Oh HELLO. I am here to tell you a very sad story, with an accompanying Very Sad Photo. Because our flights last week! They were the GIFTS THAT KEEP ON GIVING. What, you ask? How can that BE, you are wondering? HOW CAN THAT BE?
Well, if you follow me on Twitter, this is not a surprise. If you don’t, then I have two words for you: SWINE FLU. Yes, my daughter is currently battling the dreaded flu of the porcine variety. IT HAS COME. High fever that popped up OUT OF NOWHERE! Malaise! Stuffy nose! Inability to stay awake for more than an hour without needing to sleeeeep! Fussiness to win some kind of FUSSY COMPETITION.
Let us pause for a moment to laugh at the IMPOTENCE of my FUTILE HAND-WRINGING over getting her the vaccine. The vaccine! That I secured! BUT ONLY HALF. OH HA HA HA. She’s getting the other half next week ANYWAY! OH HA HA HA.
But first! Our Thanksgiving was wonderful! There was some of this:
However, later that same day, we had our first appearance of this, taken earlier today (Sunday. SUNDAY. IT GOES ON FOREVAH): I don’t know about you, but this is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. For real.
And with that, I’ve got to go, because Flubaby could wake at any moment, and once she wakes up the first time, I bring her into bed with me, because HOO BOY, she is not into sleeping alone when she’s this sick, and I can’t say I blame her. I am surprisingly okay with this, given what happened the first day, when the Tamiflu made her so fucking sick that she PROJECTILE BARFED all over my bed. And me. Oh yes, we had Flubaby AND Barfingbaby all at once!
If anyone thinks I’m flying with my child ever again, they are CAH-RAZY. I shall take the train! Or never leave New England again! WHICHEVER!
Well, hello there, pretty things. We survived the flight, obviously, although on the leg home, I’m fairly certain the old man in front of us was fervently wishing — nay, PRAYING TO GOD — that we would not, by some sort of individual seat-ejection, sending Sam and I off into the ether.
You know, no one likes to be on a plane with babies. No one. It sucks, dude. They’re loud, they’re kicky, they’re annoying as fuck. I KNOW. I was That Person once — the person who came home and ranted to her friends about how there was a CHILD on the plane and the kid KICKED and YELLED and CRIED and oh my God, it was THE MOST ANNOYING FLIGHT EVAR.
Dude, I KNOW. What I did not know, however, was that, a) Unless the parent is a totally heartless monster, they are trying SO HARD to make it stop, make it stop, oh my God, MAKE IT STOP, so that you, childless traveler, can be more comfortable. I swear. Oh, and b) They are more miserable than you are. Like, A HUNDRED-FOLD. For not only do they (WE) have to suffer through the screaming, but they are responsible for making the screaming stop, and then, on top of everything, the child — THEIR (OUR) CHILD! — is miserable, and oh, there is heartache, because there is much weeping and woe and because the child does not speak fucking ENGLISH, there is no way to explain rationally how this whole flying thing works. And by “how it works” I mean, YOU HAVE TO STAY SEATED, MORE OR LESS. THAT’S KIND OF ALL THERE IS, KID.
Oh, but I will also tell you that what was also awesome was the special trip the flight attendant made to our seats at the beginning of both flights to give us a Very Special Infant Flotation Vest, with instructions muttered so quickly that I couldn’t have put the vest on if my life depended on it, which HA HA, but also? If we’re going down over water, chances are we’re DEAD ANYWAY, SullyWhatsisface “miracles” notwithstanding.
Ahoy! Thanksgiving! Since we visited Adam’s family this weekend, it’s just OUR little family for the holiday and I am THEEE-RILLED. Yes, yes, we will stuff our faces and relax and nap together AS A FAMILY, and … we will also figure out how to devour an 11-pound turkey between the, uh, two of us, but do you know that’s basically the smallest turkey you can get from our local, uh, turkey people? (I can’t just do a breast. I like a WHOLE TURKEY.) And I’m totally making Pioneer Woman’s mashed potatoes, which feature cream cheese, cream and other assorted dairy products.
And HEY, speaking of potatoes, you should make these soon, because THEY ARE DELISH.
And with that, if I don’t talk to you (though I hope to) beforehand, I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving.
This morning I sat slack-jawed for a full, oh, I don’t know, twenty minutes or so, glazed over and positively enthralled by the infomercial for the Cricut (pronounced “CRICKET,” which I never would have guessed) Expressions paper cutter. The first five minutes were spent in ridiculous disbelief that anyone would want to fake-etch glass with some kind of faux varnish using patterns on a paper cutter, but by the time the last fifteen rolled around, I was not only considering “etching” some kind of commemorative plate of my own, but was ALSO wondering why I hadn’t yet taken up scrapbooking as a hobby when the Cricut made it so easy! And fun! And would UNLEASH MY CREATIVITY!
There’s a reason infomercials are on in the wee hours of the morning, because that’s when your defenses are down. Had the Cricut not been — oh my God — FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS, I could see how I could have lazily convinced myself over coffee that now that I was in breeding mode, my children’s lives needed to be documented with fancy paper cutouts of diapers and baby bottles adorned with parchment curlicues. This is reminiscent of the time back when Adam and I first started dating (at the tender age of 23, oh my God) and we stayed up far too late smoking cigarettes and doing God knows what and watched a full thirty minutes of an infomercial for a five-disc collection of Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits. Now, I like — nay, LOVE — Stevie Wonder as much as the next person, but I didn’t need five full discs of his early greats, nor did I need to put a RUSH ORDER on it, which we did, oh yes, my friends, YES WE DID. FOR AN EXTRA THIRTEEN DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS.
Speaking of Adam, he was working from home yesterday while Sam and I were out, and when I came home, he was practically shivering from half-watching Oprah and the lady who was mauled by the chimpanzee. I don’t even know how it happened, but somehow the conversation broke down and we were almost fighting — yes, FIGHTING — because he kept insisting that if his face were to be ripped off from a rogue chimpanzee, he wouldn’t want to live, and I should just pull the plug and say no no, don’t sew over his eyeball sockets, please, just LET HIM DIE. And *I* was DEVASTATED by this, because DON’T LEAVE ME, ADAM and I hovered thisclose to tears, because I don’t CARE if he doesn’t have a face, HE IS STILL HIM AND I LOVE HIM. Aaaand, I do believe that’s when we realized that no, seriously, the chances of his face being eaten off by a chimp are … well, significantly less than zero, but if it happens, you heard it here first, folks: Adam doesn’t want his eyeballs sewn over.
And now, three bits of nothingness before the weekend:
- Sam cut a second tooth last night and let me tell you, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started seriously pitying HER around 10:30 p.m. when she was CLEARLY trying SO HARD to go to sleep, and yet the pain was bugging her shit right out. The pathetic whimpering! Putting her head down, then popping it up and looking around in desperation! Oh, poor baby. All pity was left by the wayside, however, when at 5 a.m. like FRACKING CLOCKWORK, the kid blew out another diaper, and seriously, if anyone knows how I can stop this phenomenon and make her take care of the business, I don’t know, EARLIER IN THE DAY, I will take suggestions. The pattern is this: if she goes during dinner (appetizing!), we’re good for the night. If she doesn’t, we’re very likely effed effed EFFED. (KID GOES A ZILLION TIMES A DAY OMG).
(SORRY FOR POOP TALK)
- I started Grave Sight, from Charlaine Harris’s Harper Connelly series, and dude, I really like it. It’s fluffy and light and totally frivolous, but while I have begun reading again (and rather voraciously at that), I don’t see myself delving into anything super-heavy for quite some time. And by “heavy” I don’t mean in topic, I mean using things like big words and esoteric concepts or anything resembling literature I’m supposed to feel DEEPLY about and DECONSTRUCT. Those days, ladies and gentlemen, are over. And I am RELIEVED.
- Am I the only one taking totally perverse pleasure in the minor downfall of the Real Housewives of Orange County? Those bitches lived WAY TOO LARGE for way too long, and this, my friends, this is what happens when your entire self-worth is tied up into diamonds and a 9,000-square-foot house. Marriages crumble! Houses are in peril! And there I am, like an asshole, gleefully clapping my hands. Please note, this does not fall under NaNiceMo. I know, it’s probably CHEATING.
You know how I’ve always said nothing grosses me out, like, EVER? Well, then! We have found the secret weapon of UTTER GROSSNESS. And it’s … ground chicken. Benign, right? GROUND CHICKEN! Big deal.
A-HO! Since Sam’s favorite food is chicken mixed with apples and none of the organic brands have any a) chicken & apples together; or b) lone chicken jars to mix with apples, I’ve been doing a fair amount of ridiculous HANDWRINGING over the non-organic, mass-produced CREEPY OF THE CREEP chicken that my daughter was ingesting. I know, oh my God, I KNOW. I’m a yuppie asshole for even thinking such things, I KNOW. But it turns out that the organic chicken combinations are RANK, and though I make most of my own baby food, I could NOT bring myself to grind CHICKEN, because ew, CREEP.
A few weeks ago, I was standing in my friend Meg’s kitchen and she was rooting around her refrigerator looking for something and pulled out a tupperware container, noting that it was her son Toby’s chicken and that she’d ground it herself like it was no! big! deal! And so I thought that I, TOO could grind my own chicken, and it would be no! big! deal! and then I poached some (hormone-free, local, PUNCH PUNCH) chicken thighs and ground ‘em up with some water and I AM STILL RECOVERING. I had to add water! And grind, like, a WHOLE LOT, until it was a PINK PASTE and I am going to DRY HEAVE UNTIL CHRISTMAS.
My Kryptonite, it is homemade ground chicken. Oh, and it’s currently residing in ice cube trays in my freezer, and I’m thinking I’ll have the balls to pull THAT shit out on the twelfth day of never, and tomorrow, I plan to hand an inordinate amount of money over to Gerber, because whatever, Misty Knoll, I ain’t got the stomach for you, and BRING ON THE CREEPY CHICKEN HORMONES. Sorry, Sam!
PHEW. Now that THAT grossness is over with, I’m sort of at a loss as to where to go from here, so I will give you RANDOM BULLETS OF NOTHINGNESS:
– I sort of cringe saying this, given the recent loss of his son and all, but you know, I have never liked John Travolta, and again with the GUILT OF SAYING THIS, but it all ties back to an interview I read in … Redbook? Good Housekeeping? Eh, one of those magazines for houseladies like me (OMG), but in it, he mentioned that he and his wife went through some hard times a few years back because she was so INSECURE and because he was such a giant movie star, she always thought he was going to leave her. And seriously, I just have not been able to move past that, because if my husband sold out my insecurities to RedHousekeepingLadies, I don’t think he would have a penis anymore, because I would have Lorena Bobbitted that shit the second that thing hit the newsstands, yo.
– Speaking of houseladies, occasionally, when reading about celebrities like Jude Law or Josh Duhamel who get themselves in trouble with the great raggedy-ass masses, I feel SO SORRY for the poor peon that they became involved with, because my God, could they be described in more unflattering terms? And then I think about how US Weekly would describe ME if *I* were the one impregnated with Jude Law’s baby (NO THANK YOU), and I just KNOW that they would say something like “overweight suburban mom and housewife,” complete with accompanying pooch-baring photo and OH HEAVENS, let us all thank YE GODS that I am not and will not be having an affair with anyone famous, nor will I ever find myself in US Weekly.
– My kid pretty much begged to go to bed at 6:30 p.m. tonight. This is likely because this morning, she got up with a rather unfortunate diaper situation at 4:45 a.m. (ALL OVER HER. AND HER CRIB. OH MY LANDS), and decided that it was time to be up up UP! FOR THE DAY. So help me MAN ALIVE, if I see her poopy little ass before 6 a.m., you will find me in the car on my way to Green Mountain Coffee headquarters wondering if they have a vat I can go for a swim in.
Jai ho! Last week was some sort of bizarre blur of sleepless misery, as my child’s first tooth decided to make an appearance, and MY GOD, I felt so sorry for her, but you know what else? I also felt very sorry for myself, because there was much wee-hour stumbling back and forth from one room to the next, and not a lot of sleeping and MAH GOD, what, are those little teeth made of RAZORBLADES or what? And why, suddenly, although the tooth is a mere MILLIMETER further along than it was those fretful, tired days, does she seem much more accustomed to it?
Speaking of kid, she’s a spectacular eater, to no one’s surprise, and I only wish I could get as excited as she does about a plate of green beans. GREEN BEANS. Pureed, no less, and resembling the color of puked-up camo pants. The kid flaps her arms and yells and GRUNTS, like someone’s handing her a giant piece of caramel-soaked CAKE, for chrissake. This, oddly, brings my to my first parenting-related FOOD BEEF, which is that companies like Gerber are marketing pureed desserts to babies. COME ON. Babies — if they’re still eating purees — don’t give a shit about dessert. The don’t even know what dessert IS. So really, do we have to have DESSERT? For BABIES? Babies who think that green beans are the SHIZNIT? She likes carrots and delicious Greek yogurt with pears equally, so for God’s sake, can we LAY OFF THE DESSERT TALK FOR INFANTS?
**WARNING TO PEOPLE OF THE MALE PERSUASION: MENSTRUAL TALK AHEAD**
In other thrilling news, my period has arrived once again. This is remarkable because I have not experienced my monthly womanly duties since May. Of 2008. MAY OF 2008. That’s a year and a half, folks, thanks to pregnancy and nursing (which I’m still doing), and let me tell you, I think the only person in history who was more surprised by the arrival of their period was Stephen King’s Carrie. You guys, I was MYSTIFIED by the entire phenomenon, and was so shocked that for a few horrific moments, I was certain that my birth-related stitches, which are long healed, had somehow RUPTURED and I was coming apart at the ladybits. A flip through the mental rolodex of PMS symptoms and earlier feeling that the return was nigh saved me from pulling a Fried Green Tomatoes and lying on the floor with a mirror between my legs to check for damage.
To add insult to injury, I do believe my Moon Cup was lost in our last move, and let’s pause for a moment to consider the horrific moment when someone makes THAT discovery, wherever she landed. Also, an unsolicited tip: I’m ordering The Keeper, and if you’re on the market for such things, I suggest you do the same. Yes, it’s brown, and resembles the color of poop, but you know what? It doesn’t stain. Well, visibly, anyway.
SORRY SORRY SORRY
To abruptly switch gears, my mother and step-dad went to Virginia over Halloween to visit a few of my brothers and go trick-or-treating with my (many) nephews. This is mostly irrelevant, except that the trip reminded me of a fight she got into with one of my brother’s wives, and while it was quite ugly and ridiculous at the time (all is now well, of course), I will never forget the moment she called me on my mobile as I placed an order at Five Guys’ Burgers and Fries and wailed, “WE HAD A HORRIBLE ROW!”
A ROW. A row. Honestly, who says that? My mother, that’s who. Oh, Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry, it’s not that I think the situation was funny, it’s that … well, come on now. ROW. Pronounced “RAO” not like rowing a boat. And I can’t stop laughing about it. Although in retrospect, it WAS a horrible row, although again, really, EVERYTHING IS FINE.
And finally, NaNiceMo is going reasonably well, I reckon, although today I copped out like a little pansy and made my contribution to society at large the simple act of picking up one of those holiday food donation boxes at the grocery store and paying $10 to donate it to the local food bank. Shrug. I prefer more personal acts of niceness, because anyone can plunk down ten bucks, you know? Meh.
With that, I’m off to bed at the ungodly hour of EIGHT FORTY FIVE, and will very likely finish Sookie #9 (thank you, Jesus, we are almost done here), effectively ending my time with this series until book 10 comes out in May. I have, for reasons unclear to me, chosen Charlaine Harris’s Harper Connelly series next, although mercifully there are only four so far.
And after THAT, my reading list consists of The Historian, The Hour I First Believed and Her Fearful Symmetry. Aaaand, only one of those does not really deal with the supernatural, and I think it’s safe to say that a) I have a problem with the paranormal; and b) I am going to be busy for a little while.
Happy Monday!
*Spoon. (SORRY SORRY SORRY. AM GROSSER THAN GROSS I KNOW.)
I thought about doing NaBloPoMo this month, believe it or not, but I later realized that while I liked the idea of posting every day, it would probably be boring as hell, because some days, to be honest, nothing happens. Some days, the biggest thrill of my day is that my kid had a double blowout and the washing machine hummed its hot-water wash all. day. long. (Hello, that would be TODAY.)
NaNoWriMo doesn’t appeal to me, either, because while I DO want to write a novel some day, it seems a bit silly for me to condense it all in one month. (Incidentally, the only goal I have for said novel is to finish it, simply as a personal accomplishment. If no one reads it, I’m not sure I’ll even care. But oh, to FINISH AN ENTIRE BOOK! That would be huge. A marathon for writers, if you will.)
Anyway! So. November being what it is, the month of Na-something, and also a generally sucky month, weather-wise and psyche-wise, as winter just LOOMS like some kind of GIANT RAINCLOUD OF MISERY, I was wondering if there was something I could do this month. A mini-goal, of sorts.
And folks, I have decided that November is NaNiceMo! I don’t mind admitting that I’m a generally a pretty nice person with some pretty serious flaws, but this November, I am going to try to be the nicest version of myself I can be — oh, I don’t mean I’m going to give up being snarky or that I’m going to turn it into NaPushOverMo or anything (I’m looking at you, pediatrician’s office, Keeper of the Swine Flu Vax), but I DO think that I could stand to make more of an effort in general, and I mean beyond my extended family. The honest truth is that I benefit from being nice to my family — Adam and Sam are more pleasant when I’m nicer, and things are generally more harmonious for me. Ergo, being nice in that capacity is a LEEETLE bit selfish, you know?
So what I am ALSO going to try to do is do one extra-nice thing every day for someone or something that doesn’t directly benefit me. It doesn’t have to be anything big – in fact, it can be quite small. Today, for example, I called the manager at my local grocery store to tell him about exceptional service I got from a young man in the checkout line today (seriously, he helped me so much, you have no idea). Is that something I should do whenever that happens? Yes. Do I do it every time, or even MOST times? No. I get too busy.
This month, I am not going to be too busy! I am going out of my way every time and THEN SOME! NANICEMO IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE.
Are you in? You don’t have to tell me if you are. But it would be, uh, nice (hello, I AM REDUNDANT) to hear that there are a bunch of extra-nice people out there this month. November sure could use it.
Happy Monday to you!
*Tom Waits. Echo & the Bunnymen. So many! So many November songwriters!
Several random bits of varia, in no particular order, offering no brevity:
Of the sad but true variety
You know, sometimes I wish I could get someone to come over here for an hour so that I can just CLEAN. Now THERE’S a sentence I never thought I’d say, but Jesus, if it isn’t true. I sit here some days fantasizing about 60 minutes to myself not so that I can take a bubble bath and knock back a dirty martini or two, but so that I could really go to town on our baseboards and really hit up those toilets. The other night I cleaned our bathrooms before bed, and I couldn’t sleep, because I was TOO EXCITED about the fact that I’d just made our fixtures sparkle and smell delightfully like Mrs. Meyer’s Verbena. (The lavender is still On Notice after the car incident. Likely permanent notice, even though I have a veritable ASSLOAD of it.)
Of the True Blood variety
I’m on book eight of the Sookie Stackhouse novels and honestly, I’m kind of over it. I loved them, they were great fun and hooray! YAY, SOOKIE! But you know, at this point, I just want her and Eric to get it on again already and ride off into some telephatic vampric sunset. I think perhaps I read them in too close succession to one another with zero breaks.
Separately, I have been re-watching season one of True Blood, having now read the novels, and it is MUCH more multilayered and foreshadowed than I thought and dude, Bill’s hair (and acting) was SO MUCH BETTER in season one than season two, the Season of the SOOKEH!
Also weirdly related to True Blood: During the height of my season two obsession, I started following, for reasons unclear to me now, the fake True Blood characters on Twitter. Like, someone pretends to be Eric Northman, another Sookie and another Bill and HOO BOY, as I’m typing this, the perils of doing such a thing are APPARENT to me, but I assure you at the time, I was thinking I’d get some kind of season spoilers or something, I don’t know.
What I DO know is that I did NOT get season spoilers, but instead found myself following a bunch of people who, night after night, get WAAAAAY into their character, and at this point are, night after night, ACTING OUT BOOK THREE. And Bill and Eric are both sending creepy inappropriate Tweets (YES TWEETS) to Sookie, who, well, let’s be honest, is probably played by someone who does not resemble the fictional Sookie and/or Anna Paquin. And for chrissake, for all we know, is played by a man, and Eric a woman, and oh, it’s all get very CREEPILY META IN HERE and in a weird way, Derrida would be STOKED. (There I go again, but I’m telling you, literary theory SCARRED MY ASS FOR LIFE.)
And now, you see, it’s crossed a line from fun frivolity into creepy turtleneck mouthbreathing territory, with extra pencil erasers in the hair kind of thing. And yet, I cannot look away.
Of the “I forgot to tell you” variety
At the Quidditch match, there were also TENTS set up for the teams to hang out in. TENTS. Just like Harry Potter. I did not go into the tents to see if they were, indeed, magical and giant, but I’m thinking no.
Of the weird celebrity WTF variety
What does Kate Hudson see in Alex Rodriguez? Anyone?
Of the “OMG seriously?” variety
I bought a kids’ music album (God, shoot me) and one of the songs is called “Cock-A-Doodle Doo!” and, well, they have the track listed as “C**k-A-Doodle Doo!” Which, really? REALLY? Come on now.
Of the kind of gross variety
Adam hates changing Sam’s diapers when they have, uh, something other than pee in them. He does it, but there is much moaning and nose-holding and MANY WIPES. I don’t love it, mind you, but I explained to him the other night that it doesn’t gross me out nearly as much as I anticipated, because it’s my kid and not someone else’s kid, and it’s just not as bothersome when it’s your own kid. The same thing goes for my dog. I don’t know why this is. He did NOT agree, and insists that both are just as bad no matter whose child/dog/whatever it is.
Is it just me?
*Note: this is not true of cats. Cats’ stuff is the most vile thing on earth no matter if it’s my cat, even if, by some strange twist of biology, I GAVE BIRTH to the cat.
So! What did you do this weekend? Because I guarantee it wasn’t what I did, no matter who you are. We … well, folks, we went to a Quidditch match — the World Cup, in fact. Yes, QUIDDITCH. The mythical Harry Potter game? Yes, THAT. It seems something like five or six years ago, some college students decided to, uh, make it a real game and now there are TWENTY ONE COLLEGES with Quidditch teams. No, I don’t know why. But you guys, it’s … well, it’s serious, it what it is, with actual scores and these big HOOPS and seekers and bludgers and I don’t even know what else.
They run around the field on brooms. Brooms that do not fly. And they also wear capes. Yes. These kids wear CAPES and they take it SUPER-SERIOUSLY and the snitch? You know that little gold ball that Harry’s supposed to chase around and catch, and if they catch it, the game’s over? Yes, the snitch is a PERSON dressed in yellow — yellow tights, in most cases, with the little ball tucked into a sock dangling from the back of their shorts like a tail. And the snitch goes running around downtown like a CRAZY PERSON before finally showing up on the field and … wait, am I rambling? It was JUST. SO. RIDICULOUS. But also kind of awesome. No, it was definitely awesome.
Behold! Kids in capes on brooms beating each other to a pulp: Sorry, we were kind of far away, but we were still very much in the action, and oh my God, really, what the hell, can you see that they’re carrying BROOMSTICKS BETWEEN THEIR LEGS?
The frightening part is that it did not, as it would seem, appear to be made up of D&D high school rejects, but was a reasonable cross-section of overly earnest liberal arts-focused college students. Bizarre, I tell you. Oh, and if you were wondering, Middlebury won out in the finals, grabbing the snitch in the nick of time from second-place winner Emerson College’s PURPLE-CLAD CLUTCHES.
(It was very dramatic. Or rather, anti-climactic, what with the snitch-grabbing and all.)
There is one person, however, who was less than impressed: What the fuck, yo? Isn’t there some sort of EXERSAUCER PARTY I could be at instead? Jumperoo? Anything? Help?
Also, you should know that I cut and fixed my hair MAHSELF after that photo was taken, because although I love my hairdresser, there was a minor BANG SNAFU happening there, not to mention a lack of decent product or, uh, showering that day. Whatever. It’s much better now. Am haircutting genius! Just don’t ask me to cut yours.
On Quidditch Day, I also dropped my iPhone, and if you ever want to send your mother into some sort apoplectic fit wherein she thinks you’ve been abducted, please, lose your phone and have a stranger call her at home and ask about her youngest daughter. And then I returned home to six messages — SIX! — from my mother, brother, sister and father, all explaining in varying degrees of hysteria that a nice man named Joe found my phone. Which, you know, helpful and awesome and YAY JOE, seriously, but do you know that Joe only called my mother? And that my mother PANICKED and called the rest of my family, thinking that I was somewhere out in the ether and in some kind of DANGER, all because my phone fell out of the Ergo, oh my God?
I have a tendency to jump to worst-case scenario situations, no matter how statistically improbable. You see where this comes from, yes?
Anyway, Monday! Monday was SOMETHING! Monday involved a lot of this: I wasn’t laughing at her, I swear, it’s just that two seconds before she was SMILING AT HER IMAGE and then … well, then this. But it matters not, because this was indicative of the ENTIRE AFTERNOON and the reason I pulled out PhotoBooth in the FIRST place. And might I add that this was BEFORE the dog ran off with part of my breast pump?
Yes, I’m STILL ON A BOAT and have been for, oh, three days now, and if Andy Samberg could very nicely get out of my head now, please and fracking THANK YOU. I find myself disturbed, by the way, that lately I’ve been finding Andy … a little attractive, especially when he acts like Mark Wahlberg. I ALSO found him attractive in “I Love You, Man,” which I saw on Saturday night thanks to Amazon rentals. That, by the way, was the first feature-length film I’ve watched with Adam ALL AT ONCE since Sam’s been born. Yes, yes, sure, I watched Twilight and Sex and the City over and over and over again at 4 a.m. while she nursed up a freakin’ storm, but this was DELIBERATE and rented and apparently had Andy Samberg in the role of gay lothario, in a surprisingly effective casting turn.
So! Onward with random bits of nothingness, because that’s just how things are rolling around these parts:
– The dog, as I mentioned, was sick. And I … I daresay it was almost — ALMOST — as bad as dealing with a sick child. The hacking! The sleepless nights! Did I mention the HACKING? Where she even GOT this shit is beyond me, as she’s a) vaccinated against kennel cough, which is apparently less effective than the fucking FLU SHOT, and let me say how happy we are to have paid the $75 for that little number; and b) she hasn’t been boarded recently. I mean, what the christ. The good news is that she’s on a hefty dose of a freakin’ NARCOTIC every night, so now she’s not keeping us up coughing, but is, in fact, drugged to a limp-limbed stupor. I think it’s Tramadol, which can be sold on the black market, so we’ll be refilling that shit and hitting the wild streets of rural Vermont in a matter of days, offering trippy nights of oblivion to the local pigs and cows for a profit, yo.
– Why, please tell me WHY, is it that my daughter screams as though I am actually REMOVING HER ARMS every time I put on something with sleeves? The shrieking! The hostile protests! FOR GOD’S SAKE CHILD. YOU NEED TO WEAR SLEEVES. TO COVER YOUR ARMS.
– We’re in the process of fully transitioning from three naps to two, and while she hasn’t actually napped during that third timeslot for quite some time, the hours from 4 to 7 p.m. are so hilariously painful, it’s like someone is removing MY arms, very, very slowly. And yet, if I put her to bed any earlier than 6:45 p.m., she gets up at … 4 a.m. For the day. Can I get a HELL NO, my friends? I thought so.
– I had potentially the most awkward, yet hilarious, moment of my time in this here small town at lunch today when one of the (many) hairdressers I jilted before finally settling on Kate in the big city, walked in. The jilted hairdresser, through a series of unfortunate events, read this here blog and found the EXACT post wherein I said I was … less than thrilled with the haircuts I’d received to date and … left a kind of snarky comment. LET US TALK ABOUT HOW AWESOME THAT WAS. And how today I … tried to HIDE BEHIND THE BABY and then just bolted out of the restaurant, leaving Adam to clean up the rest of our shit while I ran to the car like a little bitch. THAT WAS AWESOME.
(And look, I’m just going to say that it’s HARD to cut a woman’s hair short. I get that. I also get that I was wearing a men’s haircut for several months, and it wasn’t flattering, and I GET that there aren’t many women here in this small town with short hair and look it’s HARD! I know it’s HARD! But I didn’t like having a men’s haircut! Men are cut in SQUARE CUTS and women are cut in ROUND CUTS and … oh whatever, KATE TOLD ME SO, OKAY?)
– I also ran into a woman who dislikes me because she has repeatedly asked me to host a jewelry party for her, and dude, none of my friends have time. For God’s sake, all of my friends are moms, and if we have a free night off, really? Really we’re going to host a jewelry party and be PITCHED jewelry, really? And this woman and I are not CLOSE, and yet I feel so GUILTY and she’s always telling me how I need to host this PARTY and you know what, today I realized that for chrissake, I’m not going to feel bad about it. SHE SHOULD FEEL BAD FOR DISLIKING ME OVER A JEWELRY PARTY OMG.
– I found pumpkin butter in the grocery store today. Huzzah.
So! My baby slept through the night the other day. Through. The. Night. The WHOLE one. From 7 p.m. to 5 a.m., and at 5, I brought her into bed to feed her and snuggle until our eyes (well, mine) could open all the way, because for some reason, no matter WHEN I go to bed, 5 a.m. is a miserable, miserable challenge. It’s all mental, I realize, but dude, it’s still DARK OUT and when it’s dark out, it is nighttime, end of story, and no one should be up and about unless they are still awake from the day prior, obviously.
Totally worth getting up at 5 a.m. for, though, right? But really, it’s all kind of moot, as she has not done it since. The return of the lone hot, bright red cheek is upon us, sans fever, and I have NO idea what this means, but it does not mean sleep, apparently. Also, I’d like to think it means teeth, but still, WE HAVE NONE.
Dude, this swine flu coverage is making me want to POKE MY EYES OUT. Thank you, nightly news, for showing us death after death in an effort to, you claim, warn us all of the threat. Tomorrow, our local news is devoting NINETY FULL MINUTES to a special about it. No, seriously. NINETY MINUTES.
Thank you! Because there is, seriously, nothing we can do about it. Are you suggesting none of us leave the house? Are you suggesting that we get vaccinated? Because if it’s the latter, THERE AREN’T ANY. JESUS CHRIST. I’m a vaccinator, as I’ve said before, and very comfortable with the H1N1 vaccine for me and the babe (no, this really isn’t up for discussion, but YOU are welcome to feel differently), but for chrissake, stop WARNING ME and telling me to TAKE PRECAUTIONS for my seven-month-old daughter. JUST STOP. Because short of making the executive decision to not get groceries, I fail to see what precautions I’m supposed to take. I WASH MY DAMN HANDS. AND MY KID’S HANDS. She’s not in daycare! Our playdates are with people we know and are VERY SMALL and would be CANCELED if the kids showed signs of any illness, much less SWINE FLU. SO WHAT THE EFF ELSE ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO, BRIAN WILLIAMS?
(Please don’t misread that as hostility, Brian. I still love you and crush on you inappropriately every night from 6:30 to 7 p.m. EST. I LOVE YOU BRIAN.)
With all this swine flu talk, no one warned me about kennel cough, which appears to be the real danger in our house. The night the kid slept through the night? Yeah. I did not, because the dog was up all night horking, coughing and gagging, and I had to bring her into bed with us and snuggle her because she was miserable and oh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying all of this about a dog, but you know, POOR SUNNY. SHE’S A PERSON, TOO. We were convinced it was some kind of congestive heart failure, because did you know, Dr. Google ALSO works to freak you out about your dog? Yes. It is an interspecies fearmongering tool. Thank you, Dr. Google! Are you ever fucking HELPFUL? OF COURSE NOT.
At any rate, I’ve got to go make a list of the shit I need to do this week, which is rather large, looming and upsetting. First on the list is to MAKE A DAMN LIST. But not before I leave you with the song I’ve had in my head all day. The song that lends itself to today’s title. No, I am not on a boat. OR AM I, MOTHERFUCKERS?
