Posts filed under 'General jackassery'
Well, HELLOOOOO there. The, um, sickopalypse turned out to be an actual no-shit sickopalypse, with multiple pediatrician visits, a diagnosis of strep for Sam, strep tests for everyone else and a general plague that descended upon our home for roughly a week, and it was … it was very, very bad. Very bad. VERY BAD. There are not enough words to describe how, um, VERY BAD, things were.
In fact, I won’t even, because it would be boring and painful to go into, except that once again Dr. Google led us down a path of destruction and neurological nightmares, and culminated in a very grim visit to the pediatrician with a parental diagnosis of VERY BAD INDEED, only to have the pediatrician basically say, ummmm, no, that didn’t even cross my mind, OK? OK. Now go home and relax and give the kid fiber so she, um, well, whatever.
(I just have to hastily add that this time, the Googling wasn’t my doing. Small victories that aren’t really victories at all, but are in fact, rabbit holes of horror for everyone!)
However, we still had strep up in here, and after one adult getting swabbed (negative) it turned out it really didn’t matter at all because we still felt like we were at DEFCON 1 in terms of sickness, and anything diagnosable would have been both comforting and sort of useless, because we still felt like crap. That is, of course, unless it came with a FIX IT! button that would also transport us all to the Caribbean on Brobee’s back without having to pack enough snacks for the toddler.
We’re recovering nicely now, thanks. But I would like to once again humbly request that 2011 stop putting us through the wringer, and while I realize that a houseful of sick people hardly qualifies as a crisis, LEMME TELL YOU that it turns out when you had a January like we had, you’re a little trigger-happy with the panic button. What can I even say? We’re all PTSD up in here. I am, as of this writing, wobbling on the verge of tears for no good reason other OY, THAT SUCKED.
(I would also like to add that I am currently sitting on a tooth that had a root canal that appears to have been entirely ineffective, so I am also in a fair amount of pain and ALSO very probably watching our Caribbean vacation fund go slowly down the drain of DENTAL CRISIS and also maybe IMPLANT and while it’s possible that it won’t happen, I’m betting it will, because see also: PTSD and bad 2011 and please, someone just GIVE ME THE IV OF PINOT GRIGIO. PERKINS, WHERE ARE MY SMELLING SALTS?)
So now that we’ve covered THAT, can I just tell you that every single year — and I am not kidding you, EVERY YEAR — I make a biiiiig proclamation that I am NOT, no seriously, DEFINITELY NOT, going to watch American Idol this year, NO SERIOUSLY I AM NOT! Do not even ask me about it! And then … I get sucked in, because Adam doesn’t even PRETEND that he doesn’t want to watch it, with the excuse that there’s not much else on the teevee, so it’s on. Aaaand, naturally, there I am, slyly watching in the background and surreptitiously asking him WHAT, no seriously, WHAT, is up with that girl in the wheelchair, and why is everybody crying?
(He loves when I do this, as you can imagine. It’s also great when I decide three-quarters of the way through a season of a show I said I didn’t want to watch that hey HEY! it suddenly looks kind of interesting, and is now a good time for a primer of who everyone is, and WAIT, WHY IS THAT LADY PULLING A GUN? And why is Peg Bundy looking so suspiciously buff? And HOLY SHIT WHO IS THAT HOT GUY?)
(See: Sons of Anarchy)
So now here I am, all caught up on American Idol, sort of, and though I still don’t know who the (apparently moving) woman in the wheelchair is, or why she’s significant (other than AI loves people who make other people cry, because that show is quickly becoming a tearjerker of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition proportions), I am embarrassed to admit that I … I …
I LIKE JENNIFER LOPEZ ON IT. A LOT. I am finding her ENDEARING and LIKABLE and you don’t understand, this is the SINGLE most frustrating outcome of any show I have ever seen, because I DID NOT WANT TO LIKE HER. I have always disliked her! She’s flashy! Inappropriate! Self-absorbed! Had infertility treatments and LIED ABOUT IT, which is fine if she didn’t want to disclose it, but to go on the record as saying that she got pregnant simply because she just KNEW SHE COULD DO IT since she WANTED IT SO BADLY was such a horrid slap in the face to people who ALSO want it so badly and just can’t, and … oh, dear.
Plus, she’s married to Marc Anthony, who is possibly the most insufferable person on the planet and bears a strong resemblance to Skeletor. And — AND! — like her predecessor, Paula Abdul, THE WOMAN CANNOT SING. She has the vocal range of my two-year-old daughter. NO — NO! — SHE HAS THE VOCAL RANGE OF SUNNY!
(Related: Why does AI keep getting these half-assed pop star judges with the vocal talent of your average high school chorus? At least Kara DioGuardi knew how to sing and, um, play instruments and stuff, like, you know, an actual musician. I kind of miss Kara and her constant screeches of artistry! ARTISTRY!)
So tell me, how is this woman (JLo, that is, not Kara) qualified to judge a singing competition? I’m putting money on the fact that she doesn’t even know what a KEY is, much less whether someone is OFF OF IT and yet there I am, smiling at her, and the way she likes the desperate, slightly insane girls with no real idea of what they’re doing or getting themselves into. She seems to really care about these kids! She’s invested! She’s … oh God. I wanted to hug her when she championed the single mom of the special needs kid, even though I didn’t even feel like her connection was genuine! I … holy merde, it’s just awful. She’s funny! She’s sweet!
She’s really done one hell of a PR job, is what she’s done. Dammit.
And all this is before I even touched on the fact that I am a little bit in love with Steven Tyler, even though he’s a total lech, and, I believe, is older than my dad. And I am MIDDLE AGED.
(Does that make it less creepy? No?)
Happy Tuesday!
*Ja Rule and Ashanti. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HEARD THIS ONE, SUCKAH? (Me: this afternoon, when Kiss 108 played it, and then I stupidly — OH SO STUPIDLY — downloaded it.
February 21st, 2011
Once again, your comments brought me to effing TEARS (and my mom, too, pretty much), and I’m working my way through my email, which is usually not an issue, except that HOO BOY I am TERRIBLE with email and wait, where was I?
Oh, right. So this last week, just to be clear, I wasn’t holed up in some corner, weeping my life away (although I have moments of being pretty bummed out), but I had a deadline and now THAT is done, I feel like … well, a new woman, in a weird way, only because I suddenly have all of this free time. Which: HA! I never had that much to BEGIN with, but when you’re me and you basically get your whole job done in your free time, well, when it returns after a deadline, suddenly life seems RIFE WITH POSSIBILITIES and maybe things like crafting and knitting! SCRAPBOOKING! I SHALL MAKE ALL OF OUR CLOTHES FROM SCRATCH AND START A CAKE BUSINESS!
Except, well, no, the only thing I am remotely decent at is what I do for a living, so I am not on my way to being on Top Chef: Just Desserts OR Project Runway, but am doomed to be a writer and communications professional-type person, and sadly, that is not at all glamorous or exciting and worse, there is no fondant or buttercream or even pretty scraps of paper. What a pile of shit.
So we really are doing okay, with the exception of the occasional disproportionate reaction to something relatively minor. See: our trash. Since the snow has been piling up, we CANNOT get the damn bags to the front of the house without dragging them through four feet of snow, and I know! I know I am prone to hyperbole, but when I say four feet of snow, I REALLY MEAN IT. Our entire yard is covered in four feet of snow, and that’s not even the drifts or the piles where the plow pushed it all, and it’s just getting CRAZY up in here, and there was a time when our driveway could hold five or six cars, and now, so help me, we are running out of room for TWO.
Anyway, so it takes us at least an hour to take out the trash, no kidding, and so Thursday, Adam dragged eleven bags out there, and then, oh my God, on Friday, THE GARBAGE MEN DID NOT TAKE THEM. Which, fine; the bags were white, but IT IS NOT MY FAULT WE USE HEFTY KITCHEN BAGS. BESIDES, THERE WAS ONE BLACK ONE.
And this kind of, um, sent me over the edge, most likely because my neighbor CALLED ME to tell me this happened, and it just felt so MEDDLING and before I knew it, I was calling Adam in near hysterics, because WE WERE GOING TO BE BURIED BY SNOW AND TRASH, SOMEONE SAVE US. And he was literally consoling me about it, because, apparently, trash gets me SUPER UPSET.
Anticlimactic resolution: the trash men came back Saturday morning after I called public works. Oh.
There was also the evening I thought Adam’s (ancient, strangely beloved) Honda was leaking fuel and I worked myself into a tearful lather all, “I SMELL GAS!” and made AAA tow it, but as it turns out, they would NOT tow it unless the fire department came to make sure it was safe to do so, which they did. Unfortunately, they also did it at 9 p.m. while driving a GIANT FIRE TRUCK with LIGHTS and FIREMEN IN UNIFORM AND HELMETS who were all, um, why are we here? To which Adam helpfully shrugged his shoulders and sighed, “My wife smelled fuel. I don’t smell it. Do you?”
Well, no, they didn’t, but it turns out the car DID have an exhaust leak discovered by the repair people and WHAT’S UP NOW?
Beyond that, I’ve had my period for fourteen days (YES, SERIOUSLY), so that might be contributing to the whole, um, sensitivity issue, not to mention the fact that there are, um, POSTPARTUM HORMONE DIPS. Did you know this? I did not know this. I mean, this should be LOGICAL, but it wasn’t until I found myself sweating buckets at night (and demanding that Adam crank up the air conditioning, I DO NOT LIE) and having the same headache for ten days straight that I’m all, I FEEL LIKE I JUST HAD A BABY and then I’m all, OH RIGHT, dumbass, your body kind of thinks you did.
So that’s special.
I have also welcomed wine back into my life with open arms. Trader Joe’s is happy for the sudden spike in revenue, I am certain.
And it’s funny, while I write this all down, it sounds like the day to day is very sad and sweaty and fraught with trash-and fire-type drama, when I promise, it isn’t. Well, until Friday, it was fraught with deadlines and not much else, but even then, as now, it was just pretty normal. We ARE returning to normal, and I completely credit Sam with that. Well, that and the fact that our default buttons are sort of set to “HAPPY.” But really, you have to be normal with a kid around. They’re like wee reflections of our own feelings. Bad mood? Kid will be a nightmare. Crying? Shit, she’s crying too. So we faked it for a little while, and then it started becoming real. She’s a riot, that tiny person who wears my gloves and pretends to be me while scolding the dog and putting her pants on her head. (Um, not that I wear my pants on my head. Well, not OUT, anyway.)
But still, I am shamed to admit, I’d like another one of those.
Happy Monday! Tomorrow I am stocking up on carbon monoxide detectors! JUST BECAUSE.
(What?)
*Talking Heads
January 30th, 2011
If I’d thought about it for more than five minutes or so, I’d have realized that instead of being wholly magical, holidays kind of suck and blow for little kids. Oh, they have their moments of wonder and delight that keep us from selling them on Craigslist, but other than that, it’s like someone took their routine and all the things they’ve come to rely on to keep the fragile threads of tiny drunken sanity together and snapped them like a bunch of broken guitar strings.
There is strange shit! In their house! Like this … Mom, is that a TREE? With crap on it that looks pretty but I can’t even TOUCH? And what do you mean, my nap is being delayed? What are these gifts? Why are these people in my house? What do you mean, I have a BUNCH OF STUFF wrapped in paper that I have to rip open and then — wait, what? You want me to open another one? But I want to play with THAT one!
By New Year’s, we were all done. D-O-N-E, and thank God the holidays only come once a year, because while I loved it — seriously, there really was so much to love — by the Tuesday after Christmas, Sam was screaming before she went to bed every night in an overstimulated, overtired mess of toddler misery. She’s a sensitive one, that kid, and oh, did I mention the Tuesday after Christmas?
HA HA THE TUESDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS. Otherwise known as the Day of Pure Hell, the day we I attempted to take my delightful, sensitive, easily overstimulated and/or overwhelmed not-yet-two-year-old daughter to Disney on Ice.
Yes, I will let that sink in for a moment so you can marvel at my stupidity. YES. YES, I DID THAT. It seemed like a bright idea at the time. Who cares if the kid isn’t into Disney AT ALL, and won’t recognize a single character? WHAT WAS I THINKING, PEOPLE. Oh, the guilt. The GUILT. The thing is, a good friend of ours gets tickets for this stuff all the time, gratis, thanks to her husband’s job, so a bunch of us went together. Together, as in I did not drive myself.
(HAHAHAHA. OH MY GOD.)
Sam hated it. She took one step into North Station/Boston Garden and went from being excited about seeing her friends to FLIP YOUR SHIT, and without giving you a blow-by-blow of the entire scene, it involved me holding her the entire time, walking around in circles for about an hour and a half straight. But NOT BEFORE we got locked into a stairwell, thanks to the changing of escalators and doors for people exiting vs entering and I DO NOT KNOW EITHER, all I know is that there was a horrid moment of WOOP WOOP PANIC as I sat there, stuck, for MANY MINUTES until a security guard finally heard me knocking. Worse, my poor friends had no idea I was stuck in such misery, as I LEFT MY PHONE AT MY SEAT, and had no way of telling anyone that, a) things were not going well, OH NOT AT ALL; or b) I AM STUCK IN A STAIRCASE. CALL SOMEONE.
It was hard. It was hard for a lot of reasons, mostly because I felt like a GIANT IDIOT for even attempting such a thing in the first place, because hello, I should have known better, and I am a terrible, horribly clueless mother. But secondly, because honestly, her little friends, most of whom are EXACTLY her age were having this absurdly magical experience. Meanwhile, my kid was behaving as though I was chopping off her toes and feeding them to Princess Ariel while Ursula cheered from the sidelines.
(The flip side of this: there are a JILLION new experiences that Sam loves that so many of her friends can’t tolerate. Animals! BIG ANIMALS! Someone get Sam on a horse, because she SCREAMS with excitement when they come near her. Water play! New, loud parks! Water parks! Sprinklers! AND YET I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.)
Sigh. Lesson learned. Surprise! A not-quite two-year-old is not ready for live shows in large arenas. THIS IS SHOCKING, I KNOW.
Wednesday, we spent a quiet day at home, just the two of us. We watched Elmo, colored, and played with her new toys all day long. She was so happy, you guys. So happy! My poor, sweet, overtired little girl just needed a day with her mama. AND I BROUGHT HER TO DISNEY ON ICE.
And with that, I bid you adieu for tonight. I hope you all had fabulous holidays and happy, happy new year to you! Looking forward to talking with you all more in 2011.
*Vampire Weekend. Man, did Honda ruin that song for anyone else? OH WE GET IT. WE WILL ALL GET HONDAS THIS HOLIDAY SEASON. NOW STOP. THE HOLIDAYS ARE OVER.
January 3rd, 2011
Late last week, Sam and I were both felled by the same creeping crud that every other family we’re friends with has also been pummeled by, and while I promise I won’t be bitching about the cold itself (well, except to say that a coughing toddler is the saddest thing ever, no, seriously, SO SAD), it unleashed a torrent of insomnia that left me wide awake as late as 2 a.m., staring at Adam’s sleeping form with a genuinely terrifying fury. I wanted to SMASH HIS SKULL for being able to sleep so soundly. I wasn’t just jealous; I was angry, bitter and wanted EVERYONE to stay awake with me until I fell asleep. EVERYONE.
Nevermind that the poor, sweet guy had already stayed awake an extra hour to rub my head, and that the next morning, he got up with Sam and tucked me back in and rubbed my face and let me sleep as long as I wanted, NO. NO THAT WASN’T ENOUGH. I WANTED TO CRACK SOME SKULLS.
I was awesome to be around, I’ll bet. Fortunately for everyone, no one was awake to witness it, and I had some modicum of skull-cracking impulse control.
Sudafed was deemed the culprit, and I see now why people use Nyquil, because it is … not meant to keep you awake, like Sudafed. It’s made for NIGHTTIME. And Sudafed is basically speed, right? Or … something meth-related? You can tell I’m really up on my drug-related knowledge, seeing as I’d never even HEARD of the shit Miley Cyrus was caught smoking, and before my kid gets old enough for such shenanigans, I’d better get it together, otherwise she’ll mention it, and I’ll be all, Yes, salvia! GREAT idea, Sam! All natural and sweetens your coffee like a dream if you can handle the bitter aftertaste!
ANYWAY, this is the longest, most boring way ever of explaining that at 3 a.m., I went on a frantic search for my pregnancy-era stash of Unisom, leftover from when I bought out the entire stock in the state of Vermont, and though I didn’t take it that night, I DID take it last night in a desperate attempt to get a decent night’s sleep, and HELLO, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
What I also accomplished was a glassy-eyed morning wake-up with a bladder so full I could have peed a river from here to Egypt, and then, a whole five and a half hours later, I passed out cold during Sam’s nap in a puddle of drool and sweat, and right now, I swear to God, I could go to bed for another ten or forty hours and you guys, I took that FOUR TIMES A DAY WITH SAM, OH MY GOD, HOW WAS I NOT SLEEPING TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY?
Seeeeeeeriously.
And now, a list of people I am genuinely not sure are dead or alive. Be embarrassed for me if you wish, but I got nothing:
Bob Hope
Vince Lombardi
Ray Charles
Corey Feldman
Telly Savalas
Jerry Lee Lewis, who I just learned is not the same person as Jerry Lewis (FASCINATING STUFF)
Wilfred Brimley
Valerie Harper
and of course, the perennially dead Abe Vigoda.
Yep. I do not know if they are dead or alive. Or, apparently who some of the Jerrys are. (I KID. I learned that one thanks to my Facebook friends a few weeks ago, ha HA! TRIUMPH!)
And on a final note, I’d like to ask everyone reading this to just take a couple minutes and … slow down. Be nice to someone. Let people have your parking spot — don’t rush to get into it. Drive slowly in parking lots. Smile to the cashier at Target. Be patient. Take a deep breath and smile, even if someone’s an asshole to you out and about.
I say this because while finishing up some Christmas shopping on Saturday, Adam and I were struck by how MISERABLE everyone seemed. My God, I realize it’s a stressful time of year — I do. I’ve got a family and visitors coming and trips to plan and a kid and a house AND AND AND, so really, I GET IT. But oh, it makes me sad to see so many people so intensely wound up and miserable and taking it out on everyone around them.
Then, to make matters worse, one of my good friends was nearly MOWED DOWN this morning in the Toys R Us parking lot from some pissed-off lady who wasn’t paying attention, who was driving too fast, not focused and just … almost hit Megan and her two-year-old daughter, who were on foot. Screeching tires, slamming brakes, etc. Worse, the woman didn’t apologize and when Megan asked for one (which, HAHA, I love it, because yeah, lady, APOLOGIZE FOR ALMOST KILLING A KID), she was unkind. UNKIND. AFTER NEARLY TAKING THEM OUT IN THE PARKING LOT.
So please, do me a favor: slow down. Smile. Take a breath. It’ll all get done, and if it doesn’t, it’s Christmas. People won’t even notice, and if they do, they’ll forgive you.
Merry (almost) Christmas! Happy holidays!
*OH GOD EVERYONE. Bon Jovi, FINE, I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU.
December 20th, 2010
So yesterday, I found myself Googling “baby Lunchables” after Cherie mentioned there was such a thing on Twitter, and I thought, really? Lunchables for infants? Now, I’m not really an anti-Lunchables person the way some are (hashtag alert!), I just don’t find them particularly appealing. I also find their convenience dubious at best, because how hard can it be to throw a few crackers in a baggie along with some sliced ham and cheese from the deli, anyway? It’s not even like it comes in a cute package! It’s just gross, gelatinous “meat and cheese,” scare quotes intended, with crackers in a cheap plastic tin.
So anyway, I’m Googling, and I find myself on a (oh my God) teen pregnancy message board, which is the last place I anticipated arriving when Googling “Lunchables for babies,” but there I am, all sucked into the lives of these pregnant teens (Like Teen Mom, but … without all the fanfare), and before you know it, I realize that these women girls are consuming Lunchables by the truckload and stressing about the deli meat’s impact on their unborn baby. Oh, why, do you ask? Not because they’re just paranoid, but because they’ve had MULTIPLE MISCARRIAGES, because they have been TRYING TO HAVE A BABY FOR A LONG TIME.
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLDS.
Oh, Google. What seedy underbelly of sadness hath you unearthed? HONESTLY.
Look, I have friends — good friends — who were teen moms, and are excellent, accomplished people today. And God knows if Sam should find herself in a teenage pickle, I will support her, stand by her and help her no matter what she chooses to do. But I think we can all agree that going down the TTC route while in one’s teenage years is not exactly the goal of most people, right? And not something you … want for your children or yourself? HOLY MERDE.
On a more practical note, they’re craving … Lunchables? While pregnant? I don’t know about you guys, but when I was pregnant with Sam, I couldn’t even DEAL with meat that was in any way FOUL or JELLYLIKE or ENCASED IN PLASTIC. GAH, JELLIED MEAT, GAH.
It all reminds me of some of the old cookbooks I collect, wherein it was chic to encase meat products in aspic (which is, I think, a meat product in itself), and God, I’m not sure how anyone attended a single dinner party in the 1960s, because man, if the cookbooks are any indication, the menu choices must have been interminably foul.
In other news, Nick Jr. is out to terrify the shit out of me with their constant reminders to use flameless candles, water my tree and avoid anything that could IGNITE INTO FLAMES! FLAMES! FLAAAAAMES! Christmas is the season of HOUSE FIRES!
Adam asked me the other day if I was watering the tree, and I’m like, DUDE, YOU ARE MARRIED TO MRS. SAFETY. I water that thing DAILY. SOMETIMES TWICE DAILY.
I also bought a second fire extinguisher today. Just in case.
FLAAAAAAAAMES.
*Mumford & Sons. WINTER WINNNNNDS WILL START A FIIIIIIIRRRREEEE.
December 15th, 2010
Just after Thanksgiving, I was having a boatload of trouble sleeping — it started with the Black Friday hangover, actually, although that was mostly coincidence. I would lie awake at night, consumed with the most ridiculous, irrational anxiety over, well, ridiculous, irrational things, turning absurd outcomes of improbable events over and over and over in my head until it was 1 or 2 a.m. and I would collapse from sheer exhaustion.
But wait! There was more! Around 4, I would wake up to pee, natch, because I haven’t slept through the night since I was pregnant with Sam, and nope, not kidding, I GET UP TO PEE EVERY NIGHT, IT IS CRAZY MAKING, and then, having been sufficiently roused by fumbling around for toilet paper, I’d be AWAKE! AGAIN! thinking about all of the absurd, irrational things to come, and I’d fall asleep around 6, and and wake up again at 7:30 to the toddler and hey, are you tired yet? Because I am yawning just typing this out.
The culprit turned out to be a variety of medication issues, one of which needed to be increased/changed, and — SURPRISE! — I’d botched my thyroid meds and made myself hyperthyroid, which explains why, in addition to the anxiety, I was PULSATING WITH HEAT and also, twitching.
I went to the doctor last Tuesday, and holy jebus, I’ve been sleeping. Sleeping! LOOK AT ME, WITH THE SLEEPING.
Wait, where are you going? We got our Christmas tree this weekend, though there was some disagreement on the lighting of said tree (I lost, and I’m really quite happy about it, surprisingly), it was so much fun. Adam and I have never been able to have a tree before, really, as we’ve never done Christmas at home — for the last six years or so, we’ve been living away from home, and it seemed pointless and dangerous to put up a tree. Now that we’re home, with family and friends close by, we got to do all the things normal people do, which includes discovering that live trees smell like Christmas tree candles. Seriously, I did not KNOW THIS, having never had a live tree in my own home! How delightful! It seems that there is a REASON that the candles smell like they do. IT EXISTS IN NATURE.
It was soothing for a day or two — seriously, it permeates our whole house, and is awesome — until this morning’s liquid smoke-doused Crock Pot pork mingled with the pine, leaving a nauseating combination of a crisp winter’s day and a Texas barbecue in its wake. Adam gleefully fled the house, his sleeve over his nose for protection, leaving Sam and I stranded in a terrible gas chamber of incongruity. After a few hours I became numb to it all and managed to make it through the day without vomiting and/or throwing the Crock Pot out the window.
Onward! Some Christmas tree photo events as they happened (click to embiggen):
Help! I can help!
{Five-dollar garage sale kitchen in background. Perhaps now you will see why I want a new one for her for her birthday. Also, we know the rug looks like a giant vagina. It came with the house and we haven’t gotten around to replacing it. WHO MAKES A RUG WITH AN ORCHID ON IT?}
I was told I would be helping.
No, seriously, YOU SAID I COULD HELP.
Aaaaand, scene.
I love the spit out of my little family.
December 13th, 2010
When does Googling medical information lead to good things? Never! Almost never! I’m sure someone, somewhere has a story about how Google saved their life, but I will argue that in the VAST MAJORITY OF CASES, it leads to nothing more than horrifying misdiagnosis and panic. When I was pregnant with Sam, I was ordered to stay off the internet, and I mostly succeeded, but apparently when not faced with something very limited in scope and/or specific directives, I am free to my own completely insane devices.
I mean, it’s ALWAYS something awful. ALWAYS. I posted about this phenomenon on Twitter and was regaled with stories from people who self-diagnosed with MULTIPLE forms of cancer, brain tumors and the inevitable need for tissue and/or organ transplants, all of which are unnecessary.
The question is why? Why do we do this to ourselves? WHY? It’s like we have some kind of amnesia after every Google Incident. We KNOW better. AND YET WE DO IT, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Expecting a different result!
It is the very definition of insanity. Get all the (totally out of context) information you can! Pretend you’re a doctor! Like, seriously, sometimes I actually believe I AM A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL because of Google.
I’ve considered going to nursing school on multiple occasions throughout my life, but the more this goes on, the more I think that’s probably a Very Bad Idea. Best go back to become a therapist instead. Helping profession, with less potential for hypochondriacal crazymaking.
Onward! While I’m normally loath to bring up dreams, I have to tell you that in the last few weeks, mine have been BIZARRE and kind of disturbing. That one-off incident where I dreamed I was having triplets aside (I COULD SEE THREE PAIRS OF FEET STICKING THROUGH MY BELLY), I’ve been consistently dreaming about absolutely losing my shit and SCREAMING at someone. Like, SCREAMING, in a completely out of control manner, and it’s strangely cathartic, until I have to deal with the consequences. Once, it was Meg Whitman, another it was the OB who failed to diagnose my TRIPLETS, despite the presence of THREE PAIRS OF FEET, and I wake up sweating, exhausted from the effort of screaming (SCAH-REEMING) at whoever it is I’m lashing out towards.
It’s … what IS that? I am many things, but for better for worse, I am not particularly non-confrontational. In fact, I am rather confrontational when I have to be (though I hope not egregiously so). I’m not exactly fraught with pent-up anger over here — if I have a problem with someone or something, I will usually address it directly. But apparently in my dreams, I would prefer to address it MORE DIRECTLY and VERY LOUDLY and all screamy and sweaty-like. To people like Meg Whitman.
Thanksgiving was effing CHAOS, with twelve adults, seven kids, three dogs and a lot of yelling just to be heard. I kept forgetting to get up to drink water, and so had approximately eleven beers delivered to me, plus wine and other sundry alcoholic bits, and these unfortunately served as my only source of hydration for the ENTIRE DAY. For the first time in YEARS, was painfully hungover the next day, when I demanded that Adam get up with Sam at the last minute (it wasn’t his day, and yes, we alternate like civilized people), and slept until 11 a.m. like some kind of Black Friday teenager. That was a bit blissful. Well, minus the hangover.
And OH, our holiday bliss continues with the annual Rubinfest for Hannukah this weekend. There are flights booked, cars rented and DVD players that, oh my God, had better start CHARGING, or I am going to COME UNDONE. Because I’m sorry, no, no I cannot handle a toddler on a plane who has not been properly anesthetized using the power of Muno and DJ Lance Rock.
I hope your Thanksgiving was rad.
*Feist. And probably one of the few alcoholic drinks I didn’t consider consuming on Thanksgiving.
November 29th, 2010
I’m picking winners for the Glee contest over the weekend, so it’s officially closed as of noon EST Friday. I know, longest contest in the history of ever, but between NAPOCALYPSE! and a mysterious tantruming child and bone-crushing exhaustion, it was the best I could do. Late, shmate! Extra days to enter, I say!
Speaking of, I mentioned I signed on to do another Smart Pop book, and this time it’s on … Friday Night Lights, which, if you didn’t know, is the best show on television, and better (worse?), I’m writing about Tami and Eric and I feel this enormous responsibility, because how great are Tami and Eric? SO GREAT. And it’s the last season, and I’m kind of devastated about it.
In other news, if you’ll indulge me a vent for a moment, oh my LANDS, child, the ATTITUDE. The tantrums! THE ALMOST-TWOS. It is simultaneously face-melting in its agony and positively GUT-BUSTING in its hilarity. The tiny, impotent fury! The screaming! The kicking! All because I wouldn’t put Yo Gabba Gabba on DEMAND. No, child. No. You do not get to sit on your ass and demand Yo Gabba Gabba JUST BECAUSE and when I say NO, throw yourself on the ground like I have just announced that the elves are coming for your brains! And your ears! And MAYBE YOUR OVARIES! TO EAT THEM!
No. Oh my God, no, kid, GO PLAY WITH YOUR TOYS. Here, let me help you. But also, HAHAHAHA, oh my God, please kill me while I die of laughter and hysteria and also, tears. Tonight, when I left for my haircut, she chased me to the door screaming, and then when I left, threw herself on the ground in a puddle, kicking and screaming, until Daddy came over to rescue her, offer her a visit to her buddies in her bedroom and VOILA! perfect child for the rest of the evening.
They save this shit for US. THE MOTHERS. BECAUSE THEY WANT US TO SUFFER.
Meanwhile, for your moment of pre-weekend schmoop, I have to tell you that I have the best friends. I am lucky and positively gobsmacked at my good fortune, and I wish everyone could have friends like mine. The kind who will come to your house even though it’s currently a shithole and you won’t even care that the recycling is on the counter in a big-ass plastic bag (next to a pizza box), because they won’t judge you, or even notice. Friends whose cabinets you can just root through when your kid is hungry without having to go through the awkward I-forgot-a-snack-I’m-so-sorry dance. The kind you can send random, non-sensical texts to about maybe watching your kid while you drive your husband to the hospital because he thinks he broke his foot (who the fuck knows … he opted not to go), and they’ll say yes without even hesitating, and then an hour later, you won’t even feel stupid when you tell them you can’t be the one to drive the kids to the museum tomorrow because, actually, your car smells like old cheese and we will all die of asphyxiation before we even get on the highway.
It’s just nice, and adds a really cozy layer of security to life, and though it was important to me before, I find that it’s even more critical now that I have Sam. I have sanity in the form of other moms who are not just other moms, but like, um, family ( one of whom some of you know) and I tell you, I don’t measure my life by many common indicators of success, but in this respect, I honestly feel like I won the lottery.
And finally, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIFT GUIDE? My God, this thing is awesome. It’s AWESOME. 125 gifts under $25, done by the queen of gift-giving at Style Lush, Elizabeth. GOOD gifts. GREAT gifts. GIFTS YOU WANT TO BUY YOURSELF.
Happy weekend!
*MGMT on effing Yo Gabba Gabba
November 18th, 2010
Sam’s started singing, and while that seems painfully mundane and boring to the outsider — and it probably is — it was a crazy hilarious revelation yesterday when I realized that her off-key nonsensical warbling was her best imitation of what she hears me (HAHHAHAHA), and let’s face it, the Fresh Beat Band, do every day. Yesterday, she wandered around the living room, clad only in a diaper, yelling in a strange, entirely out of tune sort of whale-like voice, and I realized, based on her movements, what she was doing. “Adam I … I think she’s … she’s … SINGING?!”
And I’ll be damned, she is. She sang the whole way to BJ’s this afternoon after I piled her into the car to break up the NAPOCALYPSE! which seems to happen every afternoon after naptime, at least the last three days. NAPOCALYPSE! is a horrible phenomenon and involves whining, crying, screaming, demands to be held! Put down! Held! Put down! Picked up! Milk! No Milk! WOE IS ME! NAPOCALYPSE!
NAPOCALYPSE! started on Friday, when we set out on a four-hour journey to my parents’ cabin in the wilds of Pennsylvania (the nearest metropolis is … Scranton). Sam’s a great sleeper, but she is only a great sleeper when she is in the presence of a crib — any crib will do, and no thank you, not a pack ‘n play, A CRIB — but put her in a car or an adult bed and she’s USELESS. Kid needs her space, her crib, her buddies, her sound soother and a car seat ain’t gonna cut it. She woke up after 45 minutes to NAPOCALYPSE! which required us to pull over and ply her with Munchkins. Honestly, I’d have given her a fucking PONY at that point, so I don’t even feel bad about giving her Munchkins to feel better, so long as the face-melting screams stopped.
We had a great weekend with my parents, though too short, and by Sunday, we were on the road again and NAPOCALYPSE! struck again, and would you believe we had a three-day driving journey scheduled for early December and within two hours of arriving home, the joint terror of NAPOCALYPSE! had us booking FLIGHTS, despite the fact that we wanted to save the money?
The power of NAPOCALYPSE! is so great, it can make reasonable people spend hundreds of dollars on ponies, flights and Munchkins.
Speaking of milk (what? Way up there!), I noticed that this morning’s coffee dollop was tasting a little … well, especially milky, but chalked it up to the fact that when milk goes bad, YOU KNOW IT IS BAD. Well, it turns out that’s completely wrong, because one trip to the store later, I poured Sam a glass sippy cup, took a test swig and realized, HA HA! My morning coffee milk (two cups, thanks!) was beyond bad, and YUMMO, who’s ready to come over for a healthy serving of factory-farmed dairy! (OMG JUST KIDDING CRAZY DAIRY PEOPLE)
And finally, two things, only vaguely related, that I CANNOT get out of my head, so here, have them, gross as they are:
1) The degree to which Sam not only notices EVERYTHING I do, but imitates it, seems to know no bounds. Last week, I caught her exiting the laundry room with a roll of toilet paper between her legs, as she attempted to use it to wipe her girly bits through her leggings and diaper. She was WIPING! And … what?! Worse! WORSE! Today she picked up one of those ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor pee sticks, OPENED IT UP, and pretended to pee on it for a solid ten minutes. She even put the cap on it when she was “finished.”
OMG WTF JESUS
(Yes, I’m tracking, yes, I want another baby at some point, this should not be a surprise … right?)
2) Speaking of pee, I love asparagus, but seriously.
Aaaand, that’s all I got, unless you’re expecting an email from me, to which I say I am getting there, but this weekend, and MY TERRIFYINGLY DIRTY HOUSE, put me a tad behind. Did I mention my house is TERRIFYING? Well, it is. TERRIFYING.
MESSYHOUSOPALYPSE.
Happy Tuesday!
*Rockwell. Did he … ever do anything else?
November 15th, 2010
First of all, we had a real heart-stopping moment when Alert Reader Sabrina mentioned that she hasn’t been able to find Take 5 candy bars anywhere for like, AN ENTIRE YEAR, which sent me into such a tailspin that I not only checked Hershey’s website, but I stupidly CALLED THEM, just to make sure, and lo, they are, it just turns out they aren’t a Reese’s-branded product and ergo, would not be in any Reese’s variety packs. This is stupid, because it CONTAINS peanut butter, and for the love of Jebus, does Hershey’s make anything with peanut butter that isn’t Reese’s branded? What is this shit?
Related: Growing up in PA, I often went to Hershey Park. Yes, the town really does smell like chocolate. You should go there. Also, stop by the pretzel factory and make your own pretzels. I think there’s one in Intercourse. Or maybe Hanover. Obviously I’m very specific with my memories here.
Secondly, this isn’t really a post, since I’m over at Jennie’s today (Thursday) for her Real Marriages series, talking about how I sometimes pick a fight about stuff I don’t care about because someone else said I should care. There are Rocky quotes.
Separately, but not, it’s funny, Jennie and Mike have a great relationship, and that’s completely obvious when you hang out with them, so her Real Marriages series kind of makes me laugh in a way, because she could write the whole thing and it would say, “It’s great. We fight, but we love. We are normal and happy. The end.” There are some people, I think, who you just GET why their spouse loves them so, and why turning their head would be nearly impossible. Jennie is one of those people. She’s warm and funny and a little quirky in the best, most endearing way, and she just stands out in a way that someone like Gisele Bundchen and her preachy, bland personality never will, and it’s just like, well, yeah. Good luck, ladies, getting Mike to look away from that one, because she’s super-special. Not that anyone is trying or that Mike would or anything, and oh dear, what started as a compliment has taken A VERY WRONG TURN, but hey! I’m in too deep! MAYDAY!
(Separately: I love Mike, too. A lot. Hi, Mike!)
And finally, did I tell you guys that the new Smart Pop Glee book is out? Well, it is. Filled with Glee! I actually think it’s one of my favorite Smart Pop titles as a whole, so I hope you get it, read it and enjoy it. Just in time for this bizarre second season, am I right? (WILL SCHUESTER, YOU SUCK) My essay is the free one on Smart Pop this week, and Maria Melee has an essay in there, too, and she is basically formed of awesome. I’m giving away two (2) copies to two readers, so leave me a comment saying “Glee me!” if you want in. If you want to comment, but don’t, just don’t say “GLEE ME!”
I’ve also been asked to contribute to an upcoming book on what is perhaps my all-time favorite show on television (yes, even more than True Blood), on a topic I cannot believe I’ve been trusted with, and I’ll tell you more later, but for now, let me just say: OMG and also HOLY CRAP and a little, NERVOUS TUMMY up in here.
Happy Thursday!
*Katy Perry, and the only part of this week’s Glee that I enjoyed, sadly. The rest was a lot of screaming at the TV. Screaming! LOUDLY.
November 10th, 2010
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