Posts filed under 'Sunny The Pug'
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
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