Posts filed under 'General jackassery'
Can we talk about personality quirks? I was thinking about this yesterday as Adam and I were getting ready for bed. We are RIDICULOUS about bedtime and we often joke that we’re so prescriptive in the way we get ready for bed NOW that when we’re old, it’s going to be so over-ritualized that we’re going to have to start at 4 p.m. We both wear earplugs (and yes, we can hear Sam, it just muffles the tandem snoring), while I have an eye mask, a specific requirement for pajamas (thin cotton pants, T-shirt) AND sleeping underwear and a certain pattern of left-side, right-side flopping until I can settle in to sleep.
Adam, on the other hand, uses earplugs, as I mentioned, but cannot fall asleep unless he’s watched a few minutes of television with wireless headphones (so as not to disturb me). The headphones, however, HAVE to be over the earplugs, so that he can seamlessly take them off when he starts to drift off to sleep. It’s absurd. It’s ABSURD.
(People expecting babies, we are hope that you will be able to somewhat reliably go to bed and expect to sleep through the night just like you used to someday. Swear.)
(I’m going to read this post in June.)
Second, I brought this up on Twitter because I so rarely stay angry for, say, more than five minutes. I’m a quick-tempered, quick-cooling personality. I get really fired up, really fast, and I’m pretty good at addressing it right away (though sometimes TOO aggressively, as is the pitfall of this personality type), and then once it’s out, it’s out. I’m not angry anymore. Grudges, smudges, really. I don’t hold them, except in rare instances when someone’s unkind and or disrespects someone I love, when I strangely become a CHAMPION GRUDGE-HOLDER and can’t forgive anything, even things that should be forgivable.
(This is not to say I blow up often, because I don’t.)
ANYWAY, a few times lately, I’ve found myself irrationally holding on to things that wouldn’t normally linger, and frankly, they SHOULDN’T linger (hello, pregnant), but what it makes me think is that people who are long-simmering types must be VERY STRESSED OUT. How do you carry all that anger with you for more than a few minutes? Grudges! So exhausting!
Finally, if I were the type to write one of those pithy bios I would write that one of my major dislikes is when the big cups flip over in the dishwasher, filling up with ganky water. I like laundry—LOVE laundry, in fact—and would literally rather wash an entire load of EXCREMENT-FILLED CLOTHING than deal with the wet food issues that accompany dishwashing of any sort. I hate the dishes. I hate that we have to eat off of dishes. I wish it were environmentally acceptable to use ALL PAPER PRODUCTS and disposable pots and pans. No dishes! DOWN WITH DISHES.
Now I want to know everything about your quirks, because I feel naked.
Happy weekend!
*Jackopierce
January 26th, 2012
OH HI.
Well, then. I don’t like to overly explain absences, but I’ve been working a lot, which is great! Really, it’s great! Who doesn’t like money? I LIKE MONEY. But I was super-busy every night and every preschool session and every . . . well, EVERYTHING.
I’ve been working more in books, and man, that’s a lot of fun. Also? It’s a lot of reading. A LOT of reading, which doesn’t leave much leftover time for PERSONAL reading, which is why I’ve been sitting with Maggie Steifvater’s “Forever” on my night stand for two weeks, and it’s due back to the library on Tuesday, so I’d best be HUSTLING UP IN HERE to whip through that last, miserable book in the most ridiculous trilogy ever written in the history of YA trilogies, AMEN.
It’s awful. There is a lot of soul-gazing among teenagers and a not-insignificant number of heartfelt SONG LYRICS written out by one of the protagonists, and it’s not meant in an ironic way. Basically, I read this entire trilogy from behind my hands while making this face:
(SONG LYRICS.)
I … God, let’s see. The last two weeks have been VERY BORING and involved me staying up late with a red pen (have you tried these?) and writing some stuff for other people and working on multiple books for children and young adults and . . . um, that’s all I’ve got, because THAT IS ALL I HAVE DONE FOR MANY DAYS.
The end.
Oh, not really, but that’s what it FEELS LIKE, and you can ask anyone who’s expected a phone call or an email from me, because AIEEEEEE, freelancing is fun, but it is also very time consuming.
In the interim, I missed you guys, and feel like a loser for saying that, but I DID (do!).
I can’t stop thinking about Swistle’s post about sociopaths, because once you encounter a sociopath, you don’t really forget. It’s CRAZY. It’s crazy. I am exceedingly nice to sociopaths if I can be, because as Swistle and I discussed separately, it’s amazing how FAR a sociopath is willing to GO in order to play a game with you. SO FAR. FURTHER THAN YOU EVER DREAMED. Because remember, they do not have any feelings. None. Zero. They don’t care about you and yours. They’re bored, they’re egomaniacs, they have no conscience at all. They don’t even love their CHILDREN. They CANNOT. YOU WILL NOT WIN. So if you see someone being nice to a person YOU KNOW they know is crazy, maybe they know they are a sociopath, and just don’t feel like having their LIVES RUINED.
I don’t need to tell you (BUT I WILL) that this led to a panicked spiral as I considered how awful it would be to be the MOTHER of a sociopath, given that most rudimentary research leads one to believe that they are BORN NOT MADE, and what do you even DO? Fortunately (oh my God), my research also indicates that, as suspected, my current offspring is rather far from the picture of a young sociopath (highly empathetic, very into physical affection, likes animals and doesn’t set them aflame, ETCETERA) and I no longer need to consider 20/20 appearances as part of my retirement plan.
In other offspring news, she is naked pretty much 24/7, and today at the park, just before plowing into the sandbox, politely asked for her shoes & socks to be removed (reasonable), then requested that her pants and diaper also come off (not reasonable). So while I may not have a sociopath on my hands, it IS true that I might be dealing with an exhibitionist, and perhaps by the time she is of age, Times Square’s Naked Cowboy will be retired, and Sam can take over as Pantsless Percussionist. She does a mean “Got a Bunch of Bones” from the Bubble Guppies while drumming in time, and hot damn, she prefers to do it in the buff.
Now if you’ll excuse me, now that I can check sociopath fears off of my list, I am off to ruminate about pancreatic cancer. Because this is what I DO every time a famous person dies of a disease. I PANIC ABOUT IT.
Feel free to imagine what I’d be like if I wasn’t medicated for anxiety. BECAUSE SERIOUSLY.
*Feist
October 5th, 2011
No one likes to be without electricity, let’s be honest. I think, however, there is a SPECIAL KIND of power-less status when you have a small person with, uh, a Dora addiction and also a major desire for things like fresh foods and a very special sound machine that makes the ONLY SOUND in the entire universe that is acceptable, did you know that? And did you also know it doesn’t come with a battery back-up? WHY DOES IT NOT HAVE A BATTERY BACK-UP?
The soother of destiny.
I can’t even talk about it without getting some kind of wild PTSD-related twitches, because my child DID NOT SLEEP the entire time! And neither did we! FOR TWO DAYS! HA HA HAAA! And we drove around town like refugees! But NOT BEFORE we sat through the storm and witnessed my neighbor’s house get basically, uhhh, decimated by the winds, as tree after tree toppled over, demolishing bit by bit of the poor guy’s yard, fence, gazebo, and finally, house.
(He’s fine. His, um, life-size replica of the statue of David and accompanying blue-lit gazebo is … not. I can’t type that sentence with a straight face. Yes, David was situated so he faced the rear windows of the house in all his glory, and yes, he was LIT UP IN BLUE, rain or shine, every night of the year. I GOT NOTHING HERE, PEOPLE. Except my neighbor has promised he’s going to “Rebuild! Bigger and stronger than ever!” WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT MEANS? WILL DAVID GET A BIGGER PENIS?)
Irene was supposed to be this BIG OVERHYPED THING, according to New Yorkers, who we learned are the center of the universe. “New York is safe! Hallelujah!” read the headlines. Meanwhile, everyone else was not doing all that well — including large parts of New York’s economic sisters-in-arms, Connecticut and New Jersey. And Vermont! Oh, poor Vermont, right? I feel a little shattered every time I hear what’s going on there, and when I see pictures of all the roads we used to travel on that are literally GONE, I feel even sicker.
I also feel a remarkable appreciation for working light switches, and Sam quite literally WEPT WITH RELIEF when she pushed the button on her sound machine and it turned on. She cried from happiness. “I can go NIGHT-NIGHT!” she declared through a mixture of laughter and tears. “MAH MACHINE!”
Good God, did I fuck this kid’s sleep up good and hard or what? It seemed like a good idea, this sound machine. We live in a single-story ranch! That sound machine’s presence enables us to watch television and take showers and have conversations after 8 p.m. and GOD, I HAVE MADE HER DEPENDENT.
She seems relatively unscathed though.
Heeey, did anyone ever tell you what a CRAP IDEA those little carts are for small children? And how it will turn grocery shopping into a horrible adventure, filled with injury (crashing into your heels), intrigue (will she take out the ENTIRE display of parmesan, or just nick it?) and excitement (Look! It’s like bumper cars! Except not at ALL HA HA OH GOD)? Never again. I will do ANYTHING to stop my daughter from finding that little cart ever again, even if I have to call the manager of Price Chopper MYSELF and demand all removal of toddler-size shopping carts from their existence at the CORPORATE LEVEL.
(Too unrealistic? AIM HIGH, I say.)
I hope you have a great Wednesday, or whatever day you read this!
*YE OLDE SWAYZE
August 30th, 2011
Last week mostly sucked. I wish I could be more eloquent than that, but man, it just wasn’t a great week. Between the jackhammering of our foundation (OMFG), a napless kid thanks to said foundation hammering and the fact that I realized A-HA! I was supposed to have a BABY this week! … it was, um, unpleasant. I was in a mood the likes of which I haven’t seen in months and months. It wasn’t until I stormed away from the construction workers muttering, “Are you fucking KIDDING ME?” only to come inside and — oh, I can barely type it without cringing — throw a head of cauliflower so hard on the counter that it shattered in a jillion florets that I realized, HM. Perhaps I am not being myself here. You know, because I’m sobbing into my sleeve amongst the cauliflower shrapnel while my daughter– my poor, sweet daughter — asks, “Are you okay, Mommy?”
(I picked up the florets and roasted them anyway. Do you think less of me?)
(Genuine, turnaround-quality bright spot: A delightful day at Davis Farmland with Maureen and her perfect children. I love her. And them.)
The good news is that my ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor sticks are somewhere in Cleveland, thus, giving me the perfect excuse to hold off for another month before getting back on the Train of Potential Conception, although I have to tell you, I feel kind of ready for another baby, and that’s something I couldn’t say a month ago. One of my best friends is pregnant, and her due date is coming soon (November!) and I can’t wait! I can’t WAIT! I want to hold the tiny baby! I want to SEE the tiny baby, and I want to see her daughter, Lila, with a little brother, although I think Sam is going to be pretty pissed off, because Megan is her favorite. She already gets the scraps from Lila, and when there’s a baby in Meg’s lap, HAAAA, rage.
Plus, you know, Sam starts school in a few weeks, and I’m seriously acting like she’s headed off to college. Tonight, I asked Adam if Sam is still going to like me, or if she’s going to want to live at school. I wasn’t even being a little jokey about it, because what if she hates me? What if this is the end, and she’s all done with me and just wants to hang out with her friends? What if she stops holding my face in her hands and saying, “MOMMY! I love you…”? THEN WHAT?
I will burn down the preschool, that’s what.
Speaking of babies, we up and left our precious child with a (great, new, reader of this blog) babysitter on Saturday night to see Harry Potter at the Imax and eat sushi. And you GUYS. Yes, the movie was great, blah blah, and yes, we go to an Imax theater that is, mysteriously, inside a furniture store (I don’t know, either, but those Jordan stores are like MINI DISNEYLAND), but the thing is, Harry Potter is a loud movie, right? And add the Imax experience, which includes “butt-kickers,” which vibrate the seats during explosive-type scenes, and … well, you get the idea.
The thing is, so there’s Harry Potter, one of the loudest movies EVER — I mean Deathly Hallows is basically one big battle scene, and I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by saying so — and near the beginning of the movie, there was this BIG! EXPLOSIVE! sound and then … silence.
Which is precisely when the man next to me farted. Very loudly.
YOU GUYS. In a twisted way, I felt HORRIBLE for him, because MY GOD, the movie was SO LOUD, and WHAT ARE THE CHANCES that he’s going to let one rip JUST as the SILENCE FILLS A CROWDED THEATER?
But the worst part — the WORST! — is that Adam was wholly convinced it was me, and he was GLARING at me, like *I* was the asshole who FARTED IN A CROWDED THEATER. By that point, I just lost it, and I was snickering uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face, and OH GOD, I had just made the Harry Potter Farter feel even worse, because how do you not know that’s why I’m laughing? How do you NOT think that the lady next to you is wheeze-laughing because you ripped it in the movie theater? HOW?
Ah. Anyway. It was a great night, I loved the movie, with the exception of the VERY end, which was … poorly executed, although I don’t want to give it away. I just … CHILDREN SHOULD NOT HAVE CHILDREN, is all I’m saying, and there was a bad casting call there.
This is wrapping up awkwardly, but three things:
1) I tried raw oysters during said night out when we made a last-minute restaurant change. I … don’t get it. This isn’t some, “oh, check me out, I wrote something somewhere else!”, but a, NO SERIOUSLY, what am I missing? I need to know what you think, because I do NOT get it, and this seems like something I SHOULD get, but when I read reviews of food critics eating raw oysters and describing their nuanced flavors with wine-type language, I’m like, wait, what? I TASTED TABASCO. But also, I didn’t find them remotely repulsive, I just found them TREMENDOUSLY BORING.
2) I have essentially stopped washing my kid’s hair because it’s getting TOO DAMN ANNOYING. She acts like I’m dumping hydrochloric acid on her head, and GOD. I know this is not good, but there you have it. CONFESSION TIME.
3) I started using the library request system, and you guys, it’s like, FREE BOOKS THAT YOU ACTUALLY WANT, instead of picking through the shelves. What a revolutionary idea! And one that is actually preventing MANY MELTDOWNS from Sam, because she is so desperate to go downstairs to see Fred the turtle that she cannot bear the three minutes it takes me to find the book I want. Linger, you shall be mine. OH YES, YOU SHALL.
Happy Tuesday!
*Depeche Mode. And you know, I am REALLY GLAD I didn’t get the giant cross with “DM” tattooed on my leg back in high school. OMFG.
August 15th, 2011
I’ve been sleeping like absolute crap lately because — oh God — I’m too lazy to get up to pee in the middle of the night. I AM TOO LAZY TO PEE, ergo I wake up at 5, unable to contain it any longer and then I am UNABLE to go back to sleep, so hello, I’m rising at 5. This would be fine if I went to bed at 9 or 10, but I RARELY have the presence of mind to do that, so there I am, going to bed at midnight and getting up at 5, which, at the risk of sounding like a total princess, is just not enough for me unless I’ve got a newborn, and even then, I’m counting on a shitload of adrenaline to get me through.
Oh, first-world sleep problems, how you torment. The real kicker is that I’m on this mad HYDRATION! kick since being completely flattened by a surprise migraine last Thursday. I think surprise migraines are the best kind, don’t you? The kind that give you a fever, make you think you have the flu and then, BADOW! 101 degree fever! Searing pain! An urge to lie down in a dark room and ban electronic devices from existence!
Ah, well.
One of the things that kicks me the most about parenting — and I’m not pretending this is a NEW thought, by any stretch — is that you never really know if you’re doing a good job. I mean, you don’t. There are no performance reviews, unless they are measured in minutes between tantrums, and even then, there are too many variables to determine if you had any hand in the tantrum-free time, or if that was just because they were sick/tired/cranky on tantrum day or vice versa.
I’m self-aware enough to realize that I’m making this entirely about me, when that’s the last thing parenting is really about, but I would be lying if I said I had no idea what I can and can’t take credit for, you know? Sam is a pretty compliant kid. She’s a sweet kid. Yes, she pulls attitude and GOD, SHE HAS HER MOMENTS, and I KNOW she’s only two, and my God, it’s going to get a thousand times worse, but I have no idea what aspects of her behavior have anything to do with MY behavior. Is she generally a good kid because of something I’ve done, so that I can repeat it? Is it something I HAVEN’T done, so I don’t do it in the future? Is it just HOW SHE WAS BORN?
Gah, there is NO WAY TO KNOW. I know plenty of people who are good people — and I’m guessing, good parents — with kids of all ages who are, um, DIFFICULT. And these are good people! Who are good parents! So it’s like, what DO YOU EVEN DO? Is it just dumb-shit luck with the kid’s personality that’s inborn? Do you just sit back and throw your hands in the air and declare yourself impotent?
And as a parent, do you EVER feel like you did a good job? I like to think that my parents are at least breathing a small sigh of relief that I turned out okay, if that can be measured in happiness and a reasonable modicum of success, totally obnoxious Twitter gaffes notwithstanding.
(Seriously, is there a medium that’s gotten me in MORE trouble? Is it really wise to tweet every thought unfiltered from my mouth, when nine times out of ten, I don’t mean it as Judgy McJudgerson as it sounds? Like, here, let me judge YOUR debt issues, even though you have clearly illustrated to me that you are responsible, but SHIT HAPPENS. Even when I FULLY KNOW people who have such debt who are not idiots and come by it honestly, and yes, I’m still self-flagellating over that, because the people I AM judging are not EVERYONE in that situation, so WHO EXACTLY DO I THINK I AM? See also: the economy. Let me say it again: Mea culpa. I’m sorry.)
(You may be free to judge me for my horrific housing woes, if you like, for they are a legion of unsavory miseries full of salacious, discomfiting details.)
ANYWAY, even NOW, with me being happy and married to a great guy with a sweet kid, are my parents still worried about me? Oh yes, I’m sure they are, but worry does not equal worry that they failed me, you know? I hope they’re at least taking SOME credit for having done a good job, because they did.
I can’t believe I’m about to reference something so EXTREME, but there was this crazy-ass murder in Adam’s hometown (he’s obsessed, feel free to ask him about it) — a kid who just graduated from high school killed his girlfriend in a fit of rage. They were both freshly minted 18-year-olds. How horrible is THAT?
And you know, on paper, the murderer’s family looks PERFECT, so it’s not like I can sit there and blame them, because again, THEY SEEM LIKE LOVELY PEOPLE. Wayland is a nice community! With nice parents! And only TWO murders in the last TWENTY YEARS. I hate to think that everyone is blaming THE PARENTS for the crazy shortcomings and, um, MURDER at the hands of this 18-year-old kid.
(Yes, I just went from pondering if I’m raising a kind person to fearing I will raise a MURDERER.) (Just call me Arlene.)
(Also, I seem to have moved from parental responsibility to taking responsibility for one’s actions as an adult, but while YES, I recognize that 18 is adult, he still lived at home, had JUST graduated high school, and HE MURDERED HIS GIRLFRIEND, HOW CRAZY IS THAT?)
And then what about the great kids who had AWFUL parents? WHAT ABOUT THEM? Again, should we just THROW IN THE TOWEL, toss our kids in a playpen and give up on bothering with quality time and time-outs? IS ANY OF THIS STICKING?
It’s like this whole parenting this is just A HOT FAT MESS, and NO ONE HAS ANY IDEA what they’re doing, I’m sorry, they don’t. Well, my friend Amanda does, but this is because she’s the best mom I’ve ever witnessed in person, ever. HER kids will turn out perfectly, and all because of her. I’m certain my real-life friends who are in the same circle are not offended by this, because this is the kind of dirty salacious gossip we say behind her back: She’s a great mom who puts me to shame, dude. (Hi, Amanda!)
But seriously, I DO wonder: at what point in a well behaved kid do you give the parents credit, assuming there aren’t any obvious issues? Is it luck? Parenting? WHAT? I AM FLYING WITHOUT A NET HERE.
*Muse
July 28th, 2011
Whenever Adam or I is at a drugstore without the other, we usually pick up a treat for the other person — you know, like a magazine or some Starburst or something little and lame. A few times, recently, he’s brought me home Cosmo. This tickles me on a thousand levels, because I can’t remember a time that I ever bought Cosmo on the reg, but when I DID, I was most definitely in my 20s, and likely the EARLY portion of the decade. How else could I put up with “reader questions” such as this gem, in the beauty section?
Q: What kind of jewelry should I wear with my bikini?
A: Colorful feather necklaces! They’re in and their tropical vibe is perfect for a day at the beach or pool. Layer on a few!
YOU GUYS. Jewelry. With a bikini. I CANNOT EVEN. Feather necklaces. With a bikini. And, I’m guessing, horridly high platforms and full make-up a la Gretchen Rossi, which means that the vast majority of Cosmo readers are living a far more glamorous life than I was. Or it’s aspirational bullshit. Yes, that’s it. ASPIRATIONAL BULLSHIT.
(I mean, right? Do YOU wear feather necklaces with your bikini?) (Is it wrong of me to laugh?)
It then goes on for an entire magazine, telling you how to meet, hook and please your man (give him extended orgasms!), while at the BACK of the magazine, explaining that sometimes, grooms kill their brides on the honeymoon. What makes them do it? AN IN-DEPTH LOOK. So meet him! Hook him! Give him extended orgasms! BUT FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO NOT LET HIM KILL YOU. GROOMS ARE DEADLY.
It’s a wonder ANYONE survives their twenties, really. The way Cosmo paints it, it is both frivolous and fraught with danger, in equal measure. And that’s probably the way it felt for me, too, but I will concede that I rarely wore a bikini, and if I did, I SURE AS SHIT was not contemplating what kind of JEWELRY to wear.
Although the murderous trajectory WOULD explain Adam’s recent addiction to the Investigation Discovery channel, wouldn’t it? He’s trying to figure out how to get away with it, Murder by Numbers-style.
(Remember that? With Ryan Gosling, who then dated Sandra Bullock? Also, Michael Pitt, who was SO GROSS back then, but is strangely attractive, albeit not my type, in Boardwalk Empire?)
Ahhh, Cosmo. I have four back issues to read through and catch up on the latest vibrator technology AND learn about sociopaths whose sole purpose in life is to stalk and kill young women. Perfect.
Meanwhile, I have TOLD y’all that I’m reading Discovery of Witches and I think you should ALL read it and then join me as I, quite literally in the actual definition of the word ‘literal’, FAN MYSELF WITH MY KINDLE, because Matthew Clairmont makes Edward Cullen and Eric Northman look like WEE LITTLE BOYS with no SKILLZ.
(FAN MYSELF WITH THE KINDLE.)
I’ve got to go to bed, because witnessing some ABSURDLY ABSURD Twitter drama (WHY?) has kept me up far too late, but I’m going to the eye doctor tomorrow, and am seriously considering prescription sunglasses. The older I get, the drier my eyes get, and I CANNOT TAKE it anymore, nor can I take NOT wearing sunglasses. On the one hand, prescription seems like a reasonable solution. On the other, let’s be honest, I BREAK THEM ALL THE TIME. The Target ones anyway. I mean, would I be ANY GENTLER with prescription ones?
Help me, Internet.
*Corey whatsisface Hart. SRSLY
June 29th, 2011
As it turns out, I’ve got a sinus infection, and I’m on the first antibiotic I’ve been on in … decades, I think? I am not particularly hippie-ish about medicine — I mean, I take two big pharma-esque pills a day, and will likely do so for the rest of my life — but you, too, might be squirrelly about antibiotics if you had adolescent bladder infections that rendered you immune to every single one except the ones that cause hallucinations (but conveniently, cure anthrax!). And – AND! – knowing one too many people infected with (OMFG) C diff after antibiotics which causes the MOST unsavory symptoms of anything I have ever dreamed of and I’m terrified of … OMFG HA HA, WHY AM I TALKING ABOUT THIS?
I forget sometimes, like in situations like last week, what a good kid Sam is. I know it will change, and that she’ll eventually (SOON) be punky and Freshy VonFresherson (though she’ll still be a good kid), but for now, she is rarely fresh or willfully defiant, she shares nicely and loves her friends, and hell, I just love the spit out of my sweet girl. There are lots and lots of hugs and kisses – initiated by her — and she’ll hug anyone who asks, and plenty who don’t, sometimes to the surprise of others. Before bedtime, I tell her to “get your lips ready!” and she pouts like Angelina Jolie posing for photographers as she swoops in to kiss everyone in the room.
She’s gentle and kind to plants and animals, has a great sense of humor (I mean, for a two-year-old, let’s be realistic here, it’s not like she’s quoting Seinfeld) and … oh, man. I love her. I say this not to brag, because I recognize that these are things we ALL think about our kids, but it’s more to remind myself, and her, someday, that she’s a great kid whose current failings are purely the circumstance of her age and lapses on my part, not hers. I don’t want her to ever read this and think, wow, my mom thought I was a total pain in the ass. Because oh hell no, kid. You’re fucking awesome.
And hey, do y’all remember the disco kitty shirt? Well, more proof that while my girl might be amazing, personality-wise, she, um, SORELY LACKS in the taste department, and I promise you, I had nothing to do with her latest attachment:
Yes, that’s a boa-wrapped hot-pink fur notebook with a POODLE on it that Adam won her at a corporate outing at — oh, I can barely type it — Dave and Buster’s. “Pink doggie come? Pink notebook? WITHA PEN?” UGH, FINE KID. Here’s your hideous notebook.
In other news, I’m currently interviewing sitters for some (VERY) part-time help while I get some work done and also, uhhh, have my fertility appointments and other sundry items taken care of. Like my HSG which, for the uninitiated, is that test where they shoot dye into your tubes ‘n utes and view all your lady parts via ultrasound to make sure they’re smooth and shiny, and NO ONE, I assure you, wants a two-year-old in that situation. Or you know, at the dentist. Or while trying to conduct a client call with a modicum of professionalism.
What kills me, however, is how stupidly guilty I feel about the whole thing. As though I’m putting her in HARM’S WAY by allowing someone other than me (or Adam or my parents or siblings) to care for her. God, it’s so ABSURD. I don’t feel this way about other people — quite the opposite, in fact — and logically, I KNOW that this is NORMAL and GOOD FOR HER and GOOD FOR ME (and our bank account! And my teeth! And my … uterus?), but there I am, all Cringey McCringerson about having a perfectly capable, kind human being feed my child lunch and put her down for a nap. As though because I am paying them, rather than squeezing their familial obligation out of their pores, that they will somehow fail in an immeasurable, damaging way.
This is one of those cases — like, say, breastfeeding, at least for me — where my emotions cloud my actual, logical judgment of the situation at hand. I was all, I MUST BREASTFEED OR THE WORLD WILL END. And yet, if other people formula fed, I did not assume the world would end, and in fact, admired them for making a totally reasonable choice that worked best for them. Kind of like how I always assume MY plane will crash, although I willingly allow my loved ones to fly without a care in the world. IT IS SO ABSURD. She’s TWO. I CAN GO TO THE DENTIST. PEOPLE PUT THEIR KIDS IN DAYCARE. AND IT WORKS GREAT. GET OVER YOURSELF, JONNA.
What I DO find a little strange, however, is the number of applicants who want to … bring their own child along? Is that strange to anyone else? I feel like I can disassociate the emotional factor from this one enough to suss out the feeling that, a) it would be kind of disruptive to Sam to not only have a new person to get used to, but a new person and their kid? And navigating that dynamic of mother/child and then poor Sam? It’s one thing to leave her at my friends’ house with their kids, but she KNOWS all of them and … and I just … well, is it me?
(It might be.)
(But I still don’t think I’m going to hire anyone who does.)
Hey, have a happy Thursday! Woo!
June 15th, 2011
Our Target is being renovated into a SUPER Target, and though I appreciate the new whisper-soft carts, I do not appreciate the fact that I honestly can’t find anything, as it’s all smooshed up into a smaller store during the expansion. I also don’t appreciate that they rolled out the new carts, which are twice the size of the old carts, while the aisles are half the size of the old aisles, and the entire time I was there today, I kept saying, “SAM! Watch your head! HEAD!” because she was lounging with head all dangly, and my God, Target is so effing HARROWING lately.
Worse, because of all this, I was looking for underwear for me, and here’s where I admit I was basically looking for the worst underwear in the world, because I just wanted those stupid plastic packages of, like, Jockey for Her or Hanes or something, you know? I’m sure you all had this vision of me lying about in a smoking jacket and silk tangas from Victoria’s Secret in between floor steamings, but I’m sorry to say, it’s … well, at least it’s not those giant cotton BRIEFS, is all I’m saying. So anyway, there I am, in Target, and you guys, I CANNOT FIND ANYTHING. The women’s section is all squinched into this wee corner of the store next to some makeshift dressing rooms, and I can’t find the damn underwear to save my life, but I did find a collection of underwear for little girls, and even as I write that, it seems PERVY.
The point is, there aren’t any packages of underwear for grown-ups in a place that is easily located, but that’s no excuse for me stopping a Target employee and stammering, “Where is the underwear? You know, for moms?”
FOR MOMS. BECAUSE MOMS WEAR SPECIAL UNDERWEAR. The whole exchange, honestly, is just grossing me out, because … well, I don’t even KNOW WHY, except that I’m imagining why moms would need special underwear and then my mind went to birth or kangaroo pouches and YOU GUYS, I WANT TO THROW UP.
To the employee’s credit, she just pointed me to grown-up lady underwear and I picked up my Fruit of the Loom in body tones (but not giant over-the-belly briefs, and again, I feel like this is important information), if by body tones they mean an odd shade of rose and some sort of pasty beige that is the color of no one’s skin, pretty much in the history of mankind. Well, except for maybe a special breed of moms.
At any rate, if you need me, I’ll be over here dying a slow death by daylight saving time, because if THAT isn’t the worst invention known to man — NOT INVENTED BY A MOM, UNDERWEAR OR NO — I don’t know what is. We’re sleeping late! Going to bed late! (And by ‘we’ I mean Sam and me.) Waking up at 9:30! And … not napping. I basically want to take cheese graters to my skin and bathe in vinegar. SRSLY.
I’ll leave you with this shot of Sam from last week that Megan took, natch. I love her so, and by her, I mean Megan, although Sam is pretty nifty too. Sam as deep thinker, even if she’s really wondering where Elmo is and how she can make him HERS, ALL HERS.
(Click to embiggen, should you desire.)
Happy weekend!
*Mates of State
March 17th, 2011
When I can’t fall asleep at night, I find it vaguely soothing to think of things that are complete fantasy, and by “fantasy,” I don’t mean lying about dreaming of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, but about scenarios that will never come to pass. It’s pretty much the only thing that keeps me from worrying, you know? Not that I have a lot to worry about in the grand scheme of things, but when you can’t fall asleep, there’s nothing more niggling than wondering if you paid that stupid water bill, or if you remembered to charge your phone. Minor concerns, yes, but in the dark hour of midnight, they become beyond paramount.
The problem is when the unrealities start keeping me up at night, and that’s where we’re at. As such, I shall pass my vaguely dark fantastical questions along to you, so that you, too, may stay up at night thinking about them. If you’re so inclined, tell me what you would do, and why, so that I can think about what YOU would do when I can’t sleep and wonder if THAT is a better choice.
1) An oldie but goodie. Sam’s favorite Yo Gabba Gabba episode is the Superhero one with Devo, and I’ve seen it no fewer than five hundred times, no exaggeration. Hey! Let’s play! SUPER-HEEROOOES!
OK, so you get a superpower. Just one. What is it?
I choose to freeze time. What CAN’T you do with freezing time? Nothing! You have alibis! You just freeze time, get a nap, finish your deadline, steal funds from Bernie Madoff, rob a bank, whatever! Whatever! Be Robin Hood! IS FULL OF ALL KINDS OF POSSIBILITIES.
Second choice: control the weather like Halle Berry in the X-Men. I like the idea of making it snow with cloudy eyes myself. Will be snowy mystery? Who made that snow? IN JULY? If it can be localized, even better! Make it snow on my NEIGHBOR’S house, not mine, especially since I clean up ten tons of her dog’s shit every day. And if there are forest fires somewhere? FIRE UP THE OLD RAINMAKER.
2) This is less, uhhh, happy, and I don’t mean this to make LIGHT of the situation, but this is where our thought process led us: Adam and I discussed the whole Japan nuclear meltdown possibility, which led to us wondering if a PERSON had to be at the controls to cool everything down, and if it would come down to some Armageddon-like situation (the movie, that is), with the government offering the hero’s family an astronomical sum for him or her to walk in their and have his/her face melted off, but save the world, or at least JAPAN. This led him to say he would consider it, because he’s just like that, and this also led to me clutching his arm all, DON’T LEAVE USSSSSS! and seriously, would ANY of you consider such a thing, because I DO NOT THINK I COULD. I believe I am very selfish and love my family too much, and that’s just if it were ME. Take my husband? I RIP YOUR FACE TO SHREDS! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! I KILL YOU FIRST!
See? Not happy. I’m sure THAT will keep me up at night, if Stephen King’s Bag of Bones doesn’t already. (SO GOOD. SO SCARY.)
Happy Monday! On that, um, happy thought. (THINK ABOUT THE SUPERHERO POWERS INSTEAD!)
March 13th, 2011
Well, I am nothing if not consistent, if by consistent, you mean absent, but the sickopalypse continued, plus I had two work deadlines, and that meant lack of sleep and lack of many things, but sleep! I missed sleep a lot.
What’s crazy is that I cannot figure out WHY I am so pathetically tired on a level I wasn’t before I had Sam. What the EFF, right? I mean, I used to work until well past midnight and then get up for work at 6, but now when I try ANYTHING close to that — getting up at 7 or later, even! — I am DEAD. DEAD. FOR DAYS. WEEKS, EVEN. (And before you mention it, I’m already medicated for my thyroid and other stuff, so it’s not medical, it’s that I’m a wimp. Either that, or my job is much more, um, physical, I guess.)
It’s like the Pussification of Jonna, up close and in the flesh. Just now I whined in Adam’s general direction that he had to set an alarm for 7:15 tomorrow morning because it’ll wake us all up earlier than I’d like. Bear in mind, please, that my preshus offspring usually sleeps until 8, and here I am, most spoiled mother in America. And yet I am exhausted.
I went to the dentist today, and as it turns out, I do NOT have a failed root canal, and Deb was totally right, in that it was referred pain because the tooth is RIGHT under my sinuses, and it was (OMFG) SINUS PAIN. And also, I grind my teeth like a mo’ fo’, and which reminds me, GET THIS: So the dentist is all up in my shit because I’m wearing my teeth down to nubs and then — THEN! — he’s pointing out that my teeth should never touch, which is something I did not know, honestly. Do your teeth touch when you’re just sitting there? Please check and report back. I’ll wait.
Obviously mine do, AND I grind them horribly, but what killed me is that he stared at me as I was doing this and very gravely announced, “Relaxed people do not do this. It’s a stress thing. You really need to relax.”
And I’m like, hey dude, for starters, my day job involves running around after a small person who yells at me constantly, and when she’s not yelling at me, she’s clinging to me like an extra appendage. I never, ever sit by myself. I sit down for five whole seconds, and Sam’s all up in my grill and then Sunny! Sunny has to sit on me, too! I DO NOT SIT ALONE. EVER. I don’t even pee alone. I haven’t peed alone since 2005, because Sunny hasn’t let me pee alone, and now Sam and … oh, man, I forgot what going to the bathroom unwitnessed was even like, because there are FOUR EYEBALLS on me when I pee, OK?
Both of those people need my assistance in some way to poop (shut up, Sunny is people). I wipe someone else’s butt multiple times a day. Then, when I get a reprieve from the small person, I get to go outside and fish dog poopsicles out of the back yard and fold laundry and then when Sam goes to sleep? Then I get to do my other job, and we haven’t even TALKED about the last few months involving death, pregnancy loss and divorce of some of my closest friends, and I’m ALL WHY DON’T YOU RELAX AND HAVE YOUR TEETH NOT TOUCH, BUDDY. WALK A MILE, KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?
I didn’t say any of that. I laughed awkwardly and agreed, but I just wanted to say it! I wanted to! And I never get all martyrous (kind of not a word), but I do not KNOW, I just think this is what happens when you don’t get enough rest and you find yourself spiraling towards burnout.
(For the record, I have nothing due in the immediate future, so I will recover nicely. PLUS, we are really and truly scheduling a child-free vacation AND this mini-breakdown made me realize I was definitely right in turning down a big project recently, because although I would have secured more regular child care for it, I just … well, I am fried, clearly, can you tell? If not, I can rant more about how HAAARD my privileged little life is, if you want to. I’d want to smack me, if I were you, so if you tell me I’m a spoiled brat, I don’t blame you one whit. First-world whining, FTW!)
Separately, I have five cavities and apparently need TWO cleanings with the hygienist to get shit done in there, and when I defensively mewled, “But I brush! I FLOSS!” he simply responded, “Yes, everyone says they brush, but …” and then he just trailed off.
Do you guys … is he implying that I DO NOT BRUSH MY TEETH?
Oh man.
(I do. I swear I do.)
Back later with less teeth and a lot less whining.
Happy Wednesday!
*Gaga, natch.
March 1st, 2011
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