Posts filed under 'Sunny The Pug'
I’ve taken a bit of a television hiatus, in terms of finding new shows, anyway, because it’s summer, we’ve been busy, and whatever, there’s Big Brother, mock me if you will. But every night before we went to bed, Adam would watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and shake the damn bed with laughter while I glared at him in an obnoxious highbrow manner over the top of my book.
He finally broke me down, and PEOPLE. I CANNOT STOP. It’s easily the funniest, most wildly inappropriate show I’ve seen in years. I’m howling! I’m crying! I’m feeling terribly dirty because I’m laughing uproariously at the absurd pleasure the characters are taking in finding — and trying on — a Nazi uniform, and that sounds worse than it is, kind of, but you must trust me: HILARITY ENSUED. I … oh, it’s terrible and hilarious and so offensive, while at the same time smartly acknowledging its offensiveness, and, well, I feel like everyone should go get it and watch it. Unless you’re very sensitive, in which case, I don’t know what to tell you, because it’s possible you’re reading the wrong blog, maybe? I’m not sure.
Anyway. I have failed to mention that Sunny once again continues to be the bane of our existence, while also managing to be the primary sleep-stealer, making up for all those months that a squalling baby kept her from her deep puggy slumber. While I was at BlogHer, she was overcome with such a disastrous stomach ailment that Adam was up every two hours (like a NEWBORN) to take her outside to either barf or poop, and to be honest, the majority of the baby wipes in this house were being used to WIPE THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
This is how, upon my return, I ended up waiting in a 24-hour pharmacy for a prescription to be filled for my dog. A dog whose prescription was borked (barked?) on four separate occasions because the pharmacist not only could not find my dog as an existing patient in the insurance database (BECAUSE SHE IS A DOG), but was consistently trying to fill a prescription for a human named — wait for it:
Funny Rubin.
FUNNY RUBIN.
After waiting and calling and waiting and calling, and talking and waiting and mass confusion, the pharmacist, who to my knowledge has a DEGREE and everything, stopped and said, “Wait: are you Funny Rubin? I’ve been trying to call you!”
Aaaand, scene.
She finished her last pill today. This is her third round of this flora-encouraging antibiotic (a paradox if I ever heard one) and if I wake up in the middle of the night tonight to wipe her bum, I will seriously consider selling her to the highest bidder. Or perhaps the first person willing to buy me a jumbo pack of Starburst. Whichever.
In other housekeeping-y news, a few of us are in the process of putting together a Boston blogger (and the readers who love them) meet-up. As a result, would you kindly let me know, either in the comments, or via email (the contact form above does go to my email, swearsies), so that we can keep you in the loop, as the kids say?
Also, HA HA, embarrassing fun fact: A reader recognized me in Barnes & Noble a few weeks ago, and she was adorable and funny and a mom! A mom of two! Who lives kind of near me! And I loved her, even though I was shocked and sort of stammer-y, for it happens so rarely to begin with, but it happens even MORE rarely that someone recognizes MY DAUGHTER before they realize who I am. And yes, I had to ask her name TWICE because I was so flustered and … well, so I said we should get together sometime! And she should email me her contact information!
No email. Sad panda. Which goes to show you that apparently there are times — quite a few of them, I reckon — that I translate very poorly in person. So attend the meet-up at your own risk.
(CALL ME, JOANNA. NOT TO SOUND DESPERATE OR ANYTHING.)
(Ha ha?)
Happy Wednesday!
*Biz Markie. Who is coming with DJ Lance and the Yo Gabba Gabba clan to Boston, and I’m totally considering buying tickets and … oh dear. They are not cheap. This is not rational, right? I mean, she might freak out! She might not make it! AND YET. DJ LANCE IN THE FLIZESH. *fans self*
August 24th, 2010
HA! Well, I don’t feel like such a dirty bird anymore. Truth is, I’ve washed my bathmats … twice? Three times? since we moved here, which was May 1. So … well, that’s less than some of you, more often than others, and honestly, I never spent much time thinking about DRIED PEE DUST, as so many of you have, and … dried pee dust? For real?
Now, I am sensitive to the pee molecule. I will never, and I mean NEVER, have a toilet seat made of anything that is not hard, non-porous, and able to be disinfected with a swipe of the product of your choice. This means nothing squashy, nothing fabric, and for the love of the baby Jesus, no FUR. Adam’s aunt has a squashy, furry toilet seat and I REFUSE to sit on it, because I AM SORRY. FUR HAS PEE. MUCH PEE. AND PROBABLY POOP TOO.
But bathmats … well, I don’t know. Mine are rubber-backed, and I just wash and dry them, which, I am told, could cause my entire house to either smell like rubber OR spontaneously combust, so if I disappear one day, it’s because I blew us all up washing out some stupid pee molecules in the damn machine. The news will simply report an explosion, but you’ll all know the real story.
ANYWAY, so yes, Sunny got her ass kicked by the neighbor’s dog on Friday night, and it was dark and stormy and we were on our FOURTH walk of the evening, because for a dog who likes to blow the contents of her but out on a semi-regular basis, sometimes she is just so goddamn PICKY about WHERE this assplosion happens, and I’m wondering how it’s possible that our floor is acceptable, but when she goes outside, it has to be in the PRECISE PIECE OF GRASS she’s been seeking for twentysomething minutes.
So there we are, trudging through a lightning storm, while I’m FREAKING OUT, because I am afraid of lightning and thunder, and I really believe that I’m going to be struck down and killed by my bra which is, for the record, the reason I no longer wear underwire, no matter HOW Braless African Villager these puppies get after nursing, and I’m sorry, where was I? OH YES — this … this THING just shot out of nowhere and ATE HER and SHOOK HER and AH! AH! AH! I was yelling AHHHHH! and then AHHHHH! and “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and THAT was really helpful, all that yelling! Because YELLING peels a dog off of another dog! And right, of course RIGHT! I was just being punked! HA HA!
The dog’s … owner? handler? came shooting out, apologizing, claiming he got off the leash, when I’m sorry, THERE WAS NO LEASH ATTACHED and it is at this point that I do NOT need to tell you we’ve had two days of bloody diarrhea, right? RIGHT?
It turns out it was a pet sitter who let the dog escape, AND it turns out the owners are lovely people who are aware of their dog’s, uh, less than friendly feature, and I’d say all’s well that end’s well (uh, they want to be friends, it seems, and I LIKED THEM), except that I still have a dog who poops copious amounts of blood and (SORRY) mucus onto the floor, and no amount of friendly neighborhood barbecues are going to fix THAT little problem, let me tell you.
Speaking of mucus, did you know that mucous is adjectival, while mucus is a noun? This is something I, an actual no-shit professional editor, learned only recently, most likely because I can count on less than one hand the amount of documents I’ve edited that feature mucus, unless you count this here blog, which includes mucus more than anyone would like. As does my life.
Bottom line, Sunny’s on a low-dose antibiotic that supposedly heals up the freaky ulcers, and if that doesn’t work, she’s going on Prozac. Yes, Prozac. YES, MY DAMN DOG.
And with that, let’s all go to our happy places, which for me is a tiny person giving me a cheesy fake smile (SHE DOES THIS FOR THE CAMERA) while playing in her plastic pool. Wearing pajamas.
Happy Tuesday! Kate’s coming today! KATE!
*Depeche Mode
July 19th, 2010
Oy, so OY. Many of you know this thanks to Twitter, but … oh man. Sunny. MAN. I didn’t know they were such high strung little beings, I really didn’t. And you know, all those people who tell you that having a dog is NOTHING like having a baby, let me just say that my dog has been exactly like a child, when it comes to the ass-pain factor. In the last six months, I’ve had more than one sleepless night thanks to the little shit darling, and look, I’m down with my kid pulling this stuff, but my dog is a grown-up. A GROWN-UP. For goodness’ sake, she’s 34 in dog years! She’s MY AGE. The prime of her life!
AND YET.
Without killing you with detail, she had some bloody, uh, stuff, the other night. Then, suddenly it was all blood, and my entryway looked like a small family of rabbits was murdered and then stealthily eaten in their entirety by some kind of predator. At that point, I realized that perhaps the emergency vet might be a good idea, because, well, that’s not normal. It was decided that I would go, because I am totally not grossed out by anything, as it turns out, even copious amounts of blood shooting from my dog’s ass. Even when it gets on my HANDS, for chrissake, it seems I just CARRY ON.
It’s good to learn about yourself, I think.
The vet is in Waltham, which is a large-ish town that is both nice in areas and SO COMPLETELY SKETCHY in others (not unlike the town where I reside, frankly), and while I was thrilled to find out I was in the mostly un-sketchy area of Waltham, I was NOT thrilled to find out that even if an emergency vet clinic is located next to David Ortiz’s house in tony Weston, there will be the sketchiest people you’ve ever seen in your life in there. My GOD, people. There was yelling! Hysteria! BLOOD! Dog blood! Scary people looking VERY ANGRY and like they’re about to cut a bitch! A totally thuggy and terrifying bald white dude who looked like he was THISCLOSE to joining the nearest Nazi organization, if his tattoos were any indication, was in with his girlfriend, her mother and their (oh I am sorry to say this, as I hate stereotyping dogs) pit bull, who had, as it turned out, bitten his fourth victim. Police were involved. Euthanasia was recommended.
WAILING ENSUED. At one point, the girlfriend ran out of the clinic screaming, “BABY MURDERERS!” which, when you think about it, is a bit ironic considering that it was HER dog who bit a kid and … well, there’s no use nitpicking now, is there? Two other dogs came in, one bleeding, one having a seizure, and by this point, Sunny had bled all over the floor and OH, I WAS DONE. SO DONE. What started out feeling like a little kid-free vacation (how sad that a waiting room now holds allure) was quickly turning into a bloody nightmare, and seriously, who expects this at an emergency vet?
Oh, well, as it turns out, apparently everyone knows that they’re scary but me. Lesson learned.
The net/net of all this is that my dog, MY DOG, has stress-induced ulcerative colitis. And while I’m ready to admit that an interstate move is probably stressful on a dog, I am not yet ready to fully grasp how I am supposed to reduce the stress of this dog’s life, which is what the vet tasked us with. Come on. OH COME ON.
Would the lady of the house desire a manicure? Would she prefer fresh beef instead of kibble?
Seriously, people. Seriously! What am I to do? What kind of DOG gets … colitis? FROM STRESS.
I … I’m lost here. And yet, I also feel terrible for Sunny, getting herself worked up into such a state that she just POOPS BLOOD. It’s the lawnmowing that really does her in, is the thing. And yet, short of getting blackout shades on all the doors and windows, I cannot shield her from this reality. REALITY IS HARD, SUNNY. GRASS GROWS.
In other news, swimming lessons for Sam went reasonably well, despite all of my anxiety — we were at a low-grade whimper throughout, but there was no all-out screaming, and for that, I am grateful, and consider it a rousing success.
Gym class, however, took a terrible turn for the worse, when a Russian newcomer spied Sam’s toddler-walk, declared her pigeon-toed, and announced in a heavy accent that “She vill neet leck bresses! From HEEP TO VAIST! That child EES PEEJUN-TOAD! Is VEDDY VEDDY DANGERUSS!”
And then she kind of left. Which was awesome. Thanks, angry Russian Gym Grandmother! We’re all over that shit!
(Except not really, because Sam just learned to walk two months ago, and this is totally normal and FOR THE LOVE, LADY. FOR THE LOVE.)
Happy Thursday!
*Widespread Panic
July 7th, 2010
The other night we had thunderstorms, and Sunny was up until … 2:30 a.m. What the FUCK, you guys? I love my dog — really, I do — but the percentage of dog-to-baby night wakings in the last six months has tilted in the direction of the DOG. THE DOG. THE DOG. We’ve had night puking! Kennel cough! Thunderstorms!
THUNDERSTORMS. She was up all night crying, refusing to go to bed, making a thousand trips in and out of the baby’s room, waking the baby and .. and so on, until 2:45, when she was finally too tired to fight anymore. It goes without saying that Sam woke up at 5:30, right? Right, of course it does. Right. If there was a way for me to score myself a trip to the emergency room by scooping out my own damn eyeballs, let me tell you, I would have gladly done it. Gladly.
I mean, Jesus, we lived in Florida, where it thundered on an hourly basis. What pansy-ass dog have we raised, who can’t handle a little lightning without coming uneffing GLUED, right? Especially when she was BORN in the lightning capital of the world, what the everloving EFF?
It’s a good thing she’s cute and sweet, and doesn’t ever complain when the baby plays with her ears, because no matter how many times we admonish, “GENTLE! GENTLE!”, sometimes those ears get pulled. And instead of biting or lashing out, Sunny’s solution is to roll over, belly-up, crying uncle and licking Sam’s face. She’s a keeper, that one, even if we’re all so goddamn exhausted from her infantile shenanigans.
But still, my God, I don’t think anyone guesses or anticipates that one of the most annoying things about parenthood isn’t the baby. It’s the DOGS. And yet, this is such a universal feeling — every single one of my be-petted friends, and I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE, has reported hating their dogs at some point, particularly in the early days. I think it’s that babies suck every last drop of inconveniently-timed nurturing out of us, that by the time the dog needs something (AT 2 A.M., JESUS), we’re fresh out of giving a shit.
(Not that Sunny wants for anything. Please. Bitch be snuggled up in my armpit as I type this.)
Look, I kind of got nothin’, as we’re heading back to Boston early next week. This trip involves the oh-my-fuck search for housing if we end up having to go there and … well, THAT should be fun, trekking all over the major metro area in my sister’s minivan with my kid strapped in the back seat. See also: Looking at houses with no idea if you’re actually going to live there or not, because you don’t know if you’re moving, or not, but you have to look because if you ARE going to move, you have to do it SUPER FAST and … blergh, is really all that is. BLERGH.
You know what else is blergh? Owning a house in Florida that is basically unsellable. That is MEGA BLERGH. I kick around what to do with this albatross on a hourly daily weekly basis, and it almost always involves palm sweating and high blood pressure. The issue, for those new to the story, is this: We bought a house in Florida when we lived there, for a (very) reasonable, affordable below-market price. To live in, not to flip. We lived in it. Market exploded, then imploded. Work brought us back up north. Large percentage of neighbors paid three times what we did for similar houses in our development (Would YOU pay not far from a million dollars for a 2,000 sq foot, 3bd, 2ba TOWNHOME? No. No, you would not. So why did some of them buy THREE at that price?) Said asshole jerkface investors with truckloads of capital and no intention to live in the house unfortunate “neighbors” are now foreclosing, leaving homes in our neighborhood selling for $100K or less.
Yes, really. Oh, foreclosure! You’re such a good deal!
Ergo, we are stuck with this sucker (which is rented out at a small loss, currently, such is the sad state of the Floridian market) and it makes me rather, um, enraged. Because we could end up in a short sale or something similar, which ends up pummeling your credit while simultaneously involving a significant amount of ASS PAIN, but because it’s not our primary residence, we qualify for approximately none of the housing “fixes,” like mortgage modification, principal reduction, etc. But what’s the alternative? Owning this thing for another 20 years, when the market returns? Meanwhile, its mere existence on our balance sheet saps our will to live?
And there is no one to blame! No one saw this coming! OK, fine: I blame banks. And people who bought six houses with no intentions of living in any of them. But still! STILL!
So now we may be off going somewhere else and likely renting again until we figure out what to do with this thing, and OH I AM SO SICK OF IT. I am sick of being a homeowner, a tenant AND a landlord. It is by far the most exhausting combination, on this you must trust me. And while yes, it’s possible that we could afford to buy another house WHILE still owning our Florida house, let me tell you, THAT is the only combination that is more lethal than the one I’ve got now. Yes, let me own TWO houses while being a landlord and … oh my God, just institutionalize me now, why don’t you, please. Just get out the straitjacket and throw me overboard.
I’m sorry, that’s obviously not why you came here, is it? Clearly I’m a little stressed by all this (along with other thrilling blogger events of last week), as just this morning, I dreamed that there was some sort of blogger playdate, and I remember that the Artist Formerly Known As Schnozz was there (she doesn’t have children), along with Amalah and Anna and Jennie and … my dad had an affair with a friend of Amy’s, and somehow her friend ended up pulling a gun and there was a SHOOTING. A SHOOTING! At a playdate! But it was fine, because our kids were wearing kevlar and … oh, it’s so blatantly obvious that I need to relax, right? RELAX. Like Frankie says. It will all work out.
After all, I have my retirement home bought already and everything! Florida, here we come!
(OMFG)
Happy weekend!
*Remy Zero
April 8th, 2010
So.
Last week happened.
That was something. If by “something,” I mean something horrible and soul-crushing and easily the most challenging two and a half days of my entire — no, seriously, ENTIRE — life.
(Warning. This is kind of painful, but I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. IT WAS THAT BAD AS MY TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN ATTEST AS I LIVE-TWEETED THE HELLFIRE.)
The short version is this: I got the flu — the achy, shivering, feverish, want-to-die kind — plus barfing. The pukles! I GOT THEM! I woke up at 2 a.m. Wednesday morning thinking, boy, that London broil was a bad idea … I wonder if it was old? And by 3, I was in the bathroom, still holding onto hope that it was just a passing food thing when I realized, hm. Adam seems to be holding up just fine. By 7, I was starting to panic, and by 7:30, I was back in the bathroom ready to gouge my eyes out with my Venus razor. By 8, I realized desperately that Adam was leaving on a business trip (an interview in Boston, among other things), and I was supposed to go with him to visit my sister and have dinner with our friend Eve and there was no way in HIZELL I was going to make it.
Now all this seemed fine and good until I realized that while *I* was off the hook for traveling 300 miles (IN A CAR THAT WAS MOVING), Adam was still slated to be there, by hook or by crook, which meant that *I* was going to be home alone with a baby and a dog and The Pukles and … oh heavens, my friends, it was awful. Awful. AWFUL. It was EPIC in its awfulness, and I plopped my kid in front of the TV all day, every day (THE GUILT) and I watched the same! Laurie! Berkner! DVD! over and over again, and I acquainted myself with The Wonder Pets, and twice, I threw my screaming little baby into her crib while I desperately ran to the bathroom to throw up because she was doing something like reaching for the scissors on the counter and … oh.
Random aside: she’s effing tall enough to reach for shit on the counter. She’s not even 13 months old. She’s SO EFFING TALL, you guys, what is this MINIATURE GIANTESS I am raising?
Anyway, the whole thing was a horror show, and honestly, no exaggeration, CHILDBIRTH was easier than that shit, yo. CHILDBIRTH. I was in tears, I had a 102-degree fever, I was throwing up, I was desperate — oh, so desperate — for sleep and by the time Adam came home with sweet, sweet relief on Friday afternoon, the house looked like someone broke in, I hadn’t showered since Monday and Sam was happier than a pig in shit because she was basically wading in piles of it.
I tell you though, and I don’t mind saying this, for I feel I’ve earned it: When Adam came home, and everyone had survived? Dude. I felt like I was fucking BADASS, which is, when you think about it, ridiculous, but I’m telling you, it was like running five marathons with a colicky baby strapped to your chest while getting poked in the lady bits with a ceremonial sword or two. (Maybe the one Jacob and the Man in Black keep trading back and forth?) I LIVED. THE BABY LIVED. Oh y’all. I can do ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, the dog. My God, the dog. The dog was acting like some kind of FREAK DOG the whole time Adam was away — she followed me around underfoot, she barked at the air, she barely slept. Since he’s been home, she’s been passed out on his chest, snoring, every chance she gets. If I may anthropomorphize for a moment, I think she felt like she had to be on high alert because her alpha was gone. (I am not the alpha. Or even the beta. I’m pretty sure I’m her underling. She heeds the BABY better than she listens to me.)
Guarding the important people, before all hell broke loose.
Several epic naps, a husband who cleaned the entire house from top to bottom (including the CARPETS, people) and plenty of time lounging and I am almost recovered, at least physically. Mentally, it’s going to take some TIME, y’all. Like, YEARS.
In other news, I’m going to be in another Smart Pop book! This time in a guide for Glee! GLEE! It comes out in the fall, just in time for the second season. There’s also a contest if you want to submit your own essay on how Glee has impacted your life for a special section in the book.
GLEE!
GLEE!
Trust me when I say re-watching an entire season of Glee, over and over again (this time focusing on Mr. Schue and that irritating, no-good Emma Pillsbury. THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT. EMMA SUCKS.) is SO MUCH LESS TRAUMATIZING than two seasons of True Blood. (And infinitely easier than a day filled with C-SPAN.) TRUST ME. Let’s see: perky, whip-smart high school students embroiled in situations that don’t involve blood, guts and gore or John Boehner? Easy! Hell, after deconstructing two seasons of True Blood, teenage pregnancy seems downright wholesome.
And with that, happy Monday, y’all. May you all remain puke-free.
*Lady Gaga
March 28th, 2010
Look, here’s the truth: I’m not sure if I can REALLY give up Big Love. Oh, I know I SAID I was, and I will admit, I half-watched this entire season, because it was a strangely repellent mixture of incredibly boring and incredibly far-fetched. All the things that made it wonderful in the first few seasons — the delicate nuances of the wives’ personalities as they danced around the (horrible) center of their universe, Douchebag Bill; the impact it had on their children who, for the most part, were expected to live normal lives without ever letting anyone in on their secret; the unforeseen challenges of being a husband, three times over.
All of that was replaced by bombastic fireworks with little substance. Murder! Mayhem! Closeted gays! Arm-slicing! A bizarre eugenics experiment that went entirely unexplained! And it was all so poorly written and … oh, what the HELL, people?
But you know what, I said the same thing about Grey’s Anatomy somewhere in the range of FIVE THOUSAND TIMES, and umpteen MEELLION years later, here I am, TiVoing the shiznit outta that show and relieved, week after week, that they’ve refrained from torturing us with MerDer dramzzz.
I’m a sheep, however. I can’t stop.
***
Whenever my dog is behaving oddly — like, say, this evening, when she busted into Sam’s bedroom during our nighttime routine no fewer than three times — I have a tendency to suddenly assign a great deal of meaning to her actions, like she’s somehow channeling Lassie and trying to tell us something Very Important. “Is there a fire, girl? Do I smell different? DO I HAVE CANCER, SUNNY ROOBS?”
All this portentous behavior ascribed to a dog who can’t effectively communicate that she needs to go outside to go to the BATHROOM.
***
Here’s a sad fact: I quit smoking at least five years ago, probably longer — I can’t even remember anymore, maybe 2003? — and the truth is, I miss it every day. Every. Day. When I find out someone I know smokes, my reaction is almost never one of revulsion, although I AM repulsed by the smell of smoke, but instead is, OH YOU ARE SO LUCKY. I miss smoking terribly, you guys. TERRIBLY. Everything about it just screams “RECKLESS YOUTH!” to me, from taking too-long smoke breaks at my first job to bond with coworkers, a la Rachel in “Friends,” to Adam and me, in the throes of our early days, buying two packs apiece on a Friday night and wondering if it would be enough to last until Saturday morning (!!).
I’ll never smoke again, especially now that I have a daughter, but I don’t think there will ever be a day where I look back on it with anything but fondness.
However, that doesn’t stop me from being a totally judgmental douchebag when I see anyone climb into a car with little kids (in their CAR SEATS, even!) and light up. And if you have the windows rolled up? There’s a chance I’ll flip your ass off. I don’t care if you smoke, but their little lungs are all FRESH AND PINK and you have no right to sully them, biznatch.
And finally, a baby in a barrette, made by Metalia:
Happy Wednesday!
*The Platters. Yes, THE PLATTERS. From DECADES AGO. I have a thing for The Platters, for reasons that have to do with my mom and me singing them while baking cookies.
March 16th, 2010
I took the dog to get her anal glands squeezed and get a rabies shot today, and if THAT doesn’t set the tone for a day filled with unprecedented awesomeness, I’m not sure what does. No, wait, let me back up: the day started with me cleaning my daughter’s, um, STUFF, out of her armpits after a blowout, which is something that hasn’t happened in MONTHS and happened because … oh God, I don’t even KNOW why (her diaper is the right size, I assure you), but I am sure my future holds a day where I don’t have to wonder if today is going to be the day that I have to clean someone else’s poop out of their armpits, you know?
ARMPITS. This is not unlike the time she was a wee, wee infant and somehow did her business with such force it landed on her FACE.
This was followed up by a rather strongly worded lecture of gibberish as she stood naked at the end of the coffee table this evening, full on SCREAMING at us, complete with arm gestures. Aaaand moments later … more poop. While naked. On the floor. Just after a bath. How delightful!
Internet, I’m sorry for those back-to-back gross stories, but honestly, it’s like I never believed this shit (HA) actually happened until it did, and worse, I’m actually shocked at how unfazed I am by it all. Sure, no one likes to be living with their very own miniature version of Tubgirl, but … well. This is what you sign up for, I suppose.
My nonchalance probably ties back to the fact that frankly, I would rather change an entire preschool full of diapers than clean up one (1) yard of dog poop. Anything but dog poop, folks. ANYTHING.
***
So hey, um, here’s a pop culture observation a day late and millions of dollars short: There are a PLETHORA of magazine covers dedicated to how Vienna “deceived” Jake (the latest Bachelor, if you were wondering), and honestly, I never really had a problem with Vienna, but that’s not even what I’m about to talk about. What I’m wondering is, why has no one bothered to dissect the fact that this guy is GROSS. JUST GROSS. And … ugh, the guy is just a walking bottle of MASSENGILL and they’re worried about whether VIENNA deceived him? Oh COME ON. They should be worried about the fact that she is YOUNG and IMPRESSIONABLE and is now chained to a DOUCHE.
***
Hey, you know what sucked? Big Love. The whole season. Sucked. And the finale? SUUUUCKED. I think I’m done. I have no interest in this new world order of theirs. Sorry, Big Love. I quit you. Not even using Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Heroes” in the final scene could redeem you. NOT EVEN PETER GABRIEL CAN SAVE BIG LOVE.
***
So! Relocating, Or the Potential Thereof. There are so many parts to this story — many moving parts, including jobs that have been left, job offers received and turned down, my years-long strict adherence to Suze Orman that put us in the position to be able to be OK no matter what happens — but the simple emotional part is this: UGGGGHHH. We always knew that Vermont would likely be a temporary stop on our, um, journey (ON THE WINGS OF LOVE), and before that there was Florida, and before THAT was the place I consider home, given that our families are there, and I lived there for ages and ages, which is Boston.
Boston, by the way, is very likely where we’re going to end up, um, eventually. But as it turns out, I like it here — quite a bit, as it turns out, and I wouldn’t mind staying (it’s not off the table entirely). I’m surprised, however, by the emotional response I’m having by thinking of being back home, which is that when I left, I was one person, and when I return, I will be a completely, and I mean COMPLETELY, different one. When I left, I was in my twenties, relatively newly married and way into my career and living a completely stressed-out competitive existence. Now, I’m in my thirties, have a child (and want more), and am neither stressed, nor competitive. And I know you don’t have to be who you were just because of where you are, but, well, I challenge anyone not to make the same comparisons, when you think about it.
It makes me wonder if you really can go home again without some serious emotional turmoil, and the answer appears to be no. The truth is that I am having a hard time with both the uncertainty and with what seems to be the inevitable certainty. (Is this making any sense? It’s just that DETAILS ARE BORING.)
We’ll see. At the moment, it’s the most likely possibility, but in some ways, the country is our oyster. But you know what else? I’m over the nomadic existence. So there’s that, too.
Unexpected introspection! It’s what’s for your Tuesday.
PS, the book has been picked. Get ready for Joan Didion, y’all.
*Peter Gabriel. Yes, from Wall*E. It’s one of my favorite songs. What of it?
March 15th, 2010
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.)
Happy Monday!
*Oh, BRITNEY
January 17th, 2010
Oh y’all. It’s FALL. And do you know what that means? It’s time to embarrass your husband, friends and neighbors by putting the dog in a sweatshirt again!
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Also, what would Sassy Kay say about this ensemble?
Well! Today was an exciting day, and I don’t even want to tell you what happened, except that there’s really no need to start filtering now, is there? So I’m sitting down at my computer today, when there was a … well, I’m sorry, it was a gush, IT WAS, and then there was some MOISTURE down there, and I flipped out, because HELLO, AMNIOTIC FLUID! AM LEAKING AND KILLING MAH BABY.
An entire day of panic about this and all kinds of conversations with the nurse led to the stunning conclusion that I am not leaking amniotic fluid, but am instead (oh God, sort of maybe) MILDLY INCONTINENT THANKS TO LEFTOVER COLD-RELATED COUGHING AND SNEEZING AND A BABY ON MY BLADDER. HOW LOVELY FOR EVERYONE.
Dude, seriously? Pregnancy is a trip, and I sort of mean that in the “very bad acid trip” sense of the word. What the hell, bladder? I DO MY KEGELS. Apparently although I cannot feel this young sweet thing yet, it’s already resting full-tilt on my bladder, having not moved out of the area quickly enough. I mean, come on. I’m not even 33 yet. COME ON.
I’ll tell you one thing, though, which is that I love — nay, ADORE and want to marry — my entire OB/GYN office. I can’t tell you what a remarkable difference it’s made in my miserable pregnancy to have the nicest, most down-to-earth group of doctors, nurses and MAs (all women!) to help me out. I’d read that it is not uncommon to develop inappropriate feelings and/or crushes on your practitioner, and I’m here to tell you that I fit the cliche entirely. I find myself plotting how I can be FRIENDS with my doctors and have coffee and pet their hair, I love them that much.
Also, hey, did I mention I’m giving birth like an hour and a half from here? Oh HA HA, yes I am, thanks to Dr. Gropes-A-Lot, who, I have learned, has a TOWN-WIDE reputation for being a total creeplor with a penchant for simultaneously belittling women and fondling them inappropriately. I mean, I’ve talked to like, TEN PEOPLE, and when I mentioned his name, they all quite literally shuddered, and that includes my EIGHTY YEAR OLD NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR. Which: OMG, how awful. And yet, I’ve been told that he’s wormed his way into the births of every single person I talked to who gave birth here. Every person! Who gave birth! At the local hospital! Which is why, my friends, I am giving birth far, far away from him, even if that far, far away means birthing the baby in the back of my Honda on route 7. The alternative is much more terrifying.
I hope you have a great Tuesday! My day will be filled with such exciting tasks as calling back potential clients, looking at apartments and getting a flu shot! Oh, and periodically panicking about nothing but totally embarrassing things. You know, no big deal.
*The Smiths. I pictured a, uh, hand in a rubber glove, like at the OB’s office? And also because it’s from the same album as This Charming Man, and the post I referenced. It’s all very flimsy, I know.
October 6th, 2008
I genuinely fear for the future of our collective food supply should I ever become pregnant (which, if recent developments are any indication, will be approximately the twelfth day of never), because my pre-menstrual self sure knows how to pack it away. It’s not that I’m all that hungry, necessarily, it’s that I’m searching desperately for the RIGHT thing, and nothing quite meets my mind’s expectations. Ergo, instead of merely accepting that I am full from a less-than-perfect meal or snack, I somehow feel that I am entitled to perfection, which may or may not include a bowl of cereal (nope, that’s not it) and half of a chocolate Easter bunny. A HOLLOW Easter bunny, which infuriated me at the time, and left me digging around our cabinets for something else more satisfactory. Something with some HEFT. Like, perhaps, my thighs.
In other news, it’s rained every. single. day. for more than a week — not the whole day, mind you, but right in the middle part, when you’re trying to figure out if you can go to the lake and read books between dips and grahmothereffingGRAH we didn’t make it there this weekend. Which is a shame, given that it looks like this, even on a rainy day, yes?
Oh sure. My house is a totally comparable substitute. TOTALLY.
We did an ungodly amount of lounging and movie-watching, since it was thunderstorming most of the outdoor-able times. This was just as well, given that Adam bought a television that is approximately the size of a football stadium — it was the TV he’d been coveting, on sale for a ridiculously low price, albeit in a size that is, well, a little embarrassing. I honestly tried to take photos to demonstrate its hugeness, with Diet Coke cans for scale and everything, but it just wasn’t translating, although I did get some nice shots of Amy Poehler as Hillary Clinton. Which, you know, will be a nice keepsake for her someday.
Because of space issues downstairs, the TV ended up in our bedroom, and my God. it’s as though we’re in the front row of a movie theater. A FEEL-AROUND movie theater, with my neck craned up and the surround sound on eleven. I came out of the shower in hysterics, because look! BRIAN WILLIAMS IS IN OUR BEDROOM WITH A VERY LARGE HEAD. I’d prefer him naked and in the flesh, but this was the next best thing, I suppose. And while I like Tom Brokaw — except for the fact that it feels like he’s FORCING! EVERY! WORD! OUT! OF! HIS! MOUTH! WITH! GREAT! EFFORT! — the smallest of consolations for Tim Russert’s death would have been that Brian Williams did the broadcast shirtless.
And in other photographic news, Sunny would like the world to know that she has an extraordinarily difficult life and has been tricked into a life of never-ending lounging, sleeping and enforced relaxation:
My life blows.
Not that I frequented the theater that often anyway, but living in a town where there … well, there is a theater, but it runs ONE MOVIE AT A TIME, and it’s usually not first-run, our lives revolve around rentals, Showtime and HBO. Consequently, this weekend’s movies included Eastern Promises, which I made it through approximately three seconds of — despite the promise of Viggo naked — due to an unfortunately graphic throat-slitting two minutes in. This led to The Golden Compass (Shut up. Have thing for kid’s fantasy books and movies), which lead to Ocean’s Thirteen and can we say DUD DUD DUD and that this is all because my tiny-ass town didn’t have Dexter season one on DVD anywhere?
And with that, we’re going to abandon this bundle of an exciting recap because an ominous sounding text-to-speech automaton informed us via the teevee that penny-sized hail and cloud-to-ground lightning is headed our way. And for added measure, he reminded us that lightning is one of nature’s biggest killers. Yes, that’s what he said, just like that. NATURE’S BIGGEST KILLERS. And besides, Cold Case is on, and it’s time to analyze Lily Rush’s hair.
It’s a thrill a minute around here.
Happy Monday!
*Morrissey. Also, this bothers me, because grammatically it should be “every day” — two words, not one — unless it’s an adjective, which it isn’t. And yet I think he says everyday. I don’t have the album jacket or physical CD anymore, so I can’t tell you for sure. And iTunes isn’t usually RIGHT about these things.
June 22nd, 2008
