Posts filed under 'Sunny The Pug'
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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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Ding dong, Heidi Montag plastic surgery, whaaa? No, really, WHAAAA? WHAAAAAA? THAT MUCH? Yes, she’s certifiable, but COME THE EFF ON, HEIDI.
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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