Thanks for all of your comments on my last post about letting friends go. I loved your stories, and I feel significantly less guilty, which is, I think, a good thing. Honestly, it wasn’t until I wrote out the situation to a local friend who doesn’t know the party in question that I saw it all in writing and realized, errrm, yes ma’am, all done!
Unfortunately, it bred a bit of paranoia among myself and a few friends when we started discussing what we found morally repugnant and there were a few e-mails exchanged and one friend, God bless her, submitted a LIST of what she found morally repugnant in the friendship-ending sense and PHEW, aren’t we glad we got that out of the way? Our friendship can resume! (I’m not really kidding about that, because ding dong, paranoia, HII-LLOO!)
I’m so grateful the Olympics are over — not because I didn’t enjoy them, because really, I did — but I have only so much tolerance for watching people hurtle down things at a dangerous speed. I spent the majority of the games feeling vaguely nauseated, with a blanket over my head — particularly the bobsledding, because when that shit flips, those dudes go hurtling down on their effing HEADS. Over! OVER!
While I’m at it, let me also add that I am irrationally irritated by Lindsey Vonn — or rather, the media’s obsession with her. It REALLY bugs me that even in something as seemingly egalitarian as skiing, the pretty one always gets the attention. Frankly, I don’t blame Julia Mancuso if she did snark about Lindsey, because as unfair as that is (it’s not Vonn’s fault), I’ll bet that’s annoying and distracting as hell. It happens everywhere. Looks matter. Everywhere, particularly with women. Hell, even in the blogosphere, where writing is supposed to reign supreme, pretty, photogenic bloggers generally perform better than their ordinary counterparts. Heather Armstrong is an extraordinarily talented writer and blogger, but it’s impossible to pretend that her success is not assisted, at least in part, by her model looks — and I do not mean that to denigrate her talent, for it is very real, just as mere fact.
Bah.
And now! Bullets:
– Book Lushes! Look under the PollDaddy tab on the site, for we’re starting something new: Genres! Themes! THEN picking books! It’s an effort to branch out and keep the selection fresh, as well as pick books with plenty of notice for library-going folks. As soon as I’ve finished the poll, that is. Give me five, yo.
– Sam is saying “HIIIII!” all the time, to everything. To Daddy, the dog, me, the couch, her books, the babies on television. Everything must be greeted with wild enthusiasm, and man, is it ever awesome. She’s also learned how to open her OWN flaps in her peekaboo books, thankyouverymuchMama, and she blows on her food before she eats it, just like I do before I give it to her. The other day, she ate an entire zucchini, sliced up and sauteed with garlic and parmesan and I swear, she would have eaten more of it if she hadn’t already sucked down the whole thing.
While these are simple, mundane details, this is the kind of shit that BLOWS YOUR MIND as a parent. How a small person goes from a little farting blob to a prescient being with food preferences and the ability to verbalize things, however rudimentary, is effing NUTSO. Like an ACID TRIP, I swear to GOD. Not that I would, um, know!
– So the other day, I was watching Regis & Kelly (don’t judge!) (Also, someone please give Kelly Ripa a goddamn CHEESEBURGER already) and Kelly, who annoys the piss out of me, was talking about sheet hygiene, and by that I mean, how often you change your bedsheets. I’m … well, I’m not sure I’m willing to make any admissions just yet, but I WILL say I was comPAHletely aghast when she shared that she (or, you know, her maid, Esmeralda), changes the sheets EVERY OTHER DAY. Am I … is this not excessive? Like, EXTREMELY excessive? Like, EXTREEEEEEMMMMELY excessive? I mean, if you think that’s normal, then, hey! I do, too! I was just kidding!
(OMFG.)
So, erm, how often do you change your sheets, if you don’t mind me asking? And worse, if you have them, your KIDS’ sheets? (OMFG)
I’m alive! I’m ALIVE! Look at me, all TYPING SOMETHING I’M NOT CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED TO DO! Or, you know, something that’s not making me miserable. Not that work makes me miserable! Au contraire! I love what I do, really, I do, but there was a bit too many things going on there at once, all DUE at once, and … well, no one needs to hear about any of this, really, except that I have three obvious pro tips for you:
1) There is such a thing as seeing too much True Blood. I had to re-watch the whole show from start to finish. Many times. You want to know what happened in any episode? What Bill was wearing? What Eric was wearing? Oh, just ask me! I’ll tell you in excessive detail! My favorite Eric outfit, if you were wondering, was the zip-up track suit he wore in the department store with some kind of, um, horn around his neck. Oh, it was the first episode where he debuted his new haircut and, wait, where are you going?
2) No matter how much work you have to do, writing in a moving vehicle is ill advised. As is taking no breaks whatsoever (except to Shred) and not leaving the house or seeing your friends or getting your BABY out of the house. If you do what I did, which was to NEVER LEAVE OR STOP WORKING, you find yourself coming completely undone, your baby coming undone and having your husband gently take you aside and suggest that you walk the dog to “see the trees” and get perspective. SEE THE TREES.
3) Again, folks, LEAVE THE HOUSE. TAKE A BREAK. DO NOT BE ME. LEEEEAAAAVVEEE THE HOOUUUUSSSEEE. Twitter is great, but it is NOT meant to be your only form of social interaction. Repeat, Twitter does not substitute for actual human friends and conversation. Like, AT ALL.
So that’s what you missed. My slow descent into madness. I’m slowly clawing my way back to normalcy. I’ll write more normal stuff when I start acting … normal again.
But! I have Book Lushes news! Voting is now open on the next book! Here’s the poll!
When it comes to motherhood/kids, I think I’m pretty reasonable. I get why people don’t have them — really, I do — and it’s a choice I almost made and would have been quite happy with. It’s not for everyone, and there are plenty of people who have children who shouldn’t have, and plenty who want to, but can’t, and that’s impossibly hard. And there are plenty more who just don’t want to, because their life is full with something else, or frankly, they just don’t like kids. Which is totally fine! FINE! I mean it.
And I KNOW that my kid isn’t the center of the universe, and that while *I* think she’s beautiful and smart and interesting and funny, YOU don’t share those sentiments, and with perfectly good reason! She’s NOT YOUR KID! She’s just a kid like every other kid and no single kid is special, or at least, I like to think they ALL are, but not to people who don’t know them. If that makes sense.
HOWEVAH. My kid is a person, you know. So if she’s waving at you and smiling and clearly trying to say “HIII!” to you while you’re standing next to me, acknowledging ME, would it kill you to extend the same courtesy to her? And if she’s in a room with a bunch of adults, just do me a favor and SAY HELLO to her, and acknowledge that she’s IN THE ROOM. I mean, you wouldn’t do that to another grown-up, would you? No one’s asking you to sit on the floor and play with her, but if she’s grinning at you and waving, just SAY FUCKING HI. Yes, yes, I KNOW she’s only a baby, but see also: human being. Plus, this is how she learns how social interactions work. After you say hello, you can go back to your business. You don’t have to make goo-goo eyes at her, you don’t have to wave a toy in front of her, just acknowledge her existence with a simple hello.
I know that sounds like a crazy rant, but it happens all the time! Her little waving arms and a big old “HIIII!” in a tiny, baby-speak voice as she waits for the other person to acknowledge her, and then they just GLARE at her, like she pooped on their shoe, and it’s … it’s rude. Kids aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but they’re still people.
I can’t believe I just wrote that, but it happened yet again in the grocery store today, when Sam waved at the lady in front of us and said “Hi!” (it’s rudimentary, but she’s learning!) and the woman shot her a look that could wilt America’s gardens while saying HELLO TO ME. And it happens like, ONCE A WEEK.
Speaking of Sam, one of her little friends likes her a, um, whole lot, and is always trying to hug her — he’s two and a half to Sam’s 11 months, for reference. While at my girlfriend’s house the other day, he kept lying on top of her, hugging her and kissing her, and once — no, TWICE — he (literally) lured her into his bedroom to lay on top of her some more, and SHUT THE DOOR. Worse, he became angry and agitated when I wanted him to leave it open. And EVERY TIME I OPENED IT, he was on top of her. I know, I know, he’s TWO AND A HALF, but how lame am I that I was all, hey, kid? Stop rubbing yourself all over my daughter and LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN.
Am proving to be not as reasonable a parent as I proclaimed to be at the outset, right? Or is that creepy and I’m being TOTALLY REASONABLE?
And finally, Real Housewives of Orange County. What the everloving FUCK, Lynne? Oh, these women! They’re so awful, every last one of them. Zero redeeming qualities whatsoever. And their KIDS. OH MY STARS. Lynne’s daughters are DISASTERS and she has no idea how to parent whatsoever, my God. It’s just an effing TRAINWRECK all around. A RIVETING TRAINWRECK. And yet? I love them. I love Gretchen so very much, I don’t care if she takes pictures of herself with vibrators up her ass and puts them on the Internet. I LOVE HER. I CANNOT BE CONVINCED THAT SHE IS EVIL.
Happy week! Not sure when I’ll see you again, but I’m sure I will.
I went to Costco today with Julie, and frankly, either one of those things on their own (a visit to Costco OR a visit with Julie) is swoon-worthy and enough entertainment for an entire week, but in combination, hoo boy, it was practically the perfect storm of wonder and delight. Witty banter! Towering 80-packs of K-cups! Giant packages of pregnancy tests placed strategically next to the condoms! A remarkably funny woman to give me a tour! A four-pound container of brownies that my husband has been complaining about all night! (“I wanted ONE brownie, Jonna, not NINETY.”)
See? Perfection. Delight! A BLT for lunch marred only by a briefly choking infant! And then I got in the car, where all hell proceeded to break loose, for it started snowing rather, uh, heavily, shall we say, and just as suddenly, to the point where I couldn’t see the road and my eyes were going all buggy from trying to focus on anything but the snowflakes hurtling toward the windshield. In fact, my eyes are quite literally crossing at the memory, and my heart rate has now elevated to 30-Day Shred levels (speaking of, my right knee is about to stage a coup). I pulled my trembling self to a gas station, where I had a serious conversation with Adam about whether I should stay in the Ho-Hum Motel (note: actual name) until the following day, because I was certain that death! destruction! torment! were all that lay ahead, and we’d NEVER MAKE IT HOME.
And apparently I was RIGHT, for before I knew what was happening, traffic (three cars, whatever) came to a total standstill amid the terrifying whiteout (the LAST THING YOU WANT, as no one can see your stopped car), because there were at LEAST seven cars all skidding off the road, and the next thing I knew there were sirens! stretchers! People ON the stretchers! Crunched cars! Three ambulances! Two fire trucks! POLICE.
(None of the cars were ours. Beebs and I were fine, although one of us was more fine than the other, perhaps because she slept through it.)
And then: sunshine. No snow. Smooth sailing. Whatthefuck. I mean, thank GAWD I didn’t stay in the Ho-Hum, because … HO HUM, you know what I’m saying?
(That line was genius, that. It’s a real shocker that I didn’t make it on Jeopardy, isn’t it?)
Occasionally, like, say, driving in a blinding snow squall, I look back on our years in Florida with a warm, golden affection, and imagine raising Sam near the Gulf of Mexico in a land where it never snows and sixty degrees is considered “cold.” The fantasy is fun for a few minutes, until I am slapped back to the reality that while yes, there is warm sunshine, there are also torrential downpours and lightning close enough to singe your face off. And the grass! Sam would never be able to sit in the grass, because it’s hard as a pile of razor-laden straw AND it is fraught with fire ants that would gladly eat your face off faster than a Fatburger.
And the ocean is great, right? Great, yes, great. It is also teeming with sharks — real ones — and wearing silver is inadvisable during the warmer months, lest you be mistaken for a mackerel. It is also true that shuffling your feet is a necessity from May through October because, oh ho ho HO! it’s stingray season, oh happy day! And what Floridian fantasy is complete without elderly drivers being wheeled away on gurneys as they got in yet another traffic accident at a six-way stop as you sit in traffic, your face melting directly into the pavement? And GAWD, we haven’t even talked about the threat of hurricanes, which is a constant source of anxiety throughout the season, because even if you aren’t hit with one, the weathermen are perpetually full of doomsday predictions about whatever clouds are swirling in the Caribbean on any given day.
Yes, I will take snow squalls and warm fireplaces, thank you very much. Frankly, if not for the driving, I am a winter person. I love winter, so long as I’m properly dressed for it, and have no problem throwing Sam in her snowsuit, packing her into the Ergo, and heading out for a tour of downtown and some errands, no matter how cold it is. Mmmm, cold weather. Snuggly!
To close the loop on the Costco excitement, I walked out with 168 Kirkland diapers, and have high hopes, despite their lack of whatever that little comfort flex thing was on the side of the Pampers that made them seem … comfortable and flexible. (See? Am marketer’s wet dream!)
And in housekeeping news, I will likely be a little on the sparse side next week and the week after, as I finish several LOOOOOOMING deadlines on projects that are due at or near the middle of February. Most of them are not thrilling at all, but one is VERY THRILLING, at least to me, and involves something that people! like you! and my parents! can buy! in a place called a BOOKSTORE! And you can read all about it HERE.
So there was a time, once, when I considered myself to be a smart person. Then, sadly, I took the Jeopardy online test and was rendered a drooling cro magnon, because GEEZUZ, you guys, that shit is HARD. How is it possible that a show — a show I consistently ROCK, I hasten to add — can be so DISCERNING in its search for contestants?
The format is this: they just start THROWING questions at you — oh, excuse me, ANSWERS, which is such Jeopardy bullshit — and you have fifteen seconds to answer them, and oh. Oh dear. I couldn’t even figure out that there were categories until it was too late, and look, I’m just going to say that during one particularly horrific, panic-stricken moment there was a clue about some desert that Chile and Peru are (were?) fighting over, and I misread it as dessert, as in who was claiming … origin, maybe? And I just typed, “CREME BRULEE” because THAT sure sounds Chilean, don’t you think?
What I’m telling you is that you should not expect to look for me on Jeopardy anytime soon, and that if you DO know someone who is on Jeopardy who does not wear a pocket protector and/or spend their entire days studying obscure facts about Russian politicians of the 18th century, you should be in fucking AWE.
CREME BRULEE.
Bullets! Because I am tired:
– LOST is back on next Tuesday for the final season. Lost! LOST LOST LOST LOST. And I am hopeful that it will be fraught with lots of JACOB, because I find Jacob weirdly attractive, even though the first time we were introduced to Jacob — or rather, the actor who PLAYS Jacob — was when he was Rita’s abusive husband in the first (second?) season of Dexter. And it will be, sadly, the last time we see Sayid in character. So much hotness. So little time left.
– Few things seem less pointless to me than giving up caffeine or salt. I realize that for some people, they are unhealthy habits, but you will pry the salt shaker from my cold, dead hands (or when high blood pressure kicks in, whichever comes first) and dude, coffee has ANTIOXIDANTS, no kidding, and the health benefits far outweigh the risks, in my opinion. (And several medical professionals as well.) Further, when I recently saw green tea recommended as a substitute for caffeinated beverages and coffee, it was all I could do not to laugh, because yes, green tea is good for you, but, um, it is caffeinated. Highly so. So while yes, green tea is awesome, I must heartily and happily say that, hey, coffee is, too.
This bullet point sponsored by Keurig. (NOT REALLY.) (I ONLY WISH.) (KEURIG, CALL ME. WILL SHILL FOR K-CUPS.)
– I’ve been holding out on you with my most inappropriate, odd crush, and I can’t keep it in any more. You know those Free Credit Report commercials? With the jingle? And the guy in the, um, mullet? Him. Yes, him. I find him strangely attractive, particularly in the most recent ANNIVERSARY ad, if you will, and … oh forget it, it’s too awful to elaborate on, but yes, Free Credit Guy, this one’s for you.
– An update on the Pampers situation: They gave me my money back. And, uh, frankly, it was a little too easy, which means THEY KNOW. They know the new Cruisers suck and they’re BUYING US OFF. I’m onto you Pampers! I should start a crazy-ass campaign/crusade and act like a total lunatic on Twitter and start a Facebook group and comment in baby forums about how PAMPERS CONSIDERS ME THE ENEMY and … oh, wait.
(Sadly, it’s true. They’re totally buying people off so we don’t flip out on them. Dude, I didn’t even have to give them a RECEIPT to prove what I paid for them. They just fired me off a check, and I didn’t even have to ASK. They were, within five seconds of the call, “Well, let us reimburse you for those diapers!” ORILLY PAMPERS?)
(I’m done with Pampers. Forever. Up yours, PG&E I mean, P&G (wow, someone watched Erin Brockovich one too many times). But you are also totally right that if you DIDN’T reimburse me, things would be even more hideous. Am sheep!)
– Still shredding. Can now move quadriceps, but my calves are still screaming in agony after cardio circuit one and it’s the ONLY THING that will force me to stay at level 1 for the entire month. THE ONLY THING. Well, that, and I’d like to live. That, too.
We’re going through a bit of a stressy situation over here at chez jonniker that really isn’t worth going into for right now, but on levels of family stresses of the largeish variety is about as mundane as it gets. However, what is frustrating me most about this particular stressy situation is that we PLANNED for it and are WELL PREPARED for it, as much as one can be, and there is no real reason for me to stress at this exact moment. And yet, I am. And do you know WHAT I am stressing about?
The fact that I am not really stressing. Ergo, I am currently mired in a delightful circular pattern of worrying about my lack of worry, because, as I mentioned as recently as last week, I believe that worry is PROTECTIVE, because after all, nothing I’ve really worried about has come to fruition. No no, I am usually BLINDSIDED by things I did not worry about. Then again, there is this dangling bit of irony in that I DID worry about this particular thing, and PLANNED for it so that I did NOT have to worry about it, and here I am! Not worrying about it, except when I am WORRYING about not WORRYING ABOUT IT.
Did you get that? This is why I am unabashedly medicated, friends.
In other thrilling news of the mundane variety, my Wii Fit workouts were becoming a bit too easy, which made me embarrassingly proud until I remembered that they weren’t really designed to be workouts, but were designed to be GAMES, but whatever, Wii! Nine and a half pounds down and STILL THE MII MUFFIN TOP PERSISTS. Up yours! So, like everyone else, I started doing the 30 Day Shred, figuring that meh, it’s 20 minutes, how bad can it be? The answer is: very bad. Very, very bad. Except that it IS only 20 minutes of Very Bad-ness, which is eminently survivable, except at the very end of the first cardio circuit, when I am fairly certain that my FEET, of all things, are going to detach from my body like a faulty set of airplane wheels. And of course, afterwards, when my quadriceps felt like I’d been in one of those World’s Strongest Man competitions and used my legs to help lift a monster truck over my head.
My arms, strangely, are FINE, thanks to daily push-ups and almost eleven months of hauling a small person around, but oh, my LEGS. MY LEEEEEGGSS. A friend of mine is back in town visiting, and after witnessing me literally hobbling up the library steps to meet her, naturally asked what in God’s name I’d done to myself. And when I mentioned the Shred’s 20-minute convenience, she announced that it was PERFECT, then, because then she could do it TWICE a day! Once in the morning and again in the evening! Oh ho Ho HO! She was off to get it right away, then!
My reaction: *blink* *blink* *blink* *blink*
Because really, come on. No.
And finally, two things:
– I am currently engaged in a Maytag-like, uh, discussion-slash-rant about Pampers and how they have RUINED CRUISERS FOREVER. I am enraged, y’all. They “updated” Cruisers to be WORSE than Baby Dry, as if such things were humanly possible, and now, in addition to a truly wretchedly ineffective diaper (LEAKS AHOY), the chemical smell emanating from my daughter’s ass will burn your nostrils off. Tomorrow, I am calling the company to discuss and, in a move I can’t believe I’m making, see if I can get my money back, because I am stranded with $45 worth of diapers that I can’t even use.
This is all somewhat irrelevant except to illustrate to you that I cannot believe my life has come to this. This is the most worked up I’ve been in ages, and it’s about PAMPERS changing the formula (?) of my kid’s DIAPERS and I’m reading this, and my related tweets about it, and wondering where I went wrong. How have I turned into a suburban housewife who’s all RAGING AGAINST THE PAMPERS MACHINE?
– Book Lushes! Oh I know, I beat you over the head with this shit, but you know, the forums are so much fun, and I’m getting some seriously fantastic recommendations in them, from memoirs to vampire novels to the best kids’ picture books. And, a lot of people are wrapping up the first book and starting to discuss it (but if you haven’t, and are nowhere close, that is FINE. You are not behind! It’s just that some people are mysteriously AHEAD!), but most importantly, we’re taking nominations for the next book, and we’re aiming for something a little older, cheaper and available at libraries and in paperback, so if you missed the first one, consider the next! Or if you’re just looking for recommendations in general. We’re your peeps!
I’m finishing The Help tonight, for what it’s worth. After that, I’m returning to the slogfest that is Suite Francaise, as I alternate easy reading with something more challenging, and while it’s interesting, it’s not exactly FAST-MOVING and I feel like I’ll be reading it until KINGDOM COME, although I am emboldened by the fact that I survived The Historian, for which I strongly feel I deserve a commemorative T-shirt.
You know what still grates my cheese from time to time? Before I had Sam and loved to sleep in, people really loved to act like it was a bad habit and helpfully remind me that once I had children, I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. You know what? NO SHIT. But Jesus Christ, I KNEW THAT, and also, I maintain that it is an AWESOME habit, and everyone who can do it, should.
All those changes that happened when I had a baby were somewhat natural and easy, uh, relatively speaking. The whole thing is such a fucking shellshock that you’re not sitting around wondering why you’re not sleeping late, because you’re wondering why you’re not sleeping at all, I guess. I mean, you’re not going to sleep until 10 when you have a bleating newborn, and you just ADJUST. Yes, you’re tired, yes, it’s hard, but EEFRACKINGGADS, you can’t PLAN for them. And GOD it is so not HELPFUL to say that to someone who doesn’t have kids, and screeching, “You think YOU’RE tired!” is also not helpful and just makes someone feel shitty for no good reason. Childfree people: You are allowed to sleep late. You are ALLOWED to be tired and even complain about it. I chose to have kids, and I’m allowed to complain about it TOOO, but I’m not allowed to make you feel like your tiredness is INFERIOR TO MY TIREDNESS OH MY GOD.
P.S.: Sleep until 11 this weekend. FOR ME.
P.P.S. It seems I hold pointless grudges.
***
So I was watching SNL this weekend (Sunday morning, my pretties) and was once again smacked in the face with another nonsensical celebrity crush. No, not Andy Samberg, and at the rate my friends are crushing on him, he’s becoming almost MAINSTREAM, yo. And while yes, I ADORE Jason Sudeikis, who DOESN’T, I ask you? This was … well. It’s Bill Hader, okay? BILL HADER. The guy who walks around with a CREEPY FACE and DRINKS PEOPLE’S MILKSHAKES in a completely un-funny sketch and I … oh dear.
Bill Hader. John Malkovich. Gary Oldman. Did I say John Malkovich? MALKOVICH MALKOVICH MALKOVICH. Alan Rickman!
BILL EFFING HADER. GAWD.
I’m just grateful it isn’t Will Forte, is all I’m saying.
***
Sam has started talking a little, and it’s HYSTERICAL and also, the cutest thing I have ever seen. Thus far we have “doggie!” and “Dad-ee!” and “HIIIIII!” and they aren’t exactly crystal clear, but dude! She can SPEAK! And yeah, um, no “Mama” in there and I am TRYING NOT TO BE BITTER.
***
Speaking of Sam, I’ve posted it everywhere, but this OUTFIT. Seemed like SUCH A GOOD IDEA on the hanger, but on the body? GEEZUS. Circus music much?
***
MENSTRUAL-RELATED QUESTION, MALE EYES AVERT:
Since giving birth, I can’t use tampons. It’s not WORKING, people. IT IS NOT WORKING. There are MULTIPLE PROBLEMS, and ironically, none of them are because I have some kind of TWO-CAR GARAGE down there, but because … oh, forget it, I’m not even sure why, and I don’t even want to ANALYZE why. And I can’t find my Keeper, so I had to order a NEW ONE and folks, I’m using MAXI PADS. IT IS THE WORST TIME OF MY ENTIRE LIFE, this period. THE WORST. You know what makes it even worse? The dog. The dog taking maxi pads out of the garbage, eating them (OMFG) and leaving them all over the house. Like under the bed, where I have to fish them out with a goddamn COAT HANGER.
This is worse than CHILDBIRTH ITSELF AND I AM NOT KIDDING.
***
Ding dong, Heidi Montag plastic surgery, whaaa? No, really, WHAAAA? WHAAAAAA? THAT MUCH? Yes, she’s certifiable, but COME THE EFF ON, HEIDI.
***
A quick note about the book club: Even if you aren’t reading the specific book this month, there are some awesome conversations going on about OTHER books and OTHER genres and it’s morphed into a totally fun place in a totally unexpected way, and I encourage you to join if you read at all. For real. (And while it’s my thang, it’s not like I get PAID for you visiting or anything. It’s just been FUN.)
I tell you, one of the biggest cruel jokes is that when your baby starts sleeping through the night, you are more tired than you were than when she was getting up twice a night. Well, I am, anyway. What IS that? It’s like your body suddenly decides to break down and become a weak shell of its sleep-deprived self.
And. AND! When your kid DOES get up in the middle of the night, someone might as well have set off a gun over your bed, because WHAT THE EFF IS THAT NOISE?! WHAT IS THAT? A teething Sam woke up shrieking at 4 a.m. today, and both Adam and I jerked bolt upright, staring at each other through the foggy veil of sleep wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Did someone BREAK IN? Oh Christ, it’s the BABY. And I was so ridiculously out of it that I pumped a big ole money shot of Motrin directly into her hair, requiring multiple trips to the living room and dragging out the entire process in a manner that my more-efficient sleep-deprived self would have SCOFFED AT.
I know. World’s tiniest violin, what with my sleeping baby, I know. I don’t blame you.
I went to a wonderful playdate today at my friend Kate’s house (hi, Kate!) for the first time, and though I got there with relative ease, I made a wrong turn on the way back and ended up in some ENDLESS LOOP of Green Mountains, which sounds idyllic and charming, but really felt like some sort of awful blend of Groundhog Day and Deliverance, because — as is typical in Vermont — there was no cell service for most of the drive. As I said to Kate later, I was POSITIVE I ended up in a wormhole and if I tried to go BACK to Kate’s to figure out where I went wrong, her house wouldn’t even be there anymore, and I would be forced to figure out how Sam and I could survive living in an apartment above a store named Jaques, which is mysteriously pronounced JAKE’S, and what IS THAT? JAQUES = JAKES? WHO IS JAQUE? And I didn’t even notice an APOSTROPHE.
This, along with macaroni and cheese loaf (LOAF. IN THE DELI CASE. SLICED FOR SANDWICHES. WITH CREEPY GROUND MEAT IN IT) will remain one of Vermont’s most enduring mysteries.
At any rate, because I mentioned them the other day, and a few people asked and because I like accountability, here are my 2010 goals to date. This seems terribly self-serving and obnoxiously narcissistic, so just please know that I’m self-conscious about it, and don’t blame you one whit if you don’t care. I PROMISE.
Oh, I want to add more, but it’s a start. Some, however, are shamelessly stolen from Jennie. And if I may say so, number one on this list is so far making me SO EFFING HAPPY! You guys simply rule, and the discussions people are having, and the fact that people are reading the books and talking about OTHER BOOKS and I love you, man. There’s no other way to say it.
1. Organize and launch an online book club (CHECK CHECK CHECK BOOK LUSHES CHECK)
2. Read at least 30 books
3. Submit for-fun, non-blog, non-paid (yet!) writing to at least three new places (one down!)
4. Get my fingers thin enough to wear my wedding rings again (yes, seriously, it’s been A YEAR)
5. Buy a really great pair of expensive jeans
6. Find a decent babysitter and leave Sam with someone other than a relative
7. Attend BlogHer ‘10
8. Take Samantha to the beach
9. Plan a real family vacation
10. Buy a really great piece of original art.
11. Find a financial planner
12. Take Samantha to meet her great-grandfather and extended family she hasn’t met yet
13. Donate my time and/or items (food, clothing, money) to at least one charity every month
14. Have a piece of clothing custom-made
15. Become strong enough to do a real push-up
16. Make Adam’s birthday as special as he made mine
17. Go away for the weekend with just Adam
18. Call my brother every two weeks
19. Get a decent calendar and write every birthday in it
20. Come up with one signature dinner dish and one baked good to cook for guests/bring places
21. Frame all of the unframed pictures and art in our home
22. Take one picture every day (already failed, but tomorrow is a NEW DAY)
23. Make salted caramels
24. Redesign my blog
25. Wear makeup at least once a week
26. Introduce Sam to her Auntie Meredith and meet her little peanut when she arrives
27. Learn to make bastilla
And with that, I hope you have a fantastic Wednesday.
So, this is going to sound ridiculous, but right now, I’m reading The Historian, and this thing, it is like … like … an EFFING HAIRSHIRT, and it’s sort of taking over my life. It just sits there, glaring at me, all 600-something pages of it, waiting for me to pick it up and figure out a goddamn way to get through it before the end of the next DECADE.
It’s so up my alley! Dracula! Vampires! Travelogue-like writing style and lots of interesting European places visited and described! Except, OH YOU GUYS, it is like a loaf of canned Boston brown bread soaking in Guinness, THAT’S HOW DENSE IT IS. There are entire chapters devoted to describing a MOUNTAINTOP — yes, whole CHAPTERS! But no no, you cannot skim those chapters, because hidden in all this flowery mountain talk is one sentence — ONE! — that is integral to the entire story. DOUBLEYOU TEE EFF.
And yet, I will not — nay, I CANNOT — stop, because again with the vampires and Dracula and the supernatural, and as I keep saying to everyone who will listen, oh my HELL, look for my review on Goodreads sometime around 2012, when the goddamn WORLD IS ENDING ANYWAY.
(Random aside that I am embarrassed to be adding, but look, my love for vampires goes way back to … middle school, I think, when I became creepily obsessed with Elizabeth Bathory, and sometimes I think, oh my God, my poor mother. What the hell was she thinking? Was she WORRIED about me, this little 12-year-old trying to take books out of the library on a woman who BATHED IN THE BLOOD OF VIRGINS?)
(Random OTHER aside is that if we are not friends on Goodreads, we should be, because Goodreads and me, we are BFF, and I want to be yours, too.)
So! A few things:
– Adam and I are not romantic, gift-y people. Sometimes this makes me sad, but usually it makes me happy and relaxed, because the truth is, we are both the exact same way about it, which could also be interpreted that we are both equally lazy, who knows. We observe birthdays, and we usually get each other something biggish, but anniversaries are celebrated with some together time and … that’s about it. And we’ve skipped Christmas/Hannukah for each other for I think the last three years. Last year, we decided to get each other a baby and all baby-related accoutrements, and this year, our gift to each other is a … a … well, look, it’s a new vacuum, there’s no other way to put it. We’re buying each other a new vacuum, which is sad and pathetic, but also VERY EXCITING and we are both VERY EXCITED and have been drooling over new vacuums online and doing all this research with the knowledge that shortly a new vacuum will be OURS, and we’ve actually had CONVERSATIONS about how fun it will be to use a new vacuum. (We both vacuum the house, and in fact, if I’m being honest, he probably does it more than I do. We might not be romantics, but if you think a man who cleans isn’t romantic, who are you?)
But still, a vacuum for Christmas is the saddest thing ever, right? Sad. I know. SAD.
– I can’t quite get it through my head that I’m supposed to be brushing my kid’s teeth. I mean, they’re NUBS, and there are only TWO OF THEM. I’m sure some supermoms have been out there swabbing their kids’ gums with gauze since birth, like all the baby books say to, but my kid will barely let me get a Nuby SPOON in there, so color me skeptical about the prospects for oral hygiene in the under-one set around these parts. I have the baby-friendly toothbrush and the toothpaste, but that is the extent of my efforts thus far and I’m not looking forward to the next step. (NUBS)
– Twice now, I’ve seen the strangest commercial that I’m just not sure what to do with and I … well, it suggests a PAP SMEAR as an appropriate holiday gift and I don’t even know where to go from here. A PAP SMEAR. Adam and I don’t DO gifts for each other, but I’ll tell you if he scheduled my pap smear and pawned it off as an actual GIFT, I would be less than pleased.
Oh, and a quick discussion on Twitter tells me that they had a Hanukkah version as well. In which a man compares a pap smear to a … schmear of cream cheese? Yes, really. A schmear. Oh, and a prostate exam is kosher and I can’t help but feel like there’s something less than kosher about the language here. And thanks to Metalia, here’s the link. Hello, I am dead.
Or, you know, UNDEAD, or soon-to-be, as I’m off to tackle The Historian. Tonight’s goal is a lofty FIVE WHOLE PAGES of fountain talk. See you in 2012! I’ll be the woman with the BLOODIED THIGH.
In further evidence that I am, in fact, a genius, I have discovered a way to keep my pants from sliding down and exposing my bum: wear a belt. Wear a belt! A BELT. Why yes, I AM available for rocket science and brain surgery consults, thank you for asking. Also, I am embarrassed to admit that I have taken to wearing those preppy ribbon belts with things like fine gauge cardigans and cute flats and it’s all because I got my hair done and it looks adorable, if I do say so myself, and I am not responsible for my brief foray into Melissa C. Morris territory, folks.
(Disclaimer: I love Melissa C. Morris. LOVE. But the preppy look is not one I’ve ever pulled off all that well. But hey, maybe a new dawn is upon us! This summer: Lilly Pulitzer!) (OMG I KID ABOUT THE LILLY BIT)
At the risk of sounding like a completely ignorant slut, occasionally I … grow tired … of all the raging battles against feminism, motherhood and life on Twitter and the blogosphere. I am TIRED of hearing about Nestle, as much as I think the issues are valid. I am TIRED of being mad at Whoopi Goldberg and Hollywood and Roman Polanski, and I just want to sit back and have a nice glass of (non-Nesquik) chocolate milk and talk about something FRIVOLOUS. Or at least not listen to everyone wax feminista about all of it, because apparently, I am finished with my deep thinking for the week. Am I alone here? I think I only have so much rage about each particular issue, and when that’s exhausted by reading about OTHER people’s rage, I feel particularly exhausted. I’m sure this means something deep and thoughtful — or rather, it means I am bending over and letting the patriarchy ram me in the ass — but I’m not sure I actually care to … care at the moment. More likely, however, it means that I am a shallow, thoughtless person who would be better off watching “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?”
And with that, I will contradict myself MIGHTILY and mention the swine flu vaccine issue, which Sundry hosted a really awesome discussion about earlier this week. Truly, I was riveted by all of the comments, and in full disclosure, I should tell you that I am, in almost every circumstance, pro-vaccine, including the swine flu vax. I’m comfortable in my decision, and have done a boatload of research to get there, although I recognize and respect that many others have come to a completely different decision with a completely different body of research. And I totally get that, and, given where I live, am friends with MANY non-vaccinators.
But what I CANNOT GET are the people who think that there is some sort of VAST GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACY to give everyone the swine flu so that … I don’t know, there could be a vaccine made and make someone lots of money and … well, I can’t even explain it properly, because I’m just LOST, yo. For God’s sake, our government can’t even get a coherent health care bill together, do you HONESTLY think they’re in there indoctrinating the CDC staffers to do something on such a grand scale? It all just makes me wonder if people realize that this is, indeed, real life, and not a movie.
So! The Sookie Stackhouse books. LOVE THEM. They’re ridiculous and not that well written, but they’re as addictive as those giant jelly Nerds with the candy coating and twice as delicious. Except DUDE, the fashion. Y’all warned me, but I WAS NOT PREPARED. You guys, in book three, she wears a strapless dress with … long sleeves that she puts on separately that may or may not attach at the middle finger like something Ann Wilson would have worn in Heart’s heyday, and I had to check the publishing date on the novels to make sure they weren’t done in the ’80s, because, seriously, Charlaine? I know this takes place in rural Louisiana, but … separate sleeves? And banana clips? And the Hairagami? And this woman is supposedly some kind of IRRISISTABLE SEX SYMBOL. GAWD.
And finally, I learned YET AGAIN that I am brutally addicted to caffeine when, on Sunday, I woke up to realize we only had decaf in the house. And despite having drunk ELEVEN CUPS, thinking that the caffeine content SURELY was high enough to be absorbed at that point, because don’t they say that decaf is never REALLY decaffeinated?, I ended up with the world’s largest headache. It was a headache that could not be contained by Advil or Excedrin or Tylenol. It was the Mother of All Headaches, and I just kept thinking that if any other substance caused such extreme withdrawal symptoms, I would bust my ass to wean myself from it. But because it was coffee and therefore, AIR, what I did was run out and buy more, then come home and brew myself the biggest pot under the sun. And then I drank it all like the twitchy little addict I am.
Happy weekend!
**Death Cab for Cutie. Decent band, terrible name.
