and it’s not scary to be on the wrong side of me. Someone, in the midst of it all, thinking they were being complimentary, said, “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” I cringed, because that’s just not the case, and it’s not going to happen. To really get on my bad side, you have to do something pretty egregiously awful, and I’d probably tell you about it long before you saw it coming.
I am distrustful of people who only have nice things to say, not because I think that’s not a good way to be, but because I think it’s inauthentic for many people, and I like to see it all laid out there. It doesn’t mean I’m not a positive person, or that I don’t see/think positive things. For all of this talk, I am generally very, very happy. Like, terrifyingly happy. This may be surprising for some people, but it’s the God’s honest truth, and I’d tell you if it wasn’t.
And generally speaking, I am, in person, exactly as I appear on this blog, as witnesses can attest. I don’t write or say anything in a public online forum that I wouldn’t say in person, to someone’s face. True story.
Basically, and this is hard for me to admit, but I think I might be Ramona Singer.
Now, can we talk about your implants, because I heard your boobs were, like, all crooked and shit, but you finally got them fixed?
April 4th, 2010
One of the fun facts I neglected to mention about the Bitter Days of Fluedom was that in addition to waking up barfing my face off, there was yeast. YEAST! You guys, my doughy boobs returned with a vengeance and so, in addition to fever, puking and general desire to off myself as quickly as possible, my boobs! My boobs! MY BOOBS WERE ON FYAH!
Anyway, honestly, in the grand scheme of things, I had bigger issues, so I barely noticed. But to close the yeasty loop, in the event that this will help someone else with the Endless Pattern of Thrush, I’ll tell you, we kicked it without a second dose of Diflucan OR Nystatin, neither of which were very pleasant to deal with. The Nystatin because it made Sam gag, hork and cry, and the Diflucan because it made her tummy so upset she was screaming for two hours every time she took a dose. So …
Probiotics, y’all! I SWEAR. How crazy hippie is that shit? I hit up the natural foods store, and loaded up on this stuff for me, and the Baby Jarro-Dophilus for Sam. Plus, um, kefir and yogurt, for good measure, like, three times a day, BARELY sweetened with agave only if absolutely necessary, and THE YEAST IS GONE. POOF. IN LIKE 24 HOURS. Die, yeast! DIE!
I’m a budgeting wizard — no, seriously, I can squeeze the shit out of any budget and maximize savings like nobody’s business. Honestly, I am SUPER financially responsible, and get a total kick about saving money and … well. It’s a nerdy hobby, but very effective. It’s also a bit consuming, because there are so many opportunities to go overboard, when really, sometimes it’s just not worth it.
The other day I got myself in a totally pointless tizzy because I discovered that each of the three places I shop — or can shop — has the best price on something totally different. Ergo, for me to REALLY get the best price on everything, each grocery trip should be to three different stores, which … seriously, that’s just stupid. I have a baby, for God’s sake, and she’s usually with me. But then it’s so frustrating because sometimes it’s a swing of like THREE DOLLARS AN ITEM. The hummus at two grocery stores is $2 more than at the tiny grocery store (for half a pound), and the deli I like is $5.99 one place, but $3.99 another, and DO YOU SEE HOW THIS COULD MAKE SOMEONE CRAZY?
(Or no? Have you decided that I’m crazy? You have, haven’t you? I don’t blame you!)
Which brings me to something I just haven’t been able to do. Now, this may be shocking, but I don’t use coupons. Are they worth it, or do you find that you just end up buying things you don’t need?
Dude, did you guys SEE The Millionaire Matchmaker the other day? With the guy who brought a second girl on their date? And the girl who was all, he wanted to pick me, so it’s only fair that I’m here? OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. Oh, how I love that show, you guys. It’s horrible! It’s SO HORRIBLE! Everything about it is horrible, and yet, there I am, parked in front of it on Tuesdays.
However. I have a big problem with Patti Stanger siding with Jill Zarin on the Real Housewives of New York City. BIG PROBLEM. And I’ll admit, I’ve lost a little respect for Patti. And worse? I am genuinely bummed about it, as I am Team Bethenny all the way and it’s … well, it’s impacting my ability to enjoy The Millionaire Matchmaker.
Also? I want to see Kelly’s Playboy spread. Judge me if you must.
Have a great weekend, you guys.
April 1st, 2010