Archive for May, 2011
First, let me say that I am not a fool, although I have been acting like one, and the fact that so many people took a few moments out of their day to think about me, leave me a comment or write me an email, is beyond meaningful to me, I can’t even tell you. What you might not know, though, is how much it means to my family. My parents read every last one of those comments, as did some of Adam’s family, and I just … well, thank you seems silly and fruitless, really, it does, but I wanted you to know that it’s not just me who reads them and appreciates them, even when I’m acting like I don’t. My mother and Adam’s Aunt Carol were particularly moved, just so you know.
Which brings me to … well, what I think strikes me the most about the past week, and was entirely unexpected, was — is, really — how quickly I turned into an ungracious asshole. I want to put it another way, but I can’t. I’m amazed and, quite honestly, totally saddened, by how fast I moved from being a person who could compose herself enough to be considerate to someone else, even with a thousand tiny darts sticking out of her chest, to someone who, frankly, did not give a shit about anyone but herself. Everyone said the wrong thing. Everyone. Sarah in Huntsville did NOT say the wrong thing, however, and captured my feelings perfectly when she said:
” I felt like dickpunching everyone who said ANYTHING to me about it, because there was nothing they could say that either didn’t make me sneer at them in derision or cry. But I also wanted to facestab the people who just kind of ignored the whole thing.”
I LAUGHED. Because my God, yes, that’s pretty much it. I also — and this is perhaps most disturbing — had this almost (and at times, more than almost) irrepressible urge to wave a verbal air horn in someone’s face after uttering something I deemed inappropriate. “WRONG!” the air horn would blat, loud and forceful, right in their foolishly loose lips. “WRONG! WRONG!” I could almost see their hair blowing back from the force of the blast, as I stomped away, stuffing the instrument back in my purse without looking back.
Oh, but if you didn’t say ANYTHING? Well, wait … this actually wasn’t so bad, I mean, unless it was one of my close friends, in which case, FLEE THE COUNTRY, IMMA COME GETCHOO WITH THE AIR HORN.
I mean, yes, there are a few people — a few that I am unwilling to forgive, like those who have publicly questioned my friendship and made demands on it until I acquiesced against my better judgment and then HA HA! never said a word to me about this. And the others, who gleefully talked about my FIRST pregnancy, over and over again, in a flurry of excited sisterly emails and then, when I lost THAT baby … nothing. Not a word since. Yes, people like that, I am finished with. But for the most part, I understand that no one knows what the fuck to say to someone in my situation, so they panic and say nothing and I don’t hold it against them.
(I am, by the way, married to a completely loving, kind, thoughtful person who tends to PANIC! and say nothing in these situations, so I understand this phenomenon more than most.)
Basically, it was just awful, I was just awful, and … well, I’m still kind of just awful, for I have these moments of outright horror at the things people say. Things that, actually, are not THAT horrifying, but in my addled state tend to be magnified to DEFCON 1: LOAD THE AIR HORNS. The problem with all of this is that it turns me into someone I don’t like, and I’m not particularly proud of, and if THAT isn’t an excellent spirit to pour into this magnificent cocktail of suckitude, I don’t know what is!
The one thing I will say is the absolute wrong thing to say is this: “I know how you feel.” No, you don’t. NO ONE DOES, because you are not me, and I am not you. Two people can go through the exact same experience on paper, and feel completely differently, and want to hear/need completely different things. I was stunned by commenter Auntie G’s revelation that she didn’t share her own happy ending with me, because when SHE went through the same thing, she wanted nothing to do with happy endings. Me, however? I drink them up like water in the desert.
So no. You don’t know how I feel, even when I describe it to you in exquisite detail.
I do, however, feel better. I am not fully healed, but it has just occurred to me that life will – and does – go on, and that life includes all the things I was looking forward to before (minus the baby). Fun things, like hitting the beach with my family and taking Sam to a summer full of water parks. And of course, the less-fun things like measuring the playroom for carpet tiles and finally getting rid of the ancient Ikea chairs. These things will, God willing, still happen, and I get to enjoy them just the same. It’s when I think about the future — the Other — that things get murky.
What remains, too, is this very strange, thin membrane separating me and a much sadder, emptier life than I thought I’d have. I don’t know how to put it any better than that. The membrane is not real; the alternate life isn’t even real, not even if it ends here and now with just Adam, Sam and me, which, I hasten to add, I don’t think it will. I felt this most acutely when I foolishly Googled myself into some message boards of the, uh, recurring miscarriage ilk, and got a glimpse into a world that I can’t seem to shake. A world where people — and please God help me, I am not judging, or at the very least, I am BUSTING MY ASS not to judge, for we all process grief differently — save their wee embryos (yes, I mean pre-12-week embryos) after D&C’s and dress them in hats and take pictures and hold funerals for them. It’s a culture — a cult, almost — that I can’t see myself ever being a part of, even if things had worked out differently, but God, it’s there, and it’s so close and it’s one of those things, like I said, I can’t shake.
I can’t say I would ever be the type to, um, dress my embryo in corduroy and denim (mine is, after routine chromosomal testing, being flushed with the hospital waste of the week, and maybe that seems heartless), but I guess what strikes me is that it’s so easy to see how it could happen; how CONSUMING it could be if you really dug your heels into a place like that. I feel like I am the thinnest air pocket away from being a person who buys clothes for her embryos, even though rationally, I know that’s not true.
Online communities — particularly ones that are highly specialized and focused — are extremely powerful. Please, one day let me regale you of the YEAR OF MY LIFE I spent embroiled in a — oh I can barely type it — CAT MESSAGE BOARD. WHERE PEOPLE TALKED ABOUT THEIR CATS. I DID THIS. I DID THIS. I, a perfectly well-adjusted, pretty twentysomething with lots of friends and a hot boyfriend (now husband), spent an UNGODLY AMOUNT OF TIME talking about the merits of wet food vs. canned and examining my cat’s stool for optimum health.
(If you’re wondering how it happened, it started because — surprise! — I was googling after discovering that my cat had recurrent urinary problems. And if you’re thinking that CAT MESSAGE BOARDS do not have flame wars, HA HA YOU ARE SO WRONG AND ARE YOU DYING, BECAUSE I AM DYING TYPING THIS OUT.)
(Also, I no longer own a cat, and in fact, hate cats. EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS HILARIOUS.)
These places are rabbit holes. RABBIT HOLES. And if I have any advice to anyone going through this, it is that maybe you should stick to blogs that talk about this kind of thing, and step away from the pinkie nail-sized knitted hats, for it struck me as a fast track to an insane asylum. Email Julie, who will probably say the perfect thing to you, even though she doesn’t know it. (To me, she simply said, “I AM APPALLED,” and honestly, I hold it with me, because it is so hilarious and so perfect, I don’t know why.)
Happy Tuesday, friends. Thanks for listening, and my apologies for my astonishingly douchey comments and written air horns over the last seven days.
*Dave Matthews Band, whatever. I’m not judging your tiny hats, so lay off my lame music.
May 23rd, 2011
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant, because, well, who would, after the last time, right? And as it turned out, being pregnant after a miscarriage is — well, at least for me — worse than the miscarriage itself. And by that, I don’t mean a chemical pregnancy/early miscarriage — those, too, I am familiar with. I’m talking about a post-heartbeat-viewing-ultrasound miscarriage, the one where some people feel so safe that they run out and BUY THINGS OH MY SHIT. NO NO NO. LET ME BE YOUR GUIDE IN SUCH THINGS, NO.
I knew almost immediately, even though I was in denial, avoiding taking a test until well after I’d missed my period — incidentally, just before we left for Las Vegas. Because who DOESN’T want to go on a hedonistic drinking-type vacation and NOT BE ABLE TO DRINK AT ALL? (As it turned out, I didn’t want to drink anyway, because GODDAMN, the desert is dry. I couldn’t even drink COKE. I just wanted WATER.)
I was stressed out and terrified every second of the day. I was feeling myself up to the point of insanity. Honestly, I don’t think I went five minutes without sticking my hands into my bra, desperately feeling for soreness, which, fortunately or unfortunately, was always present. I almost bankrupted us buying pregnancy tests, peeing on them so often that Sam took to opening a package herself and holding them under her crotch, peering into the wrapper for whatever she thought I was looking for. I skipped the digital tests, for they had no real GAUGE of how things were going. Pregnant or not pregnant, there was no in-between on those suckers, when by now, we ALL know you can be a little pregnant.
Were they getting darker? I swore they were, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d pee on one a day, comparing it to the previous day’s, examining every nuance in color, using that, along with my dizziness and boob soreness, as a bizarrely unscientific algorithm to determine how things were going.
I had my first ultrasound at seven weeks on the dot, according to my calculations, which, without going into detail, are close to iron-clad. The ultrasound showed up with a strong heartbeat, but a baby measuring six weeks on the dot. To them, it all looked fine. To me … not so much. It was Pete and Repeat up in here, for that is precisely, and I mean PRECISELY, how things went down the last time. I sobbed while a nurse acted as though I was insane for being upset, and tried to tell me how rare it was for people to have two miscarriages in a row, how I needed to RELAX, how every pregnancy was DIFFERENT. I was waiting for her to give me a reason NOT to punch her in the face, but she never did. Somehow I refrained, and instead, I went to the front desk and made an appointment for a viability ultrasound for exactly one week later.
The next one wasn’t any better. The baby grew, but the heart rate didn’t. Steady, but exactly the same: 115 bpm. The prognosis I was given was 50/50. “It could really go either way,” my doctor said. Obviously, they wanted it higher, but she’d seen it happen before, just like this, so I hung in there.
And then I got sick. Dry heaves at every corner, a craving for nothing but McNuggets and an affinity for Liberte yogurt. I felt … hopeful. Better. More positive! HA HA!
I went back for my third viability ultrasound feeling almost cocky. I was sick as a dog! I was about to faint! I had eaten copious amounts of McNuggets!
No heartbeat. Apparently the baby had died just after my ultrasound the week prior, but my body, in an effort to keep things pumping along, went into crazy overdrive. So basically, every comforting sign I’d ever been given about a “healthy” pregnancy was completely shattered. Visible heartbeat? Statistically worthless until 10 weeks, according to my other doctor who, as it turns out, is a renowned miscarriage expert, so I believe him. Morning sickness a good sign? A total lie, as I learned first-hand.
I really hope that the OTHER myth is that alcohol is bad in pregnancy, because I don’t see how I’m going to get through another one of these without being drunk 24/7. I plan to make mint juleps an active part of my prenatal diet, along with folic acid, because SERIOUSLY.
I mean, really. I am, rationally or irrationally, completely freaked. I’m terrified, of course. I know it happens — more often than people even know, I think — but for some reason, the majority of the stories I got in those first 24 hours were people trying to commiserate with me by sharing stories of how it happened to them/their sister/their sister’s friend/their friend and MY GOD, THE STORIES. Of how this happened, and the lonely horror that ensued! The DECADES of infertility and, in at least one case, DIVORCE. DIVORCE. And I just … well, I feel terrible saying this, but it sent me into a Very Bad Place, because it’s one thing to be able to talk about that stuff with some distance, quite another when you’re in the thick of it.
I say this not to be an unsympathetic asshole, but just to say that if you have a horror story that ended badly, I might not be in the place to hear it, OK? It’s just … where I’m at right now. I know people go through, and survive, much worse, and I know I’m lucky and BELIEVE ME, I am grateful for Sam, BELIEVE ME, OKAY? It’s just that I’m still upset. I’m still scared. And the next person to say, “Well, at least you have ONE healthy child!” gets a dickpunch, because I KNOW, but that doesn’t make this suck any less, I’m sorry, it doesn’t. And recognizing that this sucks doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate Sam. They are two unrelated entities in my mind.
Forgive me, as I am a little sensitive bordering on crazy.
Tomorrow — well, today, Monday, by the time many of you read this — is my second D&C (D&E, really) since January. My parents were already in town for my brother’s MBA graduation in Amherst (congratulations, Justin!), so they were kind enough to make the short trip over to help us out with Sam — and me, as Adam’s traveling for business Tuesday, and I was pretty out of it for a few days afterwards last time.
At what point does this move from sympathetic journey to CIRCUS SIDESHOW!! is what I want to know. I’m thinking three might be the magic number.
Much love to everyone who’s been so kind. Your notes and tweets have meant a lot. We’ll be fine – we always are, so long as the three of us have each other. Oh, and Sunny. God, Sunny, who can forget SUNNY? I’m sure this is causing a great deal of intestinal turmoil that we’ll have to clean up later.
It’s just a bump in the road, I suppose. A sucktastic festering boil of a pothole-y bump, but a bump nonetheless.
Catch you on the flip.
May 15th, 2011
This is going to be all OVER the place, y’all. Just like it used to be! Bullet-style:
– One of the things that plagues me on a fairly regular basis, is when one of your friends — someone you really like, who has proven to be of decent character and all that rot — is ALSO friends with someone who has proven to be morally bankrupt on more than one occasion, in my admittedly-strict viewpoint. Now, before I go on here, I want you to simmer down, Warren Beatty, because this song isn’t about you. I can think of at least two people who would think this is about them, but really, Warren, it isn’t.
But what do you do? I’ve voiced my opinion — even more gently than I normally would, I swear! — once or twice, and I’ve even PERSONALLY been screwed by the person in question and said something and YET THE RELATIONSHIP CONTINUES. Mind you, it’s not that I expect them to CHOOSE ME over them — this isn’t that kind of high school drama — it’s that I am MYSTIFIED how someone can still be friends with someone who has PROVEN to be such an absolute douche.
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. It is honestly one of life’s greatest mysteries.
– If you’ll indulge me a moment of Glee, I was ALL HOT AND BOTHERED to see the return of Jesse St. James in what is certainly the most ridiculous crush imaginable. Yes, I am a 35-year-old married mother with a huge crush on an openly gay man playing a teenager, and while I have no issue with either of those things, of course, the problem is that no matter how you slice it, the fantasy doesn’t work. I would either have to turn into a man OR a teenager and neither really works for me. Yet, it persists.
However. They turned him into a one-dimensional vapid asshole, when yes, I realize that he royally screwed Rachel over last year, I ALSO thought there was some complexity to him and it’s … gone. I am ALSO angry at how they’ve turned Rachel into a sniveling GIRL who also suddenly turned stupid. Last season, Rachel was multi-dimensional, and what made her amazing was her incredible insight into HERSELF. And now she’s fawning over Jesse and saying things like, “He’s so smart! Can you believe he flunked out of college?” after he says something amazingly inane. And so we’re left with Kurt (and his personal orbit), the only character with any sort of heart, and honestly, it’s pissing me off, because it seems like Ryan Murphy is just re-writing his own history, and the only person he has any sort of generosity to is himself.
Also, uhhh, weren’t they juniors LAST YEAR? How long can they drag this out?
– I also have Strong Feelings on Friday Night Lights, and I’m telling you right now that I’m live-tweeting the episode for my bosses at Smart Pop Books, because an essay of mine is in the upcoming anthology on the show in its entirety. So, you know, fair warning. And while I LOVE this season, I have VERY LOUD OPINIONS on the finale, and as such, I can’t wait until all of you (all, um, four of you who watch it) have caught up so that we can discuss.
– One of the things I am shocked to discover that I am struggling with is getting Sam to enjoy reading. I KNOW. I KNOW. Are you as floored as I am? I am, above all things, A Reader. The periods of my life when I wasn’t relying on a book for my primary form of evening entertainment are few and far between. Even still, I’m usually either reading or writing, even while the TV is on in the background. I mean, I love TV, but if I had to choose, I’d choose a book any day of the week.
So how is it possible that she’s my child? We set aside time to read every day. I read CONSTANTLY. I’ve even taken to reading her books by myself, with rapt enthusiasm, just to make them seem interesting. Yes, we watch TV, but with few exceptions (involving DJ Lance), she’s really not that into it, and she almost NEVER sits still to watch a whole anything unless she’s positively exhausted OR it’s first thing in the morning, so I’m not panicked that she’s a TV head or anything. (I WISH she was one of those children who sat quietly and watched television for more than six minutes at a time. I could use that to my occasional advantage! NO DICE.)
She just … does other things. Swaddles Brobee. Draws. Listens to music and dances. Draws some more. Plays with her animals. Paints. Dances some more. Sings. Dances. Music. God, this kid is SO INTO MUSIC. And when there is no music? SHE MAKES ME SING SO SHE CAN DANCE.
And forget reading before bed — she’s ALL business. Once she became a prescient human being, she dropped the bedtime reading routine before it really got going. When she’s ready for bed, she wants to be IN THE BED. The second we start the bedtime routine, “BYE MAMA! NIGHT NIGHT!” and she’s finished. She wants to be in bed, lights out, my annoying mug out of her face. It doesn’t seem to matter how early we start — the moment she senses bedtime is nigh, she’s all about it, as soon as humanly possible, and thank you. (Yes, I know I’m lucky. Our bedtime ritual is three whole seconds long. “Kiss Daddy!” “BYE MAMA!” Aaaaaaand, fin.)
I’ve gotten her books on her favorite subjects — animals and bugs — and it sort of works, but man, if I had one trivial wish for my daughter, it would be that she loves to read, and right now, despite my best efforts, she’s not nearly as into it as I’d hoped.
Also, can we talk about the bug obsession for a moment here? BUGS. Ants are “cute!” Worms are “awesome!” She picks them all up and tries to take them home as pets! God forbid we see a bumblebee, because kid is BESIDE HERSELF with excitement. “It’s a BEE! A BEE!” and she lurches toward it, hands open. Explaining that although bumblebees look fuzzy and friendly, they REALLY need to be left alone, was a surprisingly rigorous parenting challenge.
But still. Books. Man. I mean, Adam and I both read. We have stacks and stacks of books and Kindles full of reading material. I have a to-read list that is more than 250 books long and I can’t get my kid to sit still long enough for “No, David!”?
Tell me: is all hope lost? Will she eschew reading forever? Will I be stuck raising an entomologist-slash-oboe player? Any tips are welcome.
– Speaking of TV, uhh, sort of, the only show I’m really looking forward to other than True Blood is “Falling Skies,” and I cannot WAIT.
– Speaking of BOOKS, we have plenty of interest in the book club, so stay tuned for more — as soon as I get it cleaned up and a new spam system in place, I’ll be hitting a re-launch. And to say I appreciate the offers of help is an understatement. I think this time it will probably be better than the last, because there was an INSANE AMOUNT OF INTEREST from people who … weren’t all that interested. I think this time has the potential to be smaller and more engaging. Honestly, even if only two of you said to do it, I would have. Fortunately, we have a bit more — but far fewer than the 600 we had the first time.
Thanks, everyone. I hope you have a fantastic Thursday. We’re getting our beach passes, finally, although it is the furthest thing from beach weather you can imagine. Hope springs eternal, even if spring doesn’t.
*GLEE’S VERSION WAS AWFUL. AWFUL. AWFUL. I liked Haley’s better on American Idol and that is SAYING SOMETHING. Oh, Adele. You are, indeed, incomparable. (I love her.)
May 11th, 2011
We hung out with our friends today, and there was a minor spat, as two-year-olds are wont to engage in (HAAA), and I don’t even know how my mind went from Gracie being annoyed because Sam blew up in her face (mind you, the opposite has happened HUNDREDS OF TIMES) to realizing that one day, these friends that I chose for Sam might not want to be her friends or vice versa, or even if they DO, she will have friends she chose ON HER OWN, and God, these are things I spend time fretting about. It’s all very Sunrise, Sunset in my mind, but when I write it out, it’s the equivalent of a no-shitter Nerf bat to the face. Yes, people grow up, whatever, but I somehow thought my child would be immune, like Benjamin Button. Err, kind of.
But what it comes down to is her inevitable freedom of choice, I guess, and from my perspective, watching her grow into her own person; someone who does things and thinks things that are completely separate from me. It’s crazy that she will some day have secrets from me. Secrets! From me! At this point, the kid doesn’t even fart without my full knowledge of exactly what went IN to that particular cocktail of methane, so this seems completely impossible..
It sucks, this growing-up thing. Well, except for the fact that my God, when you have a child who can TELL you what she needs vs one who just YELLS VAGUELY IN YOUR DIRECTION, there’s really no comparison. No, I would not trade two-year-old Sam for infant Sam, although I MIGHT have traded 18-month-old Sam for infant Sam, because, if no one has told you yet, 18 months is kind of a shitty age.
Anyway, I really came here for one purpose, and that’s to ask you, yet again, if anyone is still interested in an online book club. The Book Lushes died last summer and then was OVERRUN WITH UNMANAGEABLE SPAM ATTACKS (Don’t look now! I’m still cleaning it up!) and I’m working on the latter issue, provided people are still interested. Honestly, I thought we’d died for good, but then more and more people started asking, and I thought, well, HM. LET US ASK. I’m always reading and always willing to participate, so if anyone else is, you let me know in the comments, just to get a wee idea (or you can send me an email) and I’ll figure something out.
So! Book club or no? Tell me. I won’t be offended either way. Probably because I’ll still be here reading It until KINGDOM COME. It’s like chipping away at a MOUNTAIN.
May 10th, 2011
First of all, if you’re thinking about reading It and wondering when, exactly, it picks up and gets really good, the answer is somewhere around page 476. Yes, FOUR HUNDRED SEVENTY-SIX. I was about to give up and just move on to Sookie, when, for reasons unknown, I thought I’d give it another whirl and suddenly, things started moving and happening and it was GOOD and INTERESTING and then I looked and ha ha haaaaa, I was just about halfway through the book. HALFWAY.
This is becoming epic, like the months I read The Historian out of some strange obligation to my childhood allegiance to Vlad Tepes.
Anyway, this weekend was, in a word, perfect, and let me tell you, I really needed it. I’ve been under a lot of unmentionable stress lately, and on Friday, I really wasn’t so sure I was going to get through it. The way I roll when times are rough is to first, absolutely FREAK OUT AND LOSE IT ALL CAPS! I think I’m NEVER GOING TO GET THROUGH THIS! And things are going to be AWFUL! And I will be DEPRESSED FOREVER!
And then I do more of this: !!!!
I also think I quite literally rend my garments, or at least the bathroom towels.
Then I buck up, get it together and face shit like a grown-up. And, well, that’s what I’m going to do. Until the NEXT cause for freak out, and I’m guessing before all is said and done, this cycle should repeat itself 5,469,876 times.
But besides all that, this weekend was amazing in that simple way that I dreamed about before I had a kid. Saturday, we took Sam for ice cream and cow-gazing, and for a kid who hadn’t had ice cream since last summer (I never buy it), she sure seemed excited about it. “ICE CREAM? ICE CREAM?” was the refrain in the car, over and over again until we arrived at Richardson’s and she had her chocolate cone in her hot little hands.
There was ice cream and cows and it was perfect, right up until the moment Sam threw a tantrum because we wouldn’t put her IN the calf pen and leave her to roam with the baby cows. (She’s used to Davis Farmland, which reminds me, if you’re a Massachusetts resident, you need to go there. We’re getting a season pass this year, because it is awesome. Roaming animals and a splash pad? SIGN ME UP.)
Mother’s Day itself featured lobster rolls, a new-to-us park where Sam spun herself dizzy-drunk on the merry-go-round, lounging and Indian food. Honestly, it’s weekends like this that make me feel like wanting anything more than to keep the people I have happy and healthy would be overkill. Greedy, greedy overkill.
You know, we don’t have a particularly luxurious life, and we don’t yet have everything we want, and even though what we DO want isn’t particularly egregious (my two family/material goals: Have another baby and buy a little house), sometimes I just feel so stupidly lucky, and so painfully aware at how spoiled I am compared to some. This, perhaps unsurprisingly, leads me down the path of panicked doom, as though taking even one second of the life I have for granted will mean it gets taken away. Like wanting more for us — no matter how mundane the ‘more’ is — will tip the scales and set off an alarm that we’ve overreached.
Irrational and silly, I know — after all, there are as many people who have much more than we do as there are those who have less — but my little family is too good, I guess, to consider taking for granted.
I hope you had a great Mother’s Day, and that you have get everything you want.
*Um, do you guys remember Dido? Yes, I still have her album. And God, what a terrible name she had/has.
May 8th, 2011
Hey, do you guys remember when I was all uppity about girls’ clothes, and how I didn’t want my kid stereotyped and I was all, where are the basic primary colors? Let us all rejoice in neutrals! Down with the princess stereotype, because MY kid will be different!
This is Sam’s favorite shirt in the whole world:
Excuse the funny angle, as it’s half in the sink after taking it off of her, but you get the idea, yes? It’s a silkscreen of a cat with a SEQUIN CROWN on its head — a pink sequin crown, no less — with the words, “Love being a princess” written behind the cat, over and over and over again.
Friends, my kid is the lady with the cat sweatshirt. She LOVES this thing. If it’s clean, she asks for it, and if it isn’t, God help us all. And no, if you were wondering, I didn’t buy it — her auntie Faith, Adam’s sister, did. That it came with a purple velour track suit with sequin tuxedo stripes is almost beside the point at this stage, am I right?
It just makes me laugh, how smug I was. Because while it’s true, I could have hidden the shirt if I was that uptight, I also knew she’d love the damn thing and you know what? She does. I also will admit to secretly hoping this happens to hipster parents who ironically dress their infants in rock T-shirts and funky vintage clothing while crowing about their toddler’s amazing taste in music. (“She LOVES Mumford and Sons! She asks for them by name!”)
Yes, I secretly hope those people wake up one day with a two-year-old who begs for Lady Gaga and dances merrily around the room clad only in a T-shirt with a sequin-crowned kitty on it. Call me petty, but there it is.
ANYWAY, I don’t even know what happened to the last week, there. I went out to dinner with a friend, we spent the weekend driving around and tooling around in this glorious, glorious weather and then, BADOW! it’s Wednesday and we almost have to do it again, and while I love this life, sometimes the weeks just fly by without even realizing it, because nothing monumental was ACCOMPLISHED, you know? Oh, sure, I spent an hour and a half folding laundry tonight, but GOD HELP ME, I WILL DO IT AGAIN TOMORROW.
(Note, this is not unique to at-home people, this is just, sadly, LIFE. I mean, unless you’re a surgeon who saves lives, in which case you can be all, I REMOVED TEN BRAIN TUMORS THIS WEEK. And then I’ll clap you on the back like, WAY TO GO, DEREK SHEPHERD. I UNLOADED THE DISHWASHER THREE TIMES.)
I can’t complain, though, because it’s nice out, and we can go to the park and hang with friends, and I’ll take it, you know? I was reminded today that while it’s nice to want things for your future, if you spend too much time agonizing over them, you miss your life. Which, last time I checked, is happening right now. Silly little platitude, but it really helped.
Unfortunately, it is not enough to stop me from continuing to slog through Stephen King’s It, and hey, anyone want to talk about a book that was published almost 25 years ago? NO? After loving the shiznit out of my very FIRST Stephen King, Bag of Bones (seriously, in my top five favorite books ever. SERIOUSLY), Adam was up my ass to read It. “Have you read It? Have you read It?” So I, after finishing The Passage on vacation, and continuing with a nice, if unremarkable diversion of Neverwhere and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, finally started It.
And now, what, two weeks later? I’m 400 pages into it, which, if you can believe it, IS NOT EVEN HALFWAY and I … NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Also, I BLAZE through books, usually, so for me to only cover 400 pages in two weeks is Not Good. And then it turns out that Adam doesn’t think he was thinking of It when he was so effusive in his recommendation and, in fact, has never even READ THE BOOK, and might have only seen the movie (miniseries?), and I AM VAGUELY MURDEROUS OVER HERE, because now I am IN THIS SHIT, but also procrastinating like a mo’ fo’, because NOTHING IS HAPPENING.
The last time I felt this way was when my book club picked Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace, which I HATED, despite my love for literally every other thing the woman has ever written. I wanted to give up so many times, but NO! My devotion to book club kept me going. Naturally, I arrived at book club to find that I was the ONLY ONE TO HAVE MADE IT THROUGH, as every other person in the room gave up.
While Jesus may have turned water into wine, the real miracle is that I didn’t throw my wine at the room at large, because MY GOD. MY GOD.
Besides, the new Sookie Stackhouse is here, but NO. I AM STILL READING IT.
I hope you have a great Thursday.
(PS, if you’re wondering, yes, I added ads back. I joined Federated Media via the Clever Girls Collective and … I hope they aren’t making your eyes bleed too much.)
*Lady Gaga, natch.
May 4th, 2011