Apr 30, 2009
Apr 28, 2009
Baby Fever.
(Note: The title has nothing to do with the post.)
Emmy, sitting in her car seat on the way home from daycare: Mommy, will you make me another CD?
Me: Of course I will. What do you want on it?
Emmy: Um, the No One* song, the Faster Disaster** song, um, more Hannah and um, Spiderman songs and um, um, CINDERELLA SONGS! Yeah. Cinderella songs. And the spider song, too.
Me: For sure, baby. It'll have to wait for this weekend though.
Emmy: Ok.
*No One, Alicia Keys
**I Run To You, Lady Antebellum
I love that her musical taste is broad. The CD in her stereo right now has some oldies, somedevil incarnate Hannah Montana, some Judy Garland, Julie Andrews and a couple covers. Nothing too cool, but beyond the average kid CD. So this one I'm going to add some stuff she's never heard. I'm so excited to watch her taste develop and grow. We'll be driving and she has clear and distinct likes and dislikes. Journey? "Turn it up!" Kanye West? "I like this song, Mommy!"
I think the next CD I make her, after this one, is going to be indie stuff. It has to be fast for her though. She likes stuff she can dance to.
Kids.
Emmy, sitting in her car seat on the way home from daycare: Mommy, will you make me another CD?
Me: Of course I will. What do you want on it?
Emmy: Um, the No One* song, the Faster Disaster** song, um, more Hannah and um, Spiderman songs and um, um, CINDERELLA SONGS! Yeah. Cinderella songs. And the spider song, too.
Me: For sure, baby. It'll have to wait for this weekend though.
Emmy: Ok.
*No One, Alicia Keys
**I Run To You, Lady Antebellum
I love that her musical taste is broad. The CD in her stereo right now has some oldies, some
I think the next CD I make her, after this one, is going to be indie stuff. It has to be fast for her though. She likes stuff she can dance to.
Kids.
Apr 26, 2009
Long Time, No Talk
I just got home from a weekend at my mother's house. She had her first chemo treatment on Wednesday and is doing pretty well.
She has this dog, this black lab named Chongo that I am wickedly allergic to. I have grown up with allergies and am one of those people who is allergic to EVERYTHING. The list includes all animals with fur, dust, several weeds and grasses, crab, lemon dish soap, and certain chemicals in certain products like those needed for hair bleaching. It sucks. In general though, it's easy to handle, simply because I've grown up handling them.
As a child, there were ALWAYS nine million pets in the house. At my dad's, there were always between one and three dogs, several cats, hamsters, snakes, fish, and reptilian friends. At my mom's there was one dog and two cats that were kept (one that had no tail as a result of incestuous parents. No, seriously.) ( I need to recheck proper punctuation when using parentheses.) (Anyway.) My worst allergies are to cats, horses and crab. Those three share first place, and dogs run a close second. With those three, my eyes swell shut, I break out in to hives and with crab, my throat swells. I have an epi-pen for any accidental exposure. With dogs though, I get a lot of flu-like symptoms including a tight chest, dry cough, achy joints and a nose that completely prevents airflow, which results in a half-inch thick film coating my entire mouth every morning.
This morning I stupidly scraped the top of my mouth with my nail and almost puked at the result. It was gross. Anyway, I am allergic to Chongo. So while I had planned on updating when I was at my mom's house, I forgot completely in the effort to try to breathe correctly.
Now we're back home and I've changed immediately in to pajama pants and curled up on the reading couch with a book and a cup of tea. I was hoping the tea would help, that coming back to where I live (a place free of animals, lemon dish soap, shellfish and weeds) would immediately clear up my nasal passages. I have been popping Sam's brand Zyrtec like it is made of chocolate, and I'm sitting here at my computer about to fall over from the weight of the snot in my head. I seriously feel like everything above cheekbone level is going to blow up and leave The Girlfriend with a three year old who won't eat her dinner and walls covered in a lovely mucus-brain-goo mixture. It sucks. To say the least.
As for the serious things in my life, the serious things with my mother being at the top of that list, I have this disease where I can't talk about anything that I'm going through at the moment because it's too raw. I will attempt to. And I will also attempt to not (split infinitive! whoo!) avoid this blog as a means of, well, avoidance. I will say though that my mother is confident that she will beat this, that she will beat this cancer and that gives me confidence. I'm planning a huge Fuck Cancer Party for her, one that will involve lots of fun signs around the room and lots of laughter and I'm hoping that after that I can do some sort of something that involves raising money for cancer research. My heart is in a lot of places. But this one is hitting my mom, has hit every woman in my family over the age of 35, will hit me and will hit my daughter. I hope by the time Emily has to deal with these things that there will be a vaccine, a cure, or a treatment that doesn't involve extreme fatigue and hair loss and sometimes death as a side effect.
See, here I go, getting in to the serious shit. I can't handle it right now, because I get so angry, so angry that this disease and plague is in my family, so angry that I have to face, already, at twenty-two that my parents may not be immortal, and I just can't deal.
So. I'm going to stand up and try not to beat the three year old who begged for food for over an hour and is now refusing the thing she picked out.
Pray, people, for a cure to cancer and a cure to allergies.
She has this dog, this black lab named Chongo that I am wickedly allergic to. I have grown up with allergies and am one of those people who is allergic to EVERYTHING. The list includes all animals with fur, dust, several weeds and grasses, crab, lemon dish soap, and certain chemicals in certain products like those needed for hair bleaching. It sucks. In general though, it's easy to handle, simply because I've grown up handling them.
As a child, there were ALWAYS nine million pets in the house. At my dad's, there were always between one and three dogs, several cats, hamsters, snakes, fish, and reptilian friends. At my mom's there was one dog and two cats that were kept (one that had no tail as a result of incestuous parents. No, seriously.) ( I need to recheck proper punctuation when using parentheses.) (Anyway.) My worst allergies are to cats, horses and crab. Those three share first place, and dogs run a close second. With those three, my eyes swell shut, I break out in to hives and with crab, my throat swells. I have an epi-pen for any accidental exposure. With dogs though, I get a lot of flu-like symptoms including a tight chest, dry cough, achy joints and a nose that completely prevents airflow, which results in a half-inch thick film coating my entire mouth every morning.
This morning I stupidly scraped the top of my mouth with my nail and almost puked at the result. It was gross. Anyway, I am allergic to Chongo. So while I had planned on updating when I was at my mom's house, I forgot completely in the effort to try to breathe correctly.
Now we're back home and I've changed immediately in to pajama pants and curled up on the reading couch with a book and a cup of tea. I was hoping the tea would help, that coming back to where I live (a place free of animals, lemon dish soap, shellfish and weeds) would immediately clear up my nasal passages. I have been popping Sam's brand Zyrtec like it is made of chocolate, and I'm sitting here at my computer about to fall over from the weight of the snot in my head. I seriously feel like everything above cheekbone level is going to blow up and leave The Girlfriend with a three year old who won't eat her dinner and walls covered in a lovely mucus-brain-goo mixture. It sucks. To say the least.
As for the serious things in my life, the serious things with my mother being at the top of that list, I have this disease where I can't talk about anything that I'm going through at the moment because it's too raw. I will attempt to. And I will also attempt to not (split infinitive! whoo!) avoid this blog as a means of, well, avoidance. I will say though that my mother is confident that she will beat this, that she will beat this cancer and that gives me confidence. I'm planning a huge Fuck Cancer Party for her, one that will involve lots of fun signs around the room and lots of laughter and I'm hoping that after that I can do some sort of something that involves raising money for cancer research. My heart is in a lot of places. But this one is hitting my mom, has hit every woman in my family over the age of 35, will hit me and will hit my daughter. I hope by the time Emily has to deal with these things that there will be a vaccine, a cure, or a treatment that doesn't involve extreme fatigue and hair loss and sometimes death as a side effect.
See, here I go, getting in to the serious shit. I can't handle it right now, because I get so angry, so angry that this disease and plague is in my family, so angry that I have to face, already, at twenty-two that my parents may not be immortal, and I just can't deal.
So. I'm going to stand up and try not to beat the three year old who begged for food for over an hour and is now refusing the thing she picked out.
Pray, people, for a cure to cancer and a cure to allergies.
Apr 18, 2009
And, While I'm Reading Other Things,
One of my least favorite things to read on parenting forums is "as per my internet research." As in "I'm sure my child has Budd Chiari Syndromw as per my internet research," or "I'm almost positive that I have lymphoma based on my internet research," or "I'm TOTALLY POSITIVE that anything containing anything plastic at all whatsoever is equal to poison as per my internet research."
First, I'm not a big fan of the phrasr "as per," as it just sounds weird to me. Secondly, zomg google is not your friend when there is something wrong. By all means, if your instincts are screaming at you that this stomach ache is more than a normal stomach ache, take yourself or your child to the doctor. Or if you or your child have some sort of history of health problems that necessitates things being checked that may be relatively minor things in other people, please GO TO THE DOCTOR. But really, if your child has a fever and a small tummyache that gets better when they poop, it's PROBABLY NOT BUDD CHIARI SYNDROME (a syndrome I found by plugging in some syndromes on WebMD (achy stomach, gradual onset, better with pooping, etc...) and that came up on the list.
Now, I'm not entirely guilt free when it comes to Google. I definitely researched soem thigns having to do with ovarian cancer, and I always research things because I like to be informed. However, I'm also rational. If Emmy's stomach hurts, it's most likely attributed to something having to do with poop or too much of one type of food. That's not the kind of thing I would research.
I don't have a conclusion to this post, because I suck at conclusions.
First, I'm not a big fan of the phrasr "as per," as it just sounds weird to me. Secondly, zomg google is not your friend when there is something wrong. By all means, if your instincts are screaming at you that this stomach ache is more than a normal stomach ache, take yourself or your child to the doctor. Or if you or your child have some sort of history of health problems that necessitates things being checked that may be relatively minor things in other people, please GO TO THE DOCTOR. But really, if your child has a fever and a small tummyache that gets better when they poop, it's PROBABLY NOT BUDD CHIARI SYNDROME (a syndrome I found by plugging in some syndromes on WebMD (achy stomach, gradual onset, better with pooping, etc...) and that came up on the list.
Now, I'm not entirely guilt free when it comes to Google. I definitely researched soem thigns having to do with ovarian cancer, and I always research things because I like to be informed. However, I'm also rational. If Emmy's stomach hurts, it's most likely attributed to something having to do with poop or too much of one type of food. That's not the kind of thing I would research.
I don't have a conclusion to this post, because I suck at conclusions.
Life's A Climb
Dearest Emily,
YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME for taking you to see the Hannah Montanna movie today, big jerk. I hope you liked it. Judging your attitude though, you won't be doing anything fun for a looooong time. Yes, so long that it requires three extra "o"s in the word "long." The lack of nap today may have something to do with this. I don't know.
Anyway. You're lucky I love you.
-Momma.
YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME for taking you to see the Hannah Montanna movie today, big jerk. I hope you liked it. Judging your attitude though, you won't be doing anything fun for a looooong time. Yes, so long that it requires three extra "o"s in the word "long." The lack of nap today may have something to do with this. I don't know.
Anyway. You're lucky I love you.
-Momma.
Apr 17, 2009
Oh, And...
Emmy: Mommy, I want to close the door.
Me: HA! I don't think so. (This was moments after her friend, with a toy screwdriver, pried loose the vent on the floor in Emily's room and I had to go up and fix it.)
Emily: But moooooom, I HAVE TO close it.
Me: Why, exactly, do you need to close it?
Emily: Because the monsters are coming in. DUH.
Me: HA! I don't think so. (This was moments after her friend, with a toy screwdriver, pried loose the vent on the floor in Emily's room and I had to go up and fix it.)
Emily: But moooooom, I HAVE TO close it.
Me: Why, exactly, do you need to close it?
Emily: Because the monsters are coming in. DUH.
Battles. (edited to add: tangents.)
I just had a battle with the doors to the laundry room. They are two unmatched and differently sized doors, and they do not close correctly. I have an awful habit of taking frustration out on inanimate objects. The door wouldn't close, and the stupid slider thing came off the track, and then the other side of the top of it, the stationary side with a brace, not a slider, and with no sliding capabilities whatsoever, slid off the track as well.
So instead of calmly fixing it, I begin to slam the door, over and over and over again, until finally, the one side pops back in and the side that opens breaks off. So now the door hangs there instead of sliding, but it closes. It fucking closes. So I win.
I've been having several little episodes like this, episodes where something so tiny happens, something so indescribably small-scale and I just FLIP THE FUCK OUT. I have no idea what it wrong, except that everything feels just a little bit wrong. I don't deal well with this, this multitude of wrongness. When big problems happens, or when one specific thing is wrong, I'm fine. Because, see, that means I can fix it. This though, this completely overwhemling everythingwrongness is something that I cannot fix, and if there is one thing I loathe in this world it is being out of control. Hi, internet, I'm Melissa and I'm a control freak. I can admit it.
It's not to an unhealthy extent, for example, I don't need to control the people around me, or worldly events (though I wish I could). I simply need to be able to control every single aspect of my own life, of Emily's life, and when my head wigs out, I freak out because zomg why the fuck can't I fix it?!? WHY?! And then I get so upset that I can't fix it that the laundry room door suffers an attack (although, come on, it so deserved it.)
The Girlfriend picked Emily up from school today to take her fishing. Which was pretty awesome. This spending-time-with-the-three-year-old-of-her-own-free-will thing is relatively newer, and it's something that warms my heart through and through. Of course I got a call an hour in to PLEASE COME GET THE CHILD BECAUSE SHE WON'T STOP WHINING. But hey, I'll take baby-steps.
Speaking of The Girlfriend, we're at that phase in the moving-in part of the relationship where it's all, um, HOLY SHIT we live together. Like, why do you load the dishwasher the way you do? Huh? Because that's SO NOT THE RIGHT WAY. And things like, um, Melissa? STOP LEAVING YOUR FUCKING COFFEE CUP IN THE BATHROOM (which, by the way, internet, is the PERFECT place to keep it. I wake up and pee, and then I'll bring the cup down and get coffee. See? I'm right.) and the development of it is admittedly a little stressful, and is admittedly a little more stressful than I thought it would be, but is also endearing in a difficult-to-explain way. Like, even though we spent every night together for eleven months, there're things we're learning about each other, and I can't speak for her, but things I'm learning about myself. Things like, hey, it doesn't matter if the dishwasher is loaded "right" or not, it matters that I'm with someone who will load the dishwasher so I don't have to.
So instead of calmly fixing it, I begin to slam the door, over and over and over again, until finally, the one side pops back in and the side that opens breaks off. So now the door hangs there instead of sliding, but it closes. It fucking closes. So I win.
I've been having several little episodes like this, episodes where something so tiny happens, something so indescribably small-scale and I just FLIP THE FUCK OUT. I have no idea what it wrong, except that everything feels just a little bit wrong. I don't deal well with this, this multitude of wrongness. When big problems happens, or when one specific thing is wrong, I'm fine. Because, see, that means I can fix it. This though, this completely overwhemling everythingwrongness is something that I cannot fix, and if there is one thing I loathe in this world it is being out of control. Hi, internet, I'm Melissa and I'm a control freak. I can admit it.
It's not to an unhealthy extent, for example, I don't need to control the people around me, or worldly events (though I wish I could). I simply need to be able to control every single aspect of my own life, of Emily's life, and when my head wigs out, I freak out because zomg why the fuck can't I fix it?!? WHY?! And then I get so upset that I can't fix it that the laundry room door suffers an attack (although, come on, it so deserved it.)
The Girlfriend picked Emily up from school today to take her fishing. Which was pretty awesome. This spending-time-with-the-three-year-old-of-her-own-free-will thing is relatively newer, and it's something that warms my heart through and through. Of course I got a call an hour in to PLEASE COME GET THE CHILD BECAUSE SHE WON'T STOP WHINING. But hey, I'll take baby-steps.
Speaking of The Girlfriend, we're at that phase in the moving-in part of the relationship where it's all, um, HOLY SHIT we live together. Like, why do you load the dishwasher the way you do? Huh? Because that's SO NOT THE RIGHT WAY. And things like, um, Melissa? STOP LEAVING YOUR FUCKING COFFEE CUP IN THE BATHROOM (which, by the way, internet, is the PERFECT place to keep it. I wake up and pee, and then I'll bring the cup down and get coffee. See? I'm right.) and the development of it is admittedly a little stressful, and is admittedly a little more stressful than I thought it would be, but is also endearing in a difficult-to-explain way. Like, even though we spent every night together for eleven months, there're things we're learning about each other, and I can't speak for her, but things I'm learning about myself. Things like, hey, it doesn't matter if the dishwasher is loaded "right" or not, it matters that I'm with someone who will load the dishwasher so I don't have to.
Apr 16, 2009
Tales To Come
- I Am A Cautious Type of Person.
- I Really Hate The Snow. And Being Blind.
- Emily Really Is a Mad Scientist.
- Budgets Suck Ass.
- Supernanny/Nanny 911
I have so much in my head, and in my heart. And the stuff in my heart is acting as some sort of preventative for the things in my head.
Sigh.
Apr 15, 2009
Real Life... Again.
My mom is starting chemotherapy next Wednesday. Google is the enemy.
I love though, that my mother is who she is: strong, confident, and life-loving. She is wig shopping, catching up with friends, and is confidently talking about future plans. Cancer? Fuck cancer.
I think my favorite thing is "ovaries are overrated."
Apr 12, 2009
Easter Sunday
And here we are. Emily got gypped on her Easter basket this year.
Last Monday she deliberately stole the last piece of special champaigne-flavored chocoloate that The Girlfriend got me for our anniversary. DELIBERATELY. She then hid on the couch eating it, and lied when I asked her what she was doing. I was pissed. (And the conversation about appropriate anger is not one I wish to have right now, thank you very much.) So Emily got banned from all sweets, snacks, juices, etc. Now, she doesn't eat many sweets, but she does get the occasional m&m when The Girlfriend is eating them, and I'm positive that The Girlfriend sneaks her candy when I'm not looking. So the real punishment was that The Girlfriend wouldn't have to share.
I was torn with the Easter thing. Do I break punishment for it? Do I be cruel and not let her have anything? She's three, would she really know? I decided not to break punishment but to go easy with it. She got a very small basket that will later be used to store her ten CDs and it had two chocolate bunnies, some jelly beans and some chalk. And wouldn't you know it, she's THRILLED. So I learned a valuable lesson today that I don't need to overdo things. She's still at that age where it's ok to just enjoy the simple, little things.
Happy Easter.
Last Monday she deliberately stole the last piece of special champaigne-flavored chocoloate that The Girlfriend got me for our anniversary. DELIBERATELY. She then hid on the couch eating it, and lied when I asked her what she was doing. I was pissed. (And the conversation about appropriate anger is not one I wish to have right now, thank you very much.) So Emily got banned from all sweets, snacks, juices, etc. Now, she doesn't eat many sweets, but she does get the occasional m&m when The Girlfriend is eating them, and I'm positive that The Girlfriend sneaks her candy when I'm not looking. So the real punishment was that The Girlfriend wouldn't have to share.
I was torn with the Easter thing. Do I break punishment for it? Do I be cruel and not let her have anything? She's three, would she really know? I decided not to break punishment but to go easy with it. She got a very small basket that will later be used to store her ten CDs and it had two chocolate bunnies, some jelly beans and some chalk. And wouldn't you know it, she's THRILLED. So I learned a valuable lesson today that I don't need to overdo things. She's still at that age where it's ok to just enjoy the simple, little things.
Happy Easter.
Apr 11, 2009
Bad Porn
So really, what's up with UFC fighting? I was sitting watching it with The Girlfriend, her brother and his friend, happily watching The Food Network, completely engrossed in the inner workings of Walnetto when I got up to poop (to poop! to poop! I pooped!). I came back and there were two men on TV, sharing a sweaty embrace, trembling and grunting. The three of them on the couch were staring, rapt, and I was all, um, baby? We're not supposed to have these channels.
I didn't really say that. But I thought it very loudly, hoping my confusion would telepathically transfer to The Girlfriend and she would come to her senses and put The Food Network back on. But no. I timidly sit down and inquire as to what we're watching. "Um, UFC." I lift my eyebrows and try to pay attention, thinking that hey, maybe I can get in to this. I didn't think I would like the demolition derby last Summer and I got in to that. So I watch. I ask The Girlfriend's brother how the point system works (because I heard an announcer announce that one of the sweaty men had to be worrying about his points) and The Girlfriend pipes up with "Babe, it works kind of like boxing." To which I replied, "... ... ...?"
I watched for a few more minutes, said out loud that I think this looks like really bad porn, and got up after I got three dirty looks. I don't get it.
There was a brief period in my life that my mother's ex-husband influenced my taste and led me to what was then WWF "wrestling." The phase lasted two dreadfully embarrassing months in my eleventh year, and I now hate it with a passion. However, at least there was some entertainment value there. And boobs. Boobs make almost everything better. With this UFC shit? What is there? The men aren't particularly attractive, the outfits are horrible, the arena is ugly and there are blood splatters everywhere. Like I said: REALLY BAD PORN. It might help if the fighters had some personality beyond the after-fight commentary where they say things like "I put in my time with my nine years of pee-wee wrestling*" or "I was worried there, for a minute, but then I used my push-kick** and it all fell in to place."
* pee wee wrestling? Does that exist? Really? I mean, really??
** a PUSH KICK?! It sounds like a video game created by a new English speaker. I can see it in writing with it's badly placed quotation marks and interesting font choices. Why can't it be called something more interesting?
So now here I am, at my computer, and I wish I had a Kindle, or a good book to curl up with, or homework. Anything.
In other news, I bought a car today. A very used car, with very little money, but it's all mine.
I didn't really say that. But I thought it very loudly, hoping my confusion would telepathically transfer to The Girlfriend and she would come to her senses and put The Food Network back on. But no. I timidly sit down and inquire as to what we're watching. "Um, UFC." I lift my eyebrows and try to pay attention, thinking that hey, maybe I can get in to this. I didn't think I would like the demolition derby last Summer and I got in to that. So I watch. I ask The Girlfriend's brother how the point system works (because I heard an announcer announce that one of the sweaty men had to be worrying about his points) and The Girlfriend pipes up with "Babe, it works kind of like boxing." To which I replied, "... ... ...?"
I watched for a few more minutes, said out loud that I think this looks like really bad porn, and got up after I got three dirty looks. I don't get it.
There was a brief period in my life that my mother's ex-husband influenced my taste and led me to what was then WWF "wrestling." The phase lasted two dreadfully embarrassing months in my eleventh year, and I now hate it with a passion. However, at least there was some entertainment value there. And boobs. Boobs make almost everything better. With this UFC shit? What is there? The men aren't particularly attractive, the outfits are horrible, the arena is ugly and there are blood splatters everywhere. Like I said: REALLY BAD PORN. It might help if the fighters had some personality beyond the after-fight commentary where they say things like "I put in my time with my nine years of pee-wee wrestling*" or "I was worried there, for a minute, but then I used my push-kick** and it all fell in to place."
* pee wee wrestling? Does that exist? Really? I mean, really??
** a PUSH KICK?! It sounds like a video game created by a new English speaker. I can see it in writing with it's badly placed quotation marks and interesting font choices. Why can't it be called something more interesting?
So now here I am, at my computer, and I wish I had a Kindle, or a good book to curl up with, or homework. Anything.
In other news, I bought a car today. A very used car, with very little money, but it's all mine.
Apr 10, 2009
Drunk Monopoly FTW.
Friday
Finally. Friday. These last couple weeks have been so hectic with my mom, moving in with The Girlfriend, trying to help Emily adjust, the horrible news every single day in the papers, a small paycheck, etc. etc. etc... I'm thrilled that it's finally Friday.
The Girlfriend's brother showed up with his friend and we're hanging out. Later, we're playing drunk Monopoly with the Awesome Neighbors and a couple of my friends. (You don't know how to play drnk Monopoly? Well, basically, every time you pass Go, go to jail, pay any income or other tax, pick up a community chest or chance card, roll doubles or land on free parking, you drink. Every time you get a Monopoly, you kiss.) I'm pretty excited to have friends coming over to play because usually it's The Girlfriend and I playing and one of two things happens: 1) We both end up owning half of the board each, so just go in circles paying eachother money until we give up or 2) One of us just KILLS the other and we make up stories about why we shouldn't have to pay rent. Either way, I'm excited to have company to join us, and there's no better company than the Awesome Neighbors.
Speaking of neighbors, the person in the apartment to the left of us vacuums EVERY SINGLE NIGHT at 9:30pm, on the dot. Every night. Without fail. Why? Why at 9:30? I don't understand.
Anyway, I should probably go be social.
The Girlfriend's brother showed up with his friend and we're hanging out. Later, we're playing drunk Monopoly with the Awesome Neighbors and a couple of my friends. (You don't know how to play drnk Monopoly? Well, basically, every time you pass Go, go to jail, pay any income or other tax, pick up a community chest or chance card, roll doubles or land on free parking, you drink. Every time you get a Monopoly, you kiss.) I'm pretty excited to have friends coming over to play because usually it's The Girlfriend and I playing and one of two things happens: 1) We both end up owning half of the board each, so just go in circles paying eachother money until we give up or 2) One of us just KILLS the other and we make up stories about why we shouldn't have to pay rent. Either way, I'm excited to have company to join us, and there's no better company than the Awesome Neighbors.
Speaking of neighbors, the person in the apartment to the left of us vacuums EVERY SINGLE NIGHT at 9:30pm, on the dot. Every night. Without fail. Why? Why at 9:30? I don't understand.
Anyway, I should probably go be social.
Posting From My Phone
Because SQUEEEE!! Reading a newspaper and in Massachusetts a law was passed protecting women nursing their babies in public.
I would like to note, however, that I think it's totally absurd that this has to be a law.
Apr 7, 2009
Poop.
The subject line is pretty indicative of the post content. So if you're squeamish, stop reading.
This morning The Girlfriend and I were getting ready for work and OHMYGODCRAMP and i was buckled over on the bed, squirming, trying to get some relief from the pain in my lower abdomen. I would compare the cramp to early labor cramps, the kinda-sorta-um, am I going to have a baby in the next couple days? kind of cramp. I spent about eight minutes writhing between positions, going from fetal to my knees curled up to my chest to yoga positions to lying on my stomach to stretching backwards as far as I could go (and that one produced tears), and it hurt. Badly. I started counting back and it has been nine days since I pooped. Nine. NINE.
Unfortunately this is not abnormal for me. This is actually enTIRELY normal for me. It's just rare that a cramp takes hold in that manner. Typically my stomach gets a little crampy, and then something happens in a couple days. But not today. Today, I thought I was going to die and started thinking that maybe The Girlfriend and I had created some lesbian miracle, some super science baby and that on top of that, I had gotten through nine months of pregnancy with a total weight gain of five pounds and no symptoms, and that I was going to deliver a baby on the clean sheets. That The Girlfriend and I were going to be rich and that hope would be given to women everywhere. And then reality smacked me in the face when Emily came in and asked me to button her pants.
Now some of you will say, well, just take a laxative! And I will cheerily respond with a polite "fuck no" and go on my way. I've had so many bad experiences with those things that I can't even keep track. Without going in to disgustingly explicit detail I will say that a combination of inconvenient timing, irreliable consistency and sheer panic has made the entire laxative experience one that I will never ever go through again.
We get home from work and The Girlfriend is going on about how she is going to go buy me something. Some elusive something that will make it better. I made a promise to begin taking fiber regularly, opened the door and went upstairs to set CandyLand up for Emily. I realize that The Girlfriend is not in the house and wonder where she is. A few minutes later she comes up the stairs with five metamucil pills, two prunes and a large glass of water. Since I know we don't have any of this in the house, I figured out that she WENT TO OUR NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE to get these items.
Yes. She went to our neighbor's house, explained that I can't poop, and came back. Now, the neighbor has been a friend of hers since high school, her husband is amazing, her infant is full of mushy baby goodness and her other daughter is one of Emily's best friends. So it's not like it was a complete stranger. But still. It's a little embarrassing. Next time we go to dinner, I can just hear the conversation, "So, Melissa, how'd that fiber bar work out for you? Everything coming out well?"
I'm busy sending labor vibes to a friend in New York. People, send me some poop vibes. And don't time those vibes between seven and four tomorrow, as I'll be at work and while normally I am totally a work pooper, I really don't want to be this time.
Goodnight, internet.
This morning The Girlfriend and I were getting ready for work and OHMYGODCRAMP and i was buckled over on the bed, squirming, trying to get some relief from the pain in my lower abdomen. I would compare the cramp to early labor cramps, the kinda-sorta-um, am I going to have a baby in the next couple days? kind of cramp. I spent about eight minutes writhing between positions, going from fetal to my knees curled up to my chest to yoga positions to lying on my stomach to stretching backwards as far as I could go (and that one produced tears), and it hurt. Badly. I started counting back and it has been nine days since I pooped. Nine. NINE.
Unfortunately this is not abnormal for me. This is actually enTIRELY normal for me. It's just rare that a cramp takes hold in that manner. Typically my stomach gets a little crampy, and then something happens in a couple days. But not today. Today, I thought I was going to die and started thinking that maybe The Girlfriend and I had created some lesbian miracle, some super science baby and that on top of that, I had gotten through nine months of pregnancy with a total weight gain of five pounds and no symptoms, and that I was going to deliver a baby on the clean sheets. That The Girlfriend and I were going to be rich and that hope would be given to women everywhere. And then reality smacked me in the face when Emily came in and asked me to button her pants.
Now some of you will say, well, just take a laxative! And I will cheerily respond with a polite "fuck no" and go on my way. I've had so many bad experiences with those things that I can't even keep track. Without going in to disgustingly explicit detail I will say that a combination of inconvenient timing, irreliable consistency and sheer panic has made the entire laxative experience one that I will never ever go through again.
We get home from work and The Girlfriend is going on about how she is going to go buy me something. Some elusive something that will make it better. I made a promise to begin taking fiber regularly, opened the door and went upstairs to set CandyLand up for Emily. I realize that The Girlfriend is not in the house and wonder where she is. A few minutes later she comes up the stairs with five metamucil pills, two prunes and a large glass of water. Since I know we don't have any of this in the house, I figured out that she WENT TO OUR NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE to get these items.
Yes. She went to our neighbor's house, explained that I can't poop, and came back. Now, the neighbor has been a friend of hers since high school, her husband is amazing, her infant is full of mushy baby goodness and her other daughter is one of Emily's best friends. So it's not like it was a complete stranger. But still. It's a little embarrassing. Next time we go to dinner, I can just hear the conversation, "So, Melissa, how'd that fiber bar work out for you? Everything coming out well?"
I'm busy sending labor vibes to a friend in New York. People, send me some poop vibes. And don't time those vibes between seven and four tomorrow, as I'll be at work and while normally I am totally a work pooper, I really don't want to be this time.
Goodnight, internet.
Apr 5, 2009
Cold Feet
You'd think that title was metaphoric for something, right? Like, "The groom has cold feet," or something similar? Yeah? Well, IT'S SO NOT.
I have this unbearable condition called CATT. Cold All The Time. It sucks ass. Cold ass. Every night when I get in bed with The Girlfriend I nestle my butt on to her furnace of a body and she shrieks and squirms and I delight in my ass being warm for the first time since I woke up, and she flinches every time I adjust my position as a new cold body part hits her.
Today, instead of unpacking and doing the massive amounts of laundry and hanging pictures, I got talked in to going fishing with a friend and his wife. So The Girlfriend, Emily and I got in the truck and left. It was windy, and cold, and I do not like the wind, nor do I like the cold. It was fun. Emily had a good time and so did The Girlfriend. I, however, got cold around two pm and by the time we left at SEVEN PM I was frozen solid. The Girlfriend had to peel my crossed legs from the ground, complete with fingers attached to the bottom of my thighs and carry me up a hill with the fishing poles as if I were some type of sitting statue and let me defrost on the ride home. OK, not really, but damn. I'm still cold. Freezing. Can't feel my toes, my butt, or my nose and my backspace key is totally getting abused by the amount of frozen finger errors.
Brrrrr.
I have this unbearable condition called CATT. Cold All The Time. It sucks ass. Cold ass. Every night when I get in bed with The Girlfriend I nestle my butt on to her furnace of a body and she shrieks and squirms and I delight in my ass being warm for the first time since I woke up, and she flinches every time I adjust my position as a new cold body part hits her.
Today, instead of unpacking and doing the massive amounts of laundry and hanging pictures, I got talked in to going fishing with a friend and his wife. So The Girlfriend, Emily and I got in the truck and left. It was windy, and cold, and I do not like the wind, nor do I like the cold. It was fun. Emily had a good time and so did The Girlfriend. I, however, got cold around two pm and by the time we left at SEVEN PM I was frozen solid. The Girlfriend had to peel my crossed legs from the ground, complete with fingers attached to the bottom of my thighs and carry me up a hill with the fishing poles as if I were some type of sitting statue and let me defrost on the ride home. OK, not really, but damn. I'm still cold. Freezing. Can't feel my toes, my butt, or my nose and my backspace key is totally getting abused by the amount of frozen finger errors.
Brrrrr.
In Which I Discuss Annoyances, Bullet Style
Because so much has happened, here is my bullet list summary.
Annoying:
- Doctors that talk to everyone else in the room because apparently, I'm young-looking, or something.
- People that try to butt their nose in business that is NOT THEIR BUSINESS.
- People that expect me to be anyone but who I am: opinionated, blunt, fiercely protective.
- Heat that goes upstairs and makes the floor downstairs absolutely freezing.
- Socks. I hate socks. A lot.
- Three-year-olds that whine more than they speak.
- Three-year-olds that cannot leave their excema skin alone. Because really, SCRATCHING DOES NOT MAKE IT BETTER.
- Three-year-olds that scream "YOU'RE NOT MY BEST FRIEND!" Like that makes any difference to me because, um, hello? I'M YOUR MOTHER.
- Landlords that don't get shit done on time.
- Faulty toilets.
- Deposits on utility bills.
- Cord covers that don't stay in the wall and make your wall flake away.
- Being poor.
- The wind.
Things That Make It All Better:
- Having those who love me despite my shortfalls.
- Someone who loves me beCAUSE I am who I am, and because I don't apologize for it.
- Three-year-olds that give you kisses and say "I love you more than all the books."
- Landlords that invite you over for home-made enchiladas to make up for all of the littler shitty things going on.
- Nurses that understand that doctors can be douche-bags, that go out of their way to mkae sure you understand what it going on and what the plan is.
- Friends that invite you over for dinner when you really need a break.
- Meeting internet friends.
- All the laughter involved with unpacking two apartments into one, and making it a home.
- Amazing support groups that aren't going to let your mom ever feel hopeless.
- Funny cable man that sees two women kissing on our wall and tells us "You guys seem pretty cool. Let me get you a credit on something, ok?"
- Three-year-olds who twine their fingers around yours and say you're the prettiest mommy in the world.
- Bosses who understand life and give you a hug instead of a lecture for missing work.
- Good purses. Yes. I look at my purses that I love and the sun shines just a little brighter.
- Having some perspective given to me.
More later. I know, I know, I keep saying that. But I mean it. We are about 70% unpacked. Which is pretty damned good.
Annoying:
- Doctors that talk to everyone else in the room because apparently, I'm young-looking, or something.
- People that try to butt their nose in business that is NOT THEIR BUSINESS.
- People that expect me to be anyone but who I am: opinionated, blunt, fiercely protective.
- Heat that goes upstairs and makes the floor downstairs absolutely freezing.
- Socks. I hate socks. A lot.
- Three-year-olds that whine more than they speak.
- Three-year-olds that cannot leave their excema skin alone. Because really, SCRATCHING DOES NOT MAKE IT BETTER.
- Three-year-olds that scream "YOU'RE NOT MY BEST FRIEND!" Like that makes any difference to me because, um, hello? I'M YOUR MOTHER.
- Landlords that don't get shit done on time.
- Faulty toilets.
- Deposits on utility bills.
- Cord covers that don't stay in the wall and make your wall flake away.
- Being poor.
- The wind.
Things That Make It All Better:
- Having those who love me despite my shortfalls.
- Someone who loves me beCAUSE I am who I am, and because I don't apologize for it.
- Three-year-olds that give you kisses and say "I love you more than all the books."
- Landlords that invite you over for home-made enchiladas to make up for all of the littler shitty things going on.
- Nurses that understand that doctors can be douche-bags, that go out of their way to mkae sure you understand what it going on and what the plan is.
- Friends that invite you over for dinner when you really need a break.
- Meeting internet friends.
- All the laughter involved with unpacking two apartments into one, and making it a home.
- Amazing support groups that aren't going to let your mom ever feel hopeless.
- Funny cable man that sees two women kissing on our wall and tells us "You guys seem pretty cool. Let me get you a credit on something, ok?"
- Three-year-olds who twine their fingers around yours and say you're the prettiest mommy in the world.
- Bosses who understand life and give you a hug instead of a lecture for missing work.
- Good purses. Yes. I look at my purses that I love and the sun shines just a little brighter.
- Having some perspective given to me.
More later. I know, I know, I keep saying that. But I mean it. We are about 70% unpacked. Which is pretty damned good.
Apr 3, 2009
ZOMG
Internet! At our new apartment! Like, legal, paid for internet :) It's pretty awesome.
I'll be back in commission within the week, once we're all unpacked. I love saying "I'm going home." Because now, "home" has The Girlfriend in it. Love.
I'll be back in commission within the week, once we're all unpacked. I love saying "I'm going home." Because now, "home" has The Girlfriend in it. Love.
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