Man, was Halloween ever fun. Had I known that it was going to be such a blast, I’d have done a little more, ah, preparation, instead of deciding that Sam’s costume would be whatever I could nab on sale at Old Navy that didn’t feature shit on her head. Because what do kids hate? SHIT ON THEIR HEADS. And yet, every Halloween costume has some sort of head piece that is so integral to the ensemble that if the kid bails on it, they’re left with a pink unitard or fleece pants or some completely ordinary outfit and then trick or treat is sort of moot, because you took your kid outside in his pajamas or something. And with a toddler, it looks like a parent candy-grab ANYWAY, so again, shit on the head is BAD and anything NOT featuring head shit is GOOD. Ergo, the cheeseburger:
Seriously, Sam had so much fun, and I was completely and utterly shocked at how long she lasted. Our blocks are fairly large, and for her to make the entire way around one was really quite a feat, and took well over an hour. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a kid hold a trick or treat bag with such intensity, and she clung to it with the grim determination of an OSS officer carrying a key piece of intelligence across enemy lines. If you so much as laid a pinky on her bag for any reason other than helping her hold onto it more tightly, she screeched “NOOOOOOO!” with an astounding ferocity, and we learned quickly: DO NOT TOUCH THE BAG.
She returned home and had a special Halloween cookie, and so help me, as I type this, I’m fairly certain she’s still in there, wide awake and wired from the sugar and wow, that was … super not bright, but whatever, it’s a holiday.
Adam finally returned home Friday from his nearly week-long business trip, which means, for the love of all that is holy, I have finally begun sleeping again. Honest to jebus, we can never get divorced, not only because I would be profoundly sad, but because I would never sleep again. It’s ridiculous and Helen Reddy would be horrified, but I feel much SAFER when he’s there, even though half the time I want to kick him for snoring, and the other half he’s so comatose that I swear, if a person WERE breaking in, the robber would have to knock his knees together to make any sort of impression. And yet, without him, I’m listening to every sound in the house like it’s some kind of death knell, and the sound of the furnace kicking on can send me into wild heart palpitations and a sweaty panic.
Shortly before — actually the DAY before — Adam left for his trip, he installed, for reasons that remain unclear, an automatic air freshener in the master bathroom and set to go off every nine minutes. PSSHT! Oh, what’s that noise? Is it a burglar? Is it someone LASERING THROUGH THE WINDOW? No, that’s just the air freshener! ALL EFFING NIGHT LONG!
*drifts off to sleep*
PSSSHT!
*terror*
*drifts off to sleep*
PSSSHT!
*terror*
AND SO ON. EVERY NINE MINUTES. And so help me Jesus, the thing doesn’t even have a discernible SCENT. No, I don’t know why I never became accustomed to it, either, and if you’re wondering if I could just TURN THE DAMN THING OFF, I couldn’t, as he placed it high enough that I’d need a ladder, and I didn’t want to risk life and limb over a stupid air freshener. I am a mother, you know.
But he’s home now, and despite the incessant PSSHT! sound, I am able to distinguish it from, say, a farting robber. Or something. All because he’s snoring next to me. Pathetic.
Finally, I’d like to thank you all for your comments on my last post. I am consistently impressed and amazed at how thoughtful and kind and respectful you all are, and how much you make me think, and want to be better at, well, everything. Basically, I want to be more like you. Thanks to you, when other bloggers complain of hate mail and trolls and mean people, I am usually blank-faced and confused, because it just doesn’t happen here, no matter how weird or controversial the topic. (Except for Michael Jackson. But that was only once!)
Seriously, I am better because of you. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
Oh look that’s right, I have a blog! Not that anyone cares, because there’s nothing worse than a blogger being all, OH SO SORRY I AM SO SHURE YOU MISSED ME, but man, I missed doing THIS, so I hereby declare to post no fewer than three times a week moving forward, until the end of time, barring holidays and vacations, in the name of Blogging Jebus, Amen.
The reason for my absence this week was that Jennie and Mike were here visiting, and I know the last thing anyone feels like reading is another Mighty Blogger Circlejerk, because it’s ALWAYS Lovely Love My Internet Family, but let me tell you, there’s a significant difference between going out FOR AN EVENING with someone and coming away with a good feeling, and, say, spending FIVE DAYS WITH THEM IN YOUR HOUSE, and then — hand to God — when they leave, having it feel like the time was too short, and perhaps they could cancel the second part of their trip and just stay here, with us? No? Too forward? What if you just moved in then?
And let me tell you it is even MORE DIFFERENT when your husband — one of the most private people in the world — skips doing work each night to hang out with them because he, too, loves them so, and when they leave, have him feel THE SAME WAY, which is to say that they could have stayed another week, and I don’t think we’d minded in the slightest. Nay, we’d have enjoyed it. Their son Kyle, would have enjoyed missing them another week not so much, probably. But whatever, he can move in here, too. Problem solved.
We had SO much fun. They were here sightseeing and wedding-ing and such, but we spent almost every morning and evening together, and I’m sure by now you’re all reading Jennie, but what I think is impossible to capture is, a) how fully cute she and her husband are, in a non-barfy way; and b) how incredibly down to earth they are. Just good, solid, normal people that are so easy to be with — no tension or weirdness or discomfort, and I don’t think either of them has a pretentious bone in their body, for there was ZERO pretense among any of us, and it was SO REFRESHING. It felt like being with family, except without all that weird family tension and history. It was just EASY and COMFORTABLE, like wearing your favorite sweater, and I don’t think that point can be overstated.
I think it was the first night that one of them said something that was so disarmingly NORMAL and charming, that I looked at Adam and said, “These are our people,” to which he replied, “Yes.”
(Self-involved side note: I always use normal to describe people who fit my personal Good People Paradigm, or worse, People Who Are Exactly Like Us. I don’t think this is particularly generous or open-minded of me, but there you go. Apparently I think I’m the definition of Normal, which is so douchey, right? So douchey. AND YET.)
And oh, hey, do you want to see the pictures of us together?
LOOK A BLANK SPOT BECAUSE I DIDN’T TAKE ANY AGAIN. The closest thing I have to photographic evidence that they were even HERE is a picture I took with Jennie’s camera of her and Mike all dolled up for the wedding. If you look closely, you can kind of tell that’s my kitchen. THAT’S IT.
***
Now for the bad: The day they were slated to arrive, I realized that Sam had the most ASS-SEARING stomach virus with some kind of HORRID, FLESH-EATING side effect that left her in … oh dear. It was unpleasant downstairs, and if I so much as glanced at the kid’s behind, she wailed in agony. There was SKIN BREAKDOWN and some BLEEDING AND SLOUGHING and I wanted to DIE, but also, I just felt so bad for her. The solution, if you were wondering, was to ride it out and also, coat the kid in approximately four ounces of Triple Paste per diaper changing, which is how I arrived at the Very Awful Place of going through AN ENTIRE JAR of the stuff in less than a week.
What? You don’t think that’s a big deal? Oh, it’s just DIAPER CREAM? OH PEOPLE. THIS DIAPER CREAM GOES FOR $28 PER JAR WHAT THE EFF.
Which brings me to, seriously, the four biggest surprises to me about pregnancy and having a kid that with all the unsolicited assvice, no one ever told me, so now, I am telling you:
1) While pregnant, you may possibly puke until you pee your pants. Not a little pee, but like, a FULL BLADDER’S WORTH. No, it doesn’t matter if you just went. The pee will materialize from some mysterious reserve your body keeps just for these occasions. What is wise is to puke into a bag-lined bucket while sitting on the toilet. Minimizes cleanup. Oh, and this will pretty much happen every time you cough from now until eternity, THE END.
2) When you give birth vaginally, your post-birth ladybits will be so swollen that you swear — SWEAR! — that another baby is crowning, until you press a little and realize, nope, that’s just YOUR VAGINA, swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. No, I’m not kidding or exaggerating. Okay, fine, HALF a cantaloupe, with the cut half resting on your pelvis. SERIOUSLY. (This does go away, thank you GOD.)
3) Already stated, but worth repeating: worst part of a backdoor stomach virus is not the cleanup, but the SEARING SCREAMING DIAPER RASH. I’m telling you, DID NOT ANTICIPATE THIS.
4) You will gladly — nay, GLEEFULLY — spend $30 on something you spread like peanut butter on your kid’s ass. FOR THEM TO POOP ON.
I watched ants crawl in and out of Terro traps. For hours. I was completely and sickeningly unable to focus on anything but the ants crawling in and out of the pool of boric acid, watching their bellies swell to the point of impeding their ability to walk, and I just sat back, procrastinating on a shit-ton of work with a glass of wine. I mean I sat on the goddamn OTTOMAN, which isn’t even COMFORTABLE. And worse! I was reporting on their progress to, um, Twitter! And Adam! OH LOOK, BABY, THE ANTS ARE EATING THE TRAPS! I was rubbing my hands together and cackling in an unironic fashion, over and over again.
It was very sad. And I’ve done it before. The Terro traps are like ANT TEEVEE.
Anyway. A few things, almost entirely unrelated:
- The last few days with Sam have been almost magical. The snuggling! The laughing! Oh, it’s been a never-ending funbag of giggles and independent play and yes, an odd attachment to our refrigerator magnets and plastic pieces of mail, but still! So enjoyable. And then, as quickly as it began, it all melted down like a nickel on the floor of Chernobyl, and today she wouldn’t leave my side, and by my side, I mean, she had to be ATTACHED TO MY HIP in the most literal fashion, and God, it’s like a constant YO YO up in here, I tell you.
- Yes, it’s true, I thought the Hell’s Angels were a philanthropic organization and that the concept of organized crime in motorcycle gangs was a total myth. This came out via a conversation as I was viewing Sons of Anarchy with Adam, which he watches regularly, though I don’t. He was attempting to catch me up, and the conversation went something like this:
So, that woman became a surgeon, then she realized that this whole biking thing is who she is, and she wants to be an Old Lady.
An Old Lady? Like the Old Spice Lady?
No, like a biker’s chick kind of thing.
Oooh! I get it! Like the Pink Ladies in Grease! Well, Grease 2, actually.
Not really like that at all.
Well, yeah, but Stephanie couldn’t be a Pink Lady after she broke up with Johnny, because it means they’re T-Bird chicks and –
No.
It turns out, after the conversation progressed, that Hell’s Angels are kind of scary — okay, fine SOME, or whatever, I don’t know, really, I just learned about this whole One Percenter thing — and on the FBI’s list of organized crime … somethings? And that they are not, in fact, like the Guardian Angels, which is what I thought they were, and I think I thought — no, seriously — that the Hell’s Angels wore berets under their helmets, and … well, that’s probably enough.
This is almost worse than the time I thought that Russell Simmons was famous because he was the founder of Russell Athletic. You know, the sweatshirt people.
I hastily add that I thought this because ADAM TOLD ME THAT, thinking that the joke was obvious, and no. No, it wasn’t. In fact, it was so far from obvious to me that the way I discovered that this was, indeed, not true was because I TOLD SOMEONE ELSE, and was all, Oh yeah! Russell Simmons! The sweatshirt guy! Which, um, ha ha, no.
Ahem.
Moving on.
– So yesterday, I was driving somewhere with Sam (back in happier moments, before she decided she hated me), and the Bee Gees came on the radio (OLD LADY RADIO AHOY), and … you guys, have you HEARD the Bee Gees recently? Have you realized how AWFUL they are? You guys! It was WORSE THAN THE CHIPMUNKS. How did they ever make it? How were they not laughed out of the recording studio? HOW AND WHY ARE THEY DOING FALSETTOS ON PURPOSE, ALL THE TIME?
It was as if I heard them anew, truly, and I was more appalled than I can accurately convey here. It was horrifying, and I was retroactively embarrassed for them, even Maurice, God rest his soul. I say this even though Andy Gibb was my first crush ever, thanks to Xanadu, which I realize he was not in, but at the time he bore a striking resemblance to Michael Beck and when you’re five, it all blends together, because all you want to do is be Olivia Newton-John on roller skates singing about magic and then getting sucked into a mural with Gene Kelly. Or something. Either way, hand to God, one of the first memories I have is of sitting on the toilet, calling for my mom and then when she popped her head in, announcing, “Mom, I love Andy Gibb. LIKE A GIRL.”
(She remembers this. Neither one of us are sure why I insisted on telling her while still seated on the toilet. I mean, I was FIVE.)
(Random aside: did you know Maurice Gibb died of something called VOLVULUS, where your intestine just sort of flips over itself and gets all twisty? OOH LOOK, something new to be afraid of! I shall now panic every time I’m constipated!)
Well, this turned into a hot mess of Old Ladies, Pink Ladies and Volvulus Panic. I hope you have a great Thursday.
The short BlogHer version, which will be woefully disappointing to many of you: I had a great time. It was super low-drama. I don’t have a lot of complaints. Everyone I met was lovely, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, in total sincerity, no snark whatsoever.
I realize that makes this kind of boring. I’m sorry. But like everyone else, I have to say it, because, well, I paid for the damn thing, let me have my recap post, please!
First of all, the best part was easily my roommate, Jennie. (Tell me you love Jennie!) I can’t begin to tell you how wonderfully we got along, or how our friendship is sort of, um, epic in its awesomeness (LIKE BEACHES) (MORE ON THAT IN A SECOND), and it was so easy to be with her, and it made the whole conference worth it.
The other best part was that my OTHER, OLDER (in terms of friend-time, not age, although Mer and I are same-aged crones to Jennie’s youthfulness) epic Beaches friend, Meredith, met Jennie. And PEOPLE. IT WAS BEACHES, BUT WITH THREE PEOPLE. They loved each other, and both texted me separately to tell me so, and it might have been the best thing in the world, having two people you love so, so much (so beyond blogging or writing online or any of this stuff, I mean Real Life Friends) love each other! It was a VERY BIG DEAL for me, and I’m touched and tickled and thrilled and excited to see them both again.
Everyone was lovely. And pretty! What’s with all the pretty? I thought we were all supposed to be dorky and smart and socially awkward? I didn’t meet an unattractive person! Not one! Amalah was lovely and funny and exactly as you’d expect, but even prettier! STUNNING, in fact. What’s up with that? Who is that pretty in pictures, then takes it up a whole notch in person? WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?
People were so nice and friendly and exactly what you’d expect, and if they weren’t, they were better than you expected, even if you had high expectations. Linda! Jodi! The New Girl (who I already knew and is always beautiful)! Kelli! Cass! AndreAnna! Samantha! (btw, I’ve now told Sam I love her eleven times. She is scared.) LEAH! HELLO I LOVED LEAH SO MUCH I WANT TO TELL EVERYONE TO SEEK HER OUT AND MEET HER. SHE IS SO WARM. Metalia! Ali! Slynnro! Kristabella!!
Anne! I loved Anne. And Julie! Julie, for the record, has been the kindest person to me in ways no one even knows about, and I can’t tell you how special it was to meet her. It was a moment, if you will.
Also special was Suebob, whose blog I’ve been reading Way Back When, and is the person you want in your corner, for real. Damn, was she warm and wonderful. Meagan!
Miss Britt! Y! ALEXA. FOR GOD’S SAKE, PEOPLE I MET ALEXA. No, I didn’t just meet Alexa. I FANGIRLED at Alexa and spent ten minutes, dead sober, telling her how talented she is. (SHE IS.) Pseudostoops! Sara! The Ladies of Style Lush! TwoBusy, who I have the ability to see again and again! Ms Picket to YOU! DITTO, BITCHES.
I’m wringing my hands, because I know I’m forgetting great people, and it’s not because they were forgettable, but it’s because I am dim, and it’s almost 11 p.m. and I’m repeating people and picturing faces of people I’ve known for years, and yet cannot recall.
ALLYSON. See? SEE? I cannot be trusted with links. AND LETTERB. Liz! My old boss, who I love and can see again soon! SHIT. I am so fucked with this list. Please forgive me.
However, here are the only two photos I took at the entire conference, because I am an idiot. Behold:
It’s ANNA! I loved Anna even more in person. You guys, she’s funny and smart and beautiful and has a smile that lights up her whole face. And please note: She does not have horns. If you ever have the opportunity to hang out with her, please do so. Just introduce yourself! She is lovely, and I’ll cut a bitch who says otherwise. My bra is also making a special appearance here, as it did all weekend. My right boob, for some reason, did not enjoy being contained.
Worst picture of me ever, but you know, I don’t care, because it’s Holly and AB! AB, you need to know, was my first blog ever, before they were called BLOGS, tied with Mike Monteiro’s Henry’s Diary. I’m all, IT IS AB CHAO, BITCHES. I started reading her … Jesus, I don’t know, ten years ago? When her daughter Mad was in like, THIRD GRADE, IF THAT. (Mad is now one year away from graduating. WTF.) Meanwhile, when poor AB tries to tell me things she did in 2005, I’m all, “Dude, I remember that.” WHICH HAS TO BE CREEPY.
And poor Holly. Poor, poor Holly, who asked about the realities of having kids, and Jennie and I regaled her for an hour and … oh poor Holly. There were a few times I was thinking, “We should be stopping this!” and yet I went on. For many hours.
And AB was with Drunken Bee! Who I also read years ago, when I was jealous of everyone who went to JournalCon and stuff, and yet I had my dorky little overwrought Diaryland account where I think I composed POEMS, OH MY LANDS.
(I was in my early twenties. Please forgive me. I think I was generally an asshole.)
(PS, Drunken Bee does the Friday Night Lights recaps on Television Without Pity. They’re awesome.)
Now for the bad parts: There were assholes. I was treated astonishingly poorly on at least two occasions, one of which was SUPAH SHOCKING and almost funny in its awfulness, but you know what? There are assholes everywhere, and they were not people I knew well or cared about. There are more assholes on my street right now than I met at BlogHer, and that’s a fact. You can’t have a conference with 2400 people and expect there to NOT be assholes.
I just really hope I wasn’t that asshole to any of you. If I was, please tell me, and let me apologize. Unless you are the woman whose foot I accidentally ran over with my bag the first day who yelled at me even after I apologized OR the people next door to Jennie and me, who called security on us for TALKING IN HUSHED TONES. TWICE. You are mean. Also, I’m glad we kept you awake, even when you banged on the wall at 10 a.m. (TEN IN THE MORNING) to tell us to be quiet.
*Lady Gaga. And obviously I was a poor paparazz…ist. Whatever.
Ah, Facebook. It’s such a strange cocktail of misery and usefulness, that I hardly know where to turn. Lunatics and Facebook Moms and crazy political nutballs and high school friends and coworkers and LOOK, WE ALL KNOW THE PERILS.
However, I’ve just made the best discovery that I can’t seem to get over. A guy I know has a Photograph Face, which is probably also his Mirror Face. And although I’ve seen this person many times — recently, even — seeing his Mirror-slash-Photograph Face is weirdly intimate, as Sex Face feels not that far behind and JUST GROSS, MAKE IT STOP. Mind you, many women I know have Mirror and Photograph faces, but men! This is new. And worse, Mirror Faces are never — okay, RARELY — the most flattering face on a person! And yet, people THINK they are, because that’s the face they perpetually see in the mirror and … oh dear. When Mirror Faces become Photograph Faces, it’s never good.
One of my dearest friends (NO I AM NOT TELLING, but no, it’s not you, I promise) has a Mirror Face, and for decades (literally, DECADES), it has mystified me, for she is beautiful, but her Mirror Face is … well, not. It’s awkward and funny-looking, if I’m being honest, and yet there she is, fixing her lip gloss with Awkward Mirror Face, and it remains one of life’s greatest mysteries for me. The second she resumes life without Mirror Face, and steps away from the mirror, she is once again beautiful. Fortunately for all of us, Mirror Face is not Photograph Face.
****
You know, another helpful tidbit, now that more than a few of you will be meeting me in person, is that I have attention deficit disorder, and not in the cute way of being all, I have ADD! I can’t find the pretzels! No, I actually have ADHD in a kind of not-fun way sometimes, although I’m not really sure what to do about it, if anything. On the one hand, it makes me quirky and fun, and it is, in large part, why my life takes the strangest of turns — I forget things, I zone out, I trip, I fall, I end up with six dozen donuts instead of one because I got distracted by the new pockets in my jean jacket. You know.
I mean, I was in Target the other day with Kate, and I got distracted because I couldn’t find my BJ’s card, which led to a few other thoughts about where that card might be, and how I’d given it to Sam in Land’s End Canvas and then, OOH! Land’s End Canvas! I wonder if those pants will fit like these shorts! Let’s see how these shorts fit! And I’m pulling the tag out of the back of my shorts and realize that the reason — the original reason, for God’s sake — I wondered about my BJ’s card was because I was supposed to be getting out my debit card to pay. I had FORGOTTEN that I was in TARGET in LINE and ABOUT TO PAY. I’m not exaggerating. Like, I got lost in this crazy Other Place and … well, that happens a lot.
And while I realize that’s kind of a lame example, there are others where things have been more, uh, dire. Nothing life or death, but sometimes, HOO BOY, things take me longer than they should, because I get distracted and carried away and oh look! There’s that phone bill. In the freezer. Right. (Sadly, not kidding.) In a way, it was easier when I worked as a full-time professional, because I could organize my day to work around it — by setting time limits, and tasks and small deadlines throughout the day, I was able to do what needed to be done without it impacting my work too much. Being busy and on heavy deadline in a job like journalism is actually helpful for people like me, although you’d think it would be the opposite.
But with an unpredictable toddler? OH HEAVENS. Coping is kind of hard sometimes, because I’m all over the place, and even people who DON’T have ADHD can become distracted and lose their minds.
I was medicated once, a long long time ago, and frankly, it sucked. I didn’t feel like myself; I felt like all of the things that made me, me, were kind of gone. Creatively, I wasn’t the same, because distraction is a good thing for a creative person — one thought tumbles to the next, and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected.
I think I just answered my own question, which is to go back to behavioral therapy basics and not even think about meds again. At all. Like, ever. But! If I seem spazzy or you think you suddenly lost me in a conversation or I say I’ll be right back and hours later, you’re wondering what the EFF happened to me, that would be why.
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
Well! That’s over. We had a family wedding this weekend, with houseguests, and have I ever mentioned that I love houseguests? I do. It’s a very strange thing, apparently, but a houseful of people always makes me feel warm and fuzzy and weirdly safe, like we can’t be broken into or murdered or anything strange, because there are so! many! people! Who could get away with such a thing? We have four-ish bedrooms and every last one of them was occupied by someone who would doubtless scream if intruded upon. Safety!
Plus, you know, I enjoy their company. That’s true, too. But once houseguests leave, there is the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Everything has three times as much dirt on it as before, because there were three more people involved and now there are toilets and laundry and maybe even bears, oh my!
It was a relatively uneventful family wedding–beautiful, loving and all that jazz. Two nights prior, however, my kid lost her shit at a family dinner in a janky-but-delicious Chinese restaurant (South Pacific in Newton, for those playing along at home–they have an original tiki room and serve scorpion bowls), and for the FRILLIONTH time, discovered that my kid bawls like a maniac whenever she’s confronted with an old(er) lady, this time being her great-aunt. There’s a juvenile prejudice that’s fun to explain! Hi! My kid hates old ladies! Yes, I’m sure YOU are lovely, but you are very clearly OLD and old ladies freak her out! So please, no no, don’t say hi to her, thanks. At all. It freaks her out. Yes, even you. YES, YOU, OLD LADY. YOU TOO.
Nice, right? Nice. My kid’s an ageist little pooper.
I am also really unclear why a restaurant, upon seeing a TABLEFUL of kids under the age of four, would refuse to deviate from their plan of offering their pu pu platters with towering flames in the center, but then again, some things defy logic, am I right? Here, kids! Let’s practice lighting our eyebrows on fire!
Anyway. Let us now discuss stink bugs. Do you guys KNOW what stink bugs are? HA HA. They look like this. (LINK TERRIFYING! WARNING!) And did you know those em effers can FLY? I did not know this. I had NO idea, in fact, until the other night when I thought I saw a fly and watched it land and NEARLY EFFING DIED. You can’t kill them, you see, because their stupid pheromones go shooting out and then you have a plague of stink bugs, not to mention they, um, STINK.
So there I am, trying to be calm and shit while I aim to trap it in two, um, cups (what?) and then … I LOST IT. AND FELT SOMETHING DOWN MY BACK. AND MADE A STRANGLED KIND OF NOISE. And God, look, there was wild running around and crazy tapdancing, and I wanted so bad to scream, but you know, MUST NOT WAKE BABY, so I just waved myself around wildly while frantically whispering, “HELP ME. HELP ME. HELP ME.”
HELP NEVER CAME. Or rather, it did, but HELP WAS LAUGHING TOO HARD TO ACTUALLY HELP. This went on for several minutes until I finally just locked myself on the sun porch and got buck naked, dislodging the stink bug from … oh God, from WHEREVER IT WAS, and Adam took it outside, thank you Jesus, and Amen.
GHWRLKHTHEWARTTICKETH.
I mean, RIGHT?
And now, let us cleanse ourselves with a delightful picture of my daughter, looking rather diabolical, yet adorable, in her wedding finery. Well, with strawberry stains, but whatever.
(Yes, that’s me in the background at an Unfortunate Angle, I hope, as I am looking rather PREGNANT, which is a state that I am not, I assure you.)
(Wait, are we all not on a team? Are you not on my moving team? Do you want to be on my moving team? Quick! Come wrap some glasses! GO TEAM!)
So, we’re moving. And I am MUCH happier about it, as I suspected I would be once I figured out where we’d be going, and I went back to the area and we figured out where we want to live, etc. etc. SO MUCH HAPPIER ABOUT IT. Thank you for talking me off of the ledge. We found a house! That we love! With a giant yard for pug and baby to roam freely! And it’s so PEACEFUL out there, which is nothing like where we used to live in Boston, and … what a grand idea this is suddenly seeming like. Now, if only I could bring my friends.
Can I please bring my friends? Friends who are reading this, would YOU like to move to Boston?
That remains the saddest part of it all, and REALLY, by me acting okay with the move, it does not mean I won’t miss you. I PROMISE. I AM BEREFT.
MetroWest Bostonians, holler at me! And further, if you see someone who looks like me in the Natick Mall, it could very well BE me! Look at that!
So, that’s the good news. Really! The good news! Other good news: We got some actual sleep in the hotel, as we got a suite, as per EVERYONE’S recommendations, and HOO BOY, it was a NEW WORLD up in this piece. Sam slept! We slept! We woke up in the morning without wanting to die! LOOK AT US GO, SMRT PEOPLE THAT WE ARE. WE GOT THE BABY HER OWN ROOM.
JEENYUS.
At any rate, that’s kind of where the good news ends, and don’t get me wrong, it is all good news, and I will take it served hot, with a spoon and with a hearty helping of pleasure. What is not good news is that I lost my wallet somewhere in MetroWest — err, MetroNorth? What is Lexington, anyway? — and I had to go through EVERYTHANG and cancel all my credit cards and get new insurance cards and put an alert on my credit in case anyone tries to steal my identity and BAH BAH BAH. What perfect timing! Tomorrow we get to ride for an hour to visit the DMV so that I can get a new license and begin the process of reconstructing the flexibility I once had. You know, to leave the house by myself with access to money and the ability to drive.
And this was all happening RIGHT before an in-depth, up close and personal examination of my credit history! HUZZAH.
(All seems to be well. Identity secured, precautions taken, etc. Mess with me at your peril, malfeasance-doers!)
We COULD be moving in like, um, a week. Maybe. On the fast end. Which is insane, but it might happen if the movers can’t do anything later and hello, does anyone have a paper bag for me to breathe into? My whole body aches from bending over and packing and dragging boxes through our once-tidy house, and this afternoon, Sam came royally undone as we packed up a good portion of her room, because there we are, putting her precious possessions in boxes and it’s like, what the hell, Mom and Dad? Where my books at? You said that stuff was MINE and you LIED and … oh look! A toy hammer! All is forgiven.
Well. I also packed all the silverware and had no spoon for my coffee this morning and then later, oh HO HO LATER, Adam went on some kind of CLEANING FRENZY and decided, for reasons that still make no sense to me at all, to dump an entire FAMILY-SIZED JUMBO BOX of Hungry Jack instant mashed potatoes (HUNGRY JACK. Is that supposed to be appetizing? Like a hungry … lumberjack?) down the disposal and added water! HOT WATER. As in, he MADE AN ALARMING AMOUNT OF INSTANT MASHED POTATOES IN OUR GARBAGE DISPOSAL! And they expanded! And blocked the sink!
Which, you know, DUH. And for some reason, he insists that he asked me if this was okay and I guess I said yes, but I was distracted at the time, and you know, I didn’t think he’d put the WHOLE BOX DOWN THERE AT ONCE and I don’t even know why he didn’t just pack them or throw them away or … oh, what’s the use in dissecting it all, really. Just imagine, if you will, having this conversation with your husband:
Me: Is it clogged?
Him, exasperated beyond all belief: OF COURSE IT IS. I AM MAKING A BOX OF FUCKING HUNGRY JACK MASHED POTATOES IN OUR SINK.
Oh, hindsight, you are a cruel bitch. A cruel potatoey bitch.
This certainly puts the mild irritation of two-day old apple juice spilling in your diaper bag into perspective, doesn’t it? (Hint: it smells like a bar floor that’s been mopped with Woodchuck. DELISHUS.)
What’s saving me right now? I’m embarrassed to tell you. It’s … it’s the Glee “Power of Madonna” soundtrack, and y’all, I don’t even LIKE Madonna. It’s Jesse St. James, who I now have a futile crush on, and yes, of course I checked and yes, of course he’s gay and as it turns out it doesn’t matter! I crush anyway! And yet, I checked! EVEN THOUGH I AM HAPPILY MARRIED AND HE IS GAY. You see how these things work?
Me neither.
Hey, have a happy Monday!
*Um. I only have it from the Glee cast, so … Glee cast! Rachel Berry! Wait, you mean there’s someone else?
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!
