Well, ermm, where have I been? God, EVERYWHERE. We went to Boston for a day trip that turned into … a week, because things just kept going ON and ON (Adam job search stuff, yes, we may be relocating again, and just … oh whatever, it’s all long and boring), and then … well, we finally came home, but NOT BEFORE Sam and I got thrush! THRUUUUSSSSH! Have you ever had thrush? No? Let me enlighten you as to what it feels like!
First, take a chip clip or a clothespin, and pin it over your nipple — or, if you’re a gentleman, your scrotum. (This tip from Marie.) Actually, wait — first, what you do is grab some of that fiberglass insulation from your attic. The pink kind. Grind that up (with gloves on!) and smear it all over your boobs (or balls), THEN put the chip clip on. Squeeze repeatedly. Yes, again. Nope, not over yet! AGAIN.
Yessss, that is thrush. And it was complicated by the fact that my kid always sleeps like shit when we’re in the same room, so she wants to SNUGGLE and that includes being all up in my THRUSHY PARTS and … oh, man you guys. And we got rid of it! HAPPY DAY.
AND THEN IT CAME BACK. IT IS HERE NOW, LURKING LIKE A SHADOW. And now, she has a fever. A giant one. OH MY LANDS, LET IT END.
But not before my baby — my teeny, tiny, screaming baby girl — turned one.
My baby is ONE, you guys. She went from this:
To this:
Oh man, you guys. She’s such a big, pretty, smart girl. It’s insane, how it happens, isn’t it? Insane.
I’ll be back next week in full force, I promise. I missed you guys terribly.
(In the meantime, the new poll is up for next month’s book at the Book Lushes. I’m behind AGAIN, but am doing MAY next week, so, ah, will fix this! AH SWEAR.)
(Edited to add: JOIN US! It is never too late, even if you can’t read a specific month’s book, you can join the forums anytime.)
I went to Costco today with Julie, and frankly, either one of those things on their own (a visit to Costco OR a visit with Julie) is swoon-worthy and enough entertainment for an entire week, but in combination, hoo boy, it was practically the perfect storm of wonder and delight. Witty banter! Towering 80-packs of K-cups! Giant packages of pregnancy tests placed strategically next to the condoms! A remarkably funny woman to give me a tour! A four-pound container of brownies that my husband has been complaining about all night! (“I wanted ONE brownie, Jonna, not NINETY.”)
See? Perfection. Delight! A BLT for lunch marred only by a briefly choking infant! And then I got in the car, where all hell proceeded to break loose, for it started snowing rather, uh, heavily, shall we say, and just as suddenly, to the point where I couldn’t see the road and my eyes were going all buggy from trying to focus on anything but the snowflakes hurtling toward the windshield. In fact, my eyes are quite literally crossing at the memory, and my heart rate has now elevated to 30-Day Shred levels (speaking of, my right knee is about to stage a coup). I pulled my trembling self to a gas station, where I had a serious conversation with Adam about whether I should stay in the Ho-Hum Motel (note: actual name) until the following day, because I was certain that death! destruction! torment! were all that lay ahead, and we’d NEVER MAKE IT HOME.
And apparently I was RIGHT, for before I knew what was happening, traffic (three cars, whatever) came to a total standstill amid the terrifying whiteout (the LAST THING YOU WANT, as no one can see your stopped car), because there were at LEAST seven cars all skidding off the road, and the next thing I knew there were sirens! stretchers! People ON the stretchers! Crunched cars! Three ambulances! Two fire trucks! POLICE.
(None of the cars were ours. Beebs and I were fine, although one of us was more fine than the other, perhaps because she slept through it.)
And then: sunshine. No snow. Smooth sailing. Whatthefuck. I mean, thank GAWD I didn’t stay in the Ho-Hum, because … HO HUM, you know what I’m saying?
(That line was genius, that. It’s a real shocker that I didn’t make it on Jeopardy, isn’t it?)
Occasionally, like, say, driving in a blinding snow squall, I look back on our years in Florida with a warm, golden affection, and imagine raising Sam near the Gulf of Mexico in a land where it never snows and sixty degrees is considered “cold.” The fantasy is fun for a few minutes, until I am slapped back to the reality that while yes, there is warm sunshine, there are also torrential downpours and lightning close enough to singe your face off. And the grass! Sam would never be able to sit in the grass, because it’s hard as a pile of razor-laden straw AND it is fraught with fire ants that would gladly eat your face off faster than a Fatburger.
And the ocean is great, right? Great, yes, great. It is also teeming with sharks — real ones — and wearing silver is inadvisable during the warmer months, lest you be mistaken for a mackerel. It is also true that shuffling your feet is a necessity from May through October because, oh ho ho HO! it’s stingray season, oh happy day! And what Floridian fantasy is complete without elderly drivers being wheeled away on gurneys as they got in yet another traffic accident at a six-way stop as you sit in traffic, your face melting directly into the pavement? And GAWD, we haven’t even talked about the threat of hurricanes, which is a constant source of anxiety throughout the season, because even if you aren’t hit with one, the weathermen are perpetually full of doomsday predictions about whatever clouds are swirling in the Caribbean on any given day.
Yes, I will take snow squalls and warm fireplaces, thank you very much. Frankly, if not for the driving, I am a winter person. I love winter, so long as I’m properly dressed for it, and have no problem throwing Sam in her snowsuit, packing her into the Ergo, and heading out for a tour of downtown and some errands, no matter how cold it is. Mmmm, cold weather. Snuggly!
To close the loop on the Costco excitement, I walked out with 168 Kirkland diapers, and have high hopes, despite their lack of whatever that little comfort flex thing was on the side of the Pampers that made them seem … comfortable and flexible. (See? Am marketer’s wet dream!)
And in housekeeping news, I will likely be a little on the sparse side next week and the week after, as I finish several LOOOOOOMING deadlines on projects that are due at or near the middle of February. Most of them are not thrilling at all, but one is VERY THRILLING, at least to me, and involves something that people! like you! and my parents! can buy! in a place called a BOOKSTORE! And you can read all about it HERE.
I tell you, one of the biggest cruel jokes is that when your baby starts sleeping through the night, you are more tired than you were than when she was getting up twice a night. Well, I am, anyway. What IS that? It’s like your body suddenly decides to break down and become a weak shell of its sleep-deprived self.
And. AND! When your kid DOES get up in the middle of the night, someone might as well have set off a gun over your bed, because WHAT THE EFF IS THAT NOISE?! WHAT IS THAT? A teething Sam woke up shrieking at 4 a.m. today, and both Adam and I jerked bolt upright, staring at each other through the foggy veil of sleep wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Did someone BREAK IN? Oh Christ, it’s the BABY. And I was so ridiculously out of it that I pumped a big ole money shot of Motrin directly into her hair, requiring multiple trips to the living room and dragging out the entire process in a manner that my more-efficient sleep-deprived self would have SCOFFED AT.
I know. World’s tiniest violin, what with my sleeping baby, I know. I don’t blame you.
I went to a wonderful playdate today at my friend Kate’s house (hi, Kate!) for the first time, and though I got there with relative ease, I made a wrong turn on the way back and ended up in some ENDLESS LOOP of Green Mountains, which sounds idyllic and charming, but really felt like some sort of awful blend of Groundhog Day and Deliverance, because — as is typical in Vermont — there was no cell service for most of the drive. As I said to Kate later, I was POSITIVE I ended up in a wormhole and if I tried to go BACK to Kate’s to figure out where I went wrong, her house wouldn’t even be there anymore, and I would be forced to figure out how Sam and I could survive living in an apartment above a store named Jaques, which is mysteriously pronounced JAKE’S, and what IS THAT? JAQUES = JAKES? WHO IS JAQUE? And I didn’t even notice an APOSTROPHE.
This, along with macaroni and cheese loaf (LOAF. IN THE DELI CASE. SLICED FOR SANDWICHES. WITH CREEPY GROUND MEAT IN IT) will remain one of Vermont’s most enduring mysteries.
At any rate, because I mentioned them the other day, and a few people asked and because I like accountability, here are my 2010 goals to date. This seems terribly self-serving and obnoxiously narcissistic, so just please know that I’m self-conscious about it, and don’t blame you one whit if you don’t care. I PROMISE.
Oh, I want to add more, but it’s a start. Some, however, are shamelessly stolen from Jennie. And if I may say so, number one on this list is so far making me SO EFFING HAPPY! You guys simply rule, and the discussions people are having, and the fact that people are reading the books and talking about OTHER BOOKS and I love you, man. There’s no other way to say it.
1. Organize and launch an online book club (CHECK CHECK CHECK BOOK LUSHES CHECK)
2. Read at least 30 books
3. Submit for-fun, non-blog, non-paid (yet!) writing to at least three new places (one down!)
4. Get my fingers thin enough to wear my wedding rings again (yes, seriously, it’s been A YEAR)
5. Buy a really great pair of expensive jeans
6. Find a decent babysitter and leave Sam with someone other than a relative
7. Attend BlogHer ‘10
8. Take Samantha to the beach
9. Plan a real family vacation
10. Buy a really great piece of original art.
11. Find a financial planner
12. Take Samantha to meet her great-grandfather and extended family she hasn’t met yet
13. Donate my time and/or items (food, clothing, money) to at least one charity every month
14. Have a piece of clothing custom-made
15. Become strong enough to do a real push-up
16. Make Adam’s birthday as special as he made mine
17. Go away for the weekend with just Adam
18. Call my brother every two weeks
19. Get a decent calendar and write every birthday in it
20. Come up with one signature dinner dish and one baked good to cook for guests/bring places
21. Frame all of the unframed pictures and art in our home
22. Take one picture every day (already failed, but tomorrow is a NEW DAY)
23. Make salted caramels
24. Redesign my blog
25. Wear makeup at least once a week
26. Introduce Sam to her Auntie Meredith and meet her little peanut when she arrives
27. Learn to make bastilla
And with that, I hope you have a fantastic Wednesday.
Adam and I have been hellbound and determined to get all the sleeping, slothing and general do-nothingness we can in these last few weekends, to the point of not even LOOKING at what’s happening around us, because all we have planned — nay, all we WANT — to do is watch Weeds and The West Wing or whatever show we missed the first time around and are now catching up on. I think this went to the extreme when we went out for dinner last night and didn’t even notice the GIANT BONFIRE that could be seen from all points in town, which was apparently wrapping up some kind of town-wide winter carnival that had been happening all weekend long. And yet, when we finally did notice the fire, we almost called 9-1-1, because OMG FIRE WTF.
We’re involved in our community, is what I’m saying. ACTIVELY INVOLVED. I imagine this will change, however, when I am able to do anything for more than three minutes at a time, and I’ll have a baby who would probably like to do something other than watch Weeds (well, eventually anyway). By “anything,” by the way, I mean really mean all things that normal people do. I can’t eat more than an ounce at a clip because my stomach’s in my boob, I can’t walk for any distance because oh my God, my aching back, and for chrissake, I can’t even LAY ON ONE SIDE for more than three minutes, because the sheer heft of my own body makes my whole side go numb.
So! In light of the fact that we’re in a holding pattern here and did little else other than lay about like bumps in pickles, mail thank-you notes and other sundry sloth-like activities, how about a painful meme? I KNOW! I hate them, too! But my brain needs to do something, and I already did the cursed 25 things on Facebook (no, really, IT MADE ME).
This, too, is the worst of all, as it is the COUPLES MEME. HA HA HA. Oh, poor Adam.
What are your middle names?
Mine is Kay; Adam’s is Lewis. I really despise mine (sorry, Mom!), as it seems so … country western song, to me. Blech.
How long have you been together?
Ten years. We started dating in 1999; married in 2003.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We both went to Syracuse and ultimately, had all of the same friends, but I’d only ever heard of this mysterious Adam that everyone knew but I’d never met. He’d graduated the year prior, but had to finish up a credit or two while he worked a full-time job, so understandably, his schedule wasn’t really that of a college student anymore. However, finally, about a week before graduation, we met at a bar and I chatted his ear off drunkenly, and boy howdy, I liked him a whole lot, but we were both involved with other people at the time.
Eventually, after we’d both moved back to Boston a year later, I ran into him on the street on my way to the T and hugged him, we all started hanging out together and … that was kind of it.
Who asked whom out?
Uh, neither of us, I guess. It was an organic kind of thing that happened kind of shortly after we re-met. Although I did have a (bad, irrelevant and superboring) boyfriend at the time that we realized we were getting together and Adam basically demanded that I break up with him because there was sort of no point stopping the train we were on. (I’m making this sound like the Thornbirds or something, but it wasn’t really like that.) And I did exactly that the very next day, and we’ve been together ever since.
How old are each of you?
He was a year ahead of me in school and everything else, but we’re both 33.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
We each have more than one sibling, but we see my sister and his brother the most, probably equally these days, as they’re the closest to us (Boston and Syracuse, respectively).
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I’m going to go with impending parenthood, preemptively.
Did you go to the same school?
Yes. But again, we didn’t really know each other, and while I’d heard of him, I highly doubt he’d ever heard of me.
Are you from the same home town?
Nope. I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania, and he grew up in Boston’s MetroWest.
Who is smarter?
I’m no slouch, but he’s much smarter than me in every useful category imaginable.
Who is the most sensitive?
Neither one of us are super-sensitive types, but he’s not at all, while I am currently experiencing a pregnancy-induced bout of X-TREME SENSITIVITY 2009. I’m even embarrassed at some of the things that come out of my mouth, seriously, because I’m this wee little shrinking violet who is weirdly, hormonally needy. I believe I’ve said, “Will you still love me if/when [insert event here]” more times than I EVER imagined saying it before. I am an awful, miserable, needy sap which, you’re just going to have to trust me, is nothing like me normally.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s not thrilled with it, because who IS this suddenly weird, needy woman who’s all, “WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?” I mean, where is his WIFE, is probably what he’s thinking.
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
HA. Well, considering we live in a wee town with very little of anything decent to speak of, I’d say the diner up the street for lunch, which has the best reubens in town.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
It’s sad to say we’ve both traveled far and wide separately, but we haven’t traveled that far as a couple. Pre-baby, when we took couple-y type vacations, we both worked so much that all we wanted to do was lay on a beach somewhere, so that’s what we did. So, uh, the Caribbean was frequented A LOT.
Who has the craziest exes?
That would be me. All of his exes are lovely, and the kind of women I’d be friends with if they lived closer. And there’s really only one of mine that went crazy, but he seems just fine now. I think.
Who has the worst temper?
Hm. I’m quick to anger, quick to cool. I will yell and rant for five to fifteen minutes, and then it’s over forever. Adam is one of those slow-burn types who takes a while to get angry, but takes just as long to cool down. This works out just as well as you can imagine, although we don’t fight much.
Who does the cooking?
I do, except when Adam makes his Asian stir-fry, which is delicious. He always cooks chicken perfectly.
Who is the neat-freak?
Adam. I thrive in chaos.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh God, it’s like living with two MULES.
Who hogs the bed?
HA HA. I do. Am miserable, bed-hogging cow these days, and now there are pretty much two of me, given the giant body pillow I require to get comfortable. Rolling over is a HILARIOUS ENDEAVOR that often results in thwapping Adam directly in the face with the zipper end of the pillowcase. God.
Who wakes up earlier?
Me, almost always, under normal circumstances. But lately, with my general preggo morning exhaustion, he’s up and at ‘em, while I’m prone and sloth-like, considering stabbing my own eyes out for a second more of actual sleep that lasts more than thirty minutes.
Where was your first date?
We had our first “date” by making the impromptu decision to stay up all night and watch the sunrise over Boston Harbor after a night out with friends. My best friend (and roommate at the time), Eve, was also with us, which she now remembers with painful awkwardness (“You guys were GETTING TOGETHER, what the FUCK was I DOING THERE?”), but truly, it was actually perfect that she was there and not at all awkward at the time, because it’s not like it was PLANNED and there was no kissing or hand-holding or anything date-y about it.
Besides, the two of them were better friends than Adam and I were then. They’d known each other for years at that point.
Our first alone-date was when we both opted to play hooky from work and randomly take a boat ride in the Boston Harbor on a gorgeous sunny day.
It’s worth noting that four years later, Adam proposed at that very spot, just behind the aquarium, right before we went out to dinner and drinks with all of our friends in Faneuil Hall.
Who is more jealous?
Neither of us are jealous. I don’t know any married people who are, or is that just me? It would be weird for us. I mean, we’re happily married, so there’s really nothing to be jealous of. It’s not like some appealing person of the opposite sex is going to come in and make any difference in our relationship whatsoever.
How long did it take to get serious?
About a minute. We were talking about getting married like, a week into it. I even told my mother I was going to marry this guy, to which she probably said something like, “Yes, sure, right, whatever.” But I was right.
Who eats more?
Oh God, probably me. But I’m pregnant and uh, Adam’s a snacker?
Who does the laundry?
I don’t let him, or anybody, near the laundry. It’s my weird little anal thing I have. I love doing laundry and it’s a chore I really don’t mind, although I will concede I should do it more often.
Who’s better with the computer?
Considering he’s always been a programmer, technology lead, VP of technology or CTO, I’m going to go with him. I always forget that most people don’t live with computer geniuses who can fix anything, anytime.
Who drives when you are together?
Adam. He claims I’m a bad driver, but WHATEVER. Am behind-the-wheel prodigy.
*curtain*
I’m off to scrounge up something for dinner and watch the Oscars. Oh and then MAYBE I’ll try to sleep, but trust me, no one is counting on this.
*Regina Spektor. She’s wicked hit or miss for me, but I love that song.
You know what they say about Vermont! If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes!
I don’t know actually know if they say that about Vermont, but what I DO know is that they say it about the weather EVERYFREAKINGWHERE, and my did you know that? Did you know that saying is not just about where you live, and that, as it turns out, the weather is UNPREDICTABLE ALL ACROSS THE COUNTRY?
Hmph. That sure does sound like I’m crabby, which I’m really not. It’s that I just read that statement about the Midwest/Pac Northwest/somewhere and I just about died, because I have lived many, many places up and down the eastern seaboard, and they say it about EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM.
Incidentally, it’s hard not to know what they say about Vermont, because it is likely along the lines of this: it’s cold. Like, colder than you’ve ever been. See also: snowy. Like, every day.
I know, too, that most of you throughout the country have been enduring similar weather, and while I hate to laugh, it has been a LITTLE funny watching everyone screech how they’re SO SICK OF SNOW, when we’ve been dealing with this since October and will likely be entrenched in it until May. So please, do not talk to me about being sick of snow, for while I am not yet sick of it (it’s pretty! and kind of quaint!), I know I will have endured much, much more than most of you by the time the winter — nay, SPRING — is out.
However, I will concede that Vermont, like Syracuse, is all over that shit when it comes to plowing, and despite getting the crap kicked out of us yesterday, by morning we were totally free and clear. There’s something to be said for being prepared, unlike, say, Seattle, where buses were driving off of highways because no one knew what to do, OMG PANIC SNOW WOOP WOOP WOOP.
So yeah. We have plows and salt trucks and EVERYONE has a four-wheel drive vehicle and/or snow tires and you guys who aren’t used to snow don’t. I get that. Whine away! But if you live in a snowy part of the country and are surprised? I … what? I AM MYSTIFIED BY YOU.
By the way, in light of all the snow we’re all getting, I am once again compelled to plug the world’s greatest boots: the Ugg Bandon which, while ugly, is the most functional, warm, comfortably waterproof boot I have ever worn in my life. It’s been FREEZING here, and we’ve had many, many feet of snow, and not once have my feets been anything but snuggled and dry. And while I hate to recommend anything overwhelmingly expensive (which these are, I know, especially for something hideous), they are worth it. But sadly, it appears to be … oh my God, in looking for a link for you, I discovered that the Bandon has been DISCONTINUED. WOE. So, uh, maybe the Summit?
WOE.
Speaking of Vermont, we attended a party on Saturday night wherein the hosts — clearly of the, uh, well-off sort — commissioned a few clydesdales to take guests on sleigh ride tours of their expansive twinkly-lit property, not unlike the White Witch in the Chronicles of Narnia. Yes, CLYDESDALES.
Vermont continues to amaze and befuddle me with its delightfully incongruous juxtaposition of simple living and glaring excess.
We’re in the final preparations for the holidays, which will be spent with my sister and parents, as we never have to juggle Adam’s family and mine which is, as I’ve mentioned, one of the many benefits of a mixed-faith marriage. I always get Christmas, even if it coincides with Hanukkah, as his family celebrates the holiday at Thanksgiving. Which is odd, I know, but … it’s their tradition.
My other parents are coming to visit us the weekend of New Year’s, and although Adam loves my family, you can bet by Sunday, Jan. 4, he will have reached Maximum In Law Capacity and will have made a significant dent in our now-meager alcohol cabinet. And he doesn’t drink, like, ever.
And with that, I hope you have a happy holiday. My Larry Bird birthday is on Thursday I mean SATURDAY, and it promises to be a good one, if only because it will be my last, if all goes well, before I have a wee sprout to help celebrate it with me. Hooray! And also, HOLY SHIT.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah!
PS, if you’re still interested in getting free offsets for the holidays, I did get several more after my first batch ran out — there’s a little doohicky on my sidebar for the One Day campaign. Just click on it and huzzah! Free offsets for you!
*Snow Patrol. Again, killing myself over here with the pathetic, pathetic puns. Or whatever they are. Too tired and pregnant to think.
For the most part, I think Adam and I are pretty well matched. He’s an incredible husband and I, for the most part, am a decent wife and generally think we deserve each other. Yay, us!
Unless, of course, you’re talking about this pregnancy, in which case I downright PITY HIM, because my God, the amount of pain and misery he’s endured is at times equal to that of refugees in war-ravaged countries. Crazymaking in the form of endless circular arguments! Unchecked anxiety about things that are entirely unrealistic and, at times, COMPLETELY IMPOSSIBLE! Excessive toilet paper usage! Non-stop complaining! Moodiness! THE LIST GOES ON AND ON.
And then there’s last night, in which I woke him from a dead medicated sleep to let him know that our condo was surrounded by gunmen and we were UNDER ATTACK. LIKE MUMBAI. Yeah, I’m not even kidding or exaggerating there, as he (or any of his coworkers who spent the day laughing about it) will tell you.
I had JUST fallen asleep, when I awoke to the sounds of … well, gunmen, I’m sorry, it sounded like GUNMEN. And they were EVERYWHERE. Banging on the back door! Rappelling down the building like a SWAT team! I swear, I even heard them at the front door, which is INSIDE the building, and in my mind, meant they had infiltrated beyond the locked entryway. I made the executive decision not to leave the bedroom, where at least the shades were drawn, because if I went out into the rest of the house, they would see me. AND KILL ME.
I … I got down on the floor and did that military crawl thing for a second, which is no small feat while sporting a large bump. This did not last long, however, but I was seriously SO UPSET and also, it would seem, half asleep and pregnant and uh, not rational. But whatever!
I’d like to interject here to say that once again, I am not exaggerating. I waffled on whether to call 911 or wake Adam and in that moment, I remember thinking quite distinctly, “Now is the time to call 911,” but for some reason, I opted to wake Adam first. Which, um, THANK GOD.
Waking him, however, was no easy task, mind you, as he was heavily medicated from pain meds as he awaits oral surgery, and I had to grab both of his knees and bang them together like those knocker ball thingies. When he finally awoke, I said something like, “PEOPLE OUTSIDE. EVERYWHERE,” followed by, “GET THE KNIFE,” which was in reference to this giant military-grade Man Knife I got him for his birthday last year, at the recommendation of Sundry’s husband, JB. I … I didn’t mention other weapons, including the axe I mysteriously got him at the same time, and I don’t know why. Also, let us remember that if there is an entire terrorist MILITIA outside, not even the manliest of man knives can hold a candle to, say, an AK-47. It was suicide no matter what.
I believe it was somewhere in the range of FIVE SECONDS after becoming coherent that Adam realized that the sound of militants was actually a) high winds, which the helpful newspeople warned us about; and b) the sound of large swaths of ice sliding off the roof as temperatures climbed into the 40s. Of course, he barely realized this over the sound of me whisper-screaming to get his PANTS ON FASTER AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GRAB THE KNIFE, PEOPLE ARE HERE. He did both, at my screeching behest, but again, all in vain.
This makes a lot more sense than a group of terrorists taking over a tiny building in one of America’s tiniest towns IN RURAL VERMONT where the ROI would be … I don’t know, a random dude, a pregnant lady and a pug. Not exactly large-scale collateral damage.
And with that, my gratitude for the day is that I did not, indeed, call 911 before waking my husband, as I was THISCLOSE to doing, because again, I REALLY BELIEVED WE WERE UNDER SIEGE. Actually, today in general was one of gratitude, mostly for things that seem small, but were actually HUGE GIGUNDO STRESSORS, and frankly, with all the general ankle-grabbing going on in the world, I am taking happy news wherever I can find it. Which, in this case, turns out to be the following:
- I do not owe a cent in mileage overages when I turn in my vehicle, because Honda failed to take into account TWO WHOLE YEARS of my lease, meaning I have MILES TO SPARE. (See also: NEVER LEASING A CAR AGAIN, DO NOT GET ME STARTED.) (It was an unavoidable situation oh those many years ago, however. Long story.) Savings: $4000. No SERIOUSLY.
- The “dripping sound” my tenants were hearing in the pipes when they take a shower appears to be the noise of the PVC pipes expanding and contracting as hot water rushes through them. In other words, that’s how the plumbing WORKS. I may need a whole new shower, but I do not need to rip out the ceiling of the entire house! Hallelujah! Savings: THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS.
- The whiny neighbor who complained about my tenants’ dog(s) let me know that while yes, one of them is quite large and menacing-looking, it turns out that she is a) geriatric, which we knew, ergo we allowed her in our home in the first place (she’s ELEVEN, and her SKIN IS FALLING OFF OF HER); and b) extremely well-behaved, which we also knew, and wow, does she love our tenants! Such nice people! Hooray! Savings: MANY MONTHS OF EMOTIONAL TURMOIL.
- And finally, there was no terrorist regime taking my building hostage last night. Savings: OUR LIVES. Or at the very least, OUR LIMBS, as Adam didn’t have to cut anything off waving that thing around before he realized NO ONE WAS THERE. BECAUSE HE IS SMARTER THAN ME AT NIGHT.
You may think I’m kidding, but dude, this was one of the best days I’ve had in months. I am very, very grateful for these things. Seriously.
Happy Tuesday!
*Ben Folds. Seriously, this is how happy I am, that I am willing to use the sappiest of the sappy songs. It borders on TWEE, for God’s sake. TWEE.
Contributing, I believe, to the general crabbiness around here — crabbiness that even I will admit has reached HILARIOUS levels, as I swear to God, sometimes I stop being pissy to just laugh at what a Crabby McCrabpants I’m being — is a head cold. A relatively minor head cold by non-pregnant standards, but I never realized what sweet relief it was to be able to pop some Dayquil and carry on with life as though nothing had happened. Sure, you might have medicine head, but it beats the pants off of dealing with unmitigated green snot and, your friend and mine, The Herp Lip.
Ah, Herp Lip. How nice of you not to forget about me during pregnancy. It’s a pleasure to be able to play host to not one, but TWO parasitic entities, one lovable, one … not.
Tomorrow, by the way, I’m taking the day off from all work-related responsibilities to attend an OB appointment, wherein I sincerely hope they can find this kid’s heartbeat, because I’m reading all about how I should be feeling kicks and whatnot down there and I DO NOT FEEL A BLESSED THING EXCEPT THE URGE TO PEE AND MAYBE THROW UP. I will also be looking at houses — five, to be specific — and am both dreading and looking forward to it.
I know this is irrational, but there’s something about renting at this stage of life that makes me feel wholly inadequate, like I’ve FAILED somewhere. This is made all the more ridiculous by the fact that a) I am a home owner, just not where I live, thanks to the wonders of the economy (with strong fundamentals!) and a pillow-soft housing market; b) Even if I WANTED to buy a second home, I wouldn’t buy one in Vermont, because while we like it here, this is not a permanent solution, so I’d be renting regardless; and c) at least the home I own is rented to someone and not in foreclosure like so many others, my God, Jonna, SHUT UP.
Anyway, in many ways, renting should make me feel like a colossal success, because I’ve been amazed at the amount of people drooling over us, simply by the fact that we’re two clean-cut, professional people with good jobs who can not only afford the rent (a novel concept), but don’t plan on throwing parties with elephants and camels on the weekends. Now, I would have assumed in this bleak housing economy where no one is buying anything that there are many people like us, but apparently I was wrong, for when I hung up with a prospective landlord this evening, the desperation of his “I SINCERELY HOPE YOU LIKE THE HOUSE” was nearly palpable, and it’s been much the same with as many others.
So we’ll, uh, see. Sunny is causing a small kink in our plans, as though we are drool-worthy tenants, we do come with an mini-beast who really does drool and occasionally sheds.
And now! Onto my latest pregnancy obsession: soup. I know! How BORING. Pie and apples have hit the road, my friends. They were wonderful while they lasted, but all good things must come to an end. And seeing as I already have the recipes for my other obsession (BROWNIES) thanks to Swistle, I find that soups and stews really are the next frontier in pregnancy foods, along with English muffins. Something about the nooks and crannies.
The problems with commercial soups are several-fold, and include: a) the meat in them is so gross even to a non-pregnant me, but add a total intolerance for anything gristly (HALP) or off-color (HOLD ME) and we have the Return of the Vomit Monster; and b) the only commercial soups that have any complexity at all and/or lack the Icky Meat factor are tomato broth-based, which OH MY GOD, NO NO. THE HEARTBURN. NO.
My favorite lately came from TwoBusy around this time last year — no, wait, oh my God, it was TWO WHOLE YEARS AGO — and I would be remiss in not paying it forward. I finished up the last in the freezer today and plan to make more tomorrow. (By the way, I usually freeze it, so I don’t use the pasta.) (Also, I know it’s got tomatoes, but there is a difference between tomato PUREE and chunks of tomatoes, you know? Or maybe you don’t.)
This is a long way of saying I welcome soup recipes that do not involve sauteed onions and peppers (GAH GAH GAH).
Happy Thursday! Wish me luck in my long, dark Day of Househunting and OB-GYNing.
*The Killers, who I love so very much still. Especially Brandon Flowers, who is rather tasty, despite the eyeliner and odd behavior.
First, I have to tell you all that I received a care package today from Swistle and it involved TWO KINDS OF BROWNIES. I know we’ve all read her recipes on occasion and thought, gee, that sounds good! I should try that sometime! But I have to tell you, you would be horribly mistaken if you didn’t make “sometime” turn into “this weekend.” They might be the best brownies I’ve ever tasted. Ever. In my life, and that’s not an exaggeration. They’re dense and fudgy and chewy without being TOO dense and chewy, and they’re just the right amount of sweet and chocolatey, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get another one right this minute. Also included? Ginger snaps. These ginger snaps, and they’re even better than she says they are and I DO NOT EVEN USUALLY LIKE GINGER SNAPS. My beef with them is that they’re usually too gingery and a little too crispy/snappy, but these are PERFECT. LIKE, NO KIDDING.
Things around here are … a little nuts. In the last 24 hours, I’ve put together three new freelance proposals, two of which at the ball-ass last minute; uncovered a horrendously unethical scheme by the person who is buying our house and the Realtor selling our house designed to manipulate us into staying here until June, but only under certain, hilariously inconvenient and unethical circumstances; looked at three houses, none of which I liked; called on approximately 9,879,600 houses, flagged 1,098 inappropriate posts on Craigslist and yelled at the aforementioned Realtor who tried to have an electrician come to my home at 7 a.m. that I would, in fact, not hesitate to call the police if I saw their truck here before 9 a.m. and if she thought I was kidding that perhaps she should go ahead and try. I also think I used the words “over my limp, dead, pregnant body, no SERIOUSLY.”
Before I go on to state my next point which is, not surprisingly, that pregnancy makes you crazy, I will say that in this particular case I believe pregnancy insanity has worked in my favor. That is, I am more assertive than I would normally be (because really, 7 a.m. for a non-emergency electrician visit that has even NOTHING TO DO WITH ME is totally unreasonable), and paranoia, in this case, has led me to figure out that in at least one instance, people really were plotting to fuck me over in grand fashion.
However, this does not account for the level of crazy that takes over your body and mind in pregnancy that really, I don’t feel that anyone adequately warned me about. I knew enough about morning sickness to know that it can happen the way it’s happening to me (and who hasn’t read Jessica’s ordeal?), and all the body/boob changes haven’t really fazed me.
However, NO ONE prepared me for the insanity that are pregnancy hormones. Hormones that made me cry HYSTERICALLY for several hours (SEVERAL HOURS) because I’m afraid I’ll have to spend the rest of my family vacations at Disney World (uh, I won’t); hormones that made me absolutely lose my shit on poor Adam because he HAD to stop playing XBox THAT VERY MINUTE or the world would completely end and OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU STILL PLAYING? IT IS BECAUSE YOU HATE ME, DON’T YOU? Seriously, I harped on him for a good 20 minutes, with no discernible logic or reasoning — I didn’t want to watch TV, it wasn’t too late at night and I WAS NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM. It simply HAD TO BE DONE OR ELSE.
I can’t even go into the number of times I’ve snapped on him for some invisible transgression and at one point earlier in the day, I threatened to leave the ENTIRE STATE OF VERMONT because I didn’t want to be in the same state as someone I so vehemently dislike (the effing Realtor). I was, sadly, entirely serious, and spent a good 20 minutes plotting (WITH GOOGLE MAPS) how Adam could commute two hours to and from work from our cabin in the Adirondacks, because GOOD GODDAMN, I am NOT living in the same state as that fire-breathing ASS OF A WOMAN, DO YOU HEAR ME? VERMONT IS DEAD TO ME.
I know this all sounds so clearly insane, but at the time, I could not be stopped under any circumstances. And what’s worse, I can’t promise I won’t revisit each and every one of these issues again before this pregnancy is out.
Anyway! Let us end this ranty moment of insanity with an odd moment of zen thanks to Vermont’s quirky apartment and housing listings from various sources, shall we? Perhaps these tidbits will give you a little insight into why I AM SO INSANELY INSANE AND CRAZY.
– 7 room house with 3 bedrooms and 1 1/2 baths available for someone willing to milk in exchange for the rent. Yes, that would be MILKING THE COWS. They need about 30 milkings a month to cover the rent, and while they would prefer an “experienced milker” they’re not afraid to train.
– If milking isn’t your thing, perhaps you’d like to take a peek at this little “fixer upper” that has had a “run of bad luck” (photo of dilapidated house with crazily crooked, not-intentionally detached porch and sloping roof included for detail) for $350/month. There isn’t any heat, per se, but a “stack of wood out back, if burned correctly, can heat a family of two for quite some time. Let us know soon!”
Seriously. I did not make up a single word of either of those listings. Lake George and a two-hour commute don’t seem that bad now, do they?
Edited to add in this delightful little postscript: Remember when I had a dream that my cream cheese was made with breast milk? No? Anyone? Well, if PETA has it their way, Ben & Jerry’s will be made with breast milk. To which I say heartily: Uh, NO? How about a HELL NO? How about a “No way, no how, no McCain, no Palin, no BREAST MILK in my ice cream?” Again, I’m all “Yay, breastfeeding!” but my God, I don’t want to CONSUME IT MYSELF.
Happy Wednesday!
*Fine Young Cannibals. I … I love them still. Because I’m stuck in 1989.
Oh I love your wedding stories, and admittedly, was full of envy at some of them (Jenny, you were right! That IS my perfect wedding!), but I mean that in the most loving way possible.
I don’t mean to linger on this topic, but there was something about this weekend’s affair I wanted to mention. What are your feelings on cake smooshing? Adam and I didn’t cut the cake in front of people, mostly because I don’t get why cutting a cake is a spectator sport, and we fed each other pieces (again, why? WHY?), but there was no smooshing. NO SMOOSHING. However, there was smooshing at the wedding this weekend, and through some strange stroke of misfortune, the groom accidentally toppled the bride over with the act of smooshing. She hit the floor, taking an entire tray of plates with her, shutting down the dance floor for a full fifteen minutes while throngs of vested employees ran to clean up the floor. She was fine, but her parents were so upset that my nephew (the groom) had to apologize to them, and oh dear, it was an accident, but still. SHE FELL OVER, INTO A PILE OF CAKE AND PLATES.
In awkward transitions, I am the world’s worst grocery shopper. I can NEVER, not once, get everything I need in one trip. NEVER. It’s like I’m incapable of making a list that encompasses everything we need before I leave, and end up wandering aimlessly until I EXIT THE STORE and realize I forgot something pivotal, like chicken or toilet paper (we were thisclose to using napkins. THISCLOSE, PEOPLE) As a result of my incompetence, I went to three separate grocery stores today, and still didn’t get everything I needed. I think I need efficiency training.
And now onto the garden. I’m afraid I have a snake problem, which is hindering my ability to weed or spend any time out there at all. SNAKES. SNAAAAKES. Garter snakes, but still, they’re in there, lurking beneath the bolted lettuce plants and hiding among the beets, and every time I see a little slithering tail, I run away, and the weeds live another day.
Also, I may take photos tomorrow, but I have more than two hundred tomatoes from the thirteen plants that are out there thriving right now and … well, those are the only ones I could COUNT. TWO HUNDRED GREEN TOMATOES ON THE VINE. AND TWELVE CUCUMBERS WITH AT LEAST TWENTY MORE FLOWERS. Someone told me that August is the month that you lock your car doors, lest you come out of the video store to find a pile of unwanted zucchini in your back seat. I never once considered that I’d be the one making stealthy deposits of tomatoes. Next up: Jonna’s Roadside Organic Produce, coming to a rural highway near you.
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.
