I don't mean to be cryptic, because that's annoying. But sometimes there are things you can't write about because they are not yours.
But it doesn't mean you don't feel feelings about them.
And so for now I will say that although I have long understood that the world doesn't operate on fairness, and if you expect fair, you will be disappointed. And you can get upset about it and say, "It's so fucking unfair!" And, well, you may be right. But that doesn't change things.
But I was thinking, you know, IF the universe were fair, then instead of bad things happening to wonderful people, the following might occur:
Dick Cheney, instead of living forever (although I genuinely suspect this is because he has Horcruxes hidden all over the planet), would years ago have succumbed to a flesh-eating bacteria that started on his face, even while fire ants worked their way up from his feet, while also dealing with, I don't know, maybe a case of trench mouth and an excruciating case of moral rot in his intestines.
I'm not suggesting any of these things should happen, nor do I actively wish any harm to the man.
Please understand it's just an example.
Because, you know, I was just thinking.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Monday, January 13, 2014
Thursday, March 28, 2013
What would you do?
If you regularly saw someone behaving unfairly and unkindly, what would you do?
For a long time, I was terrified of confrontation. I would do just about anything to avoid it.
My dad was manipulative and my mom was and is passive, and these were my role models. I mean, they were many more things than that - plenty of positives. But our family was not direct, and there were lots of things we weren't allowed to talk about.
I mean, my dad could talk about anything he wanted. But for the rest of us, there were parameters. Voicing dissent or negative feelings? Not OK. My brother and I were taught early that we were fine. I'm fine, he's fine, she's fine. We're all fine. Fine, fine, always fine. Everything is fine.
One of my dad's phrases was, "End of discussion." He could say this at any time to shut down a conversation.
Makes you want to respond with a big, "Fuck you," doesn't it? Which of course none of us ever did.
And thus I may have this unrealistic need for fairness. I realize the world is not fair. But I do my best to make it so when I can.
So.
It took me an inordinately long time and a lot of work to learn how to be direct.
Actually, let me back up. I didn't even know I wasn't. It took me a very long time to learn how to recognize my feelings. And then to learn how to voice them to myself. And then to get the confidence to realize that they were valid and that I could express them to others.
I mean, I've always blurted out inappropriate, awkward things. But that's different.
So at this point, I think of myself as a fairly self-aware individual. I have the ability to put together a reasonable argument, and to hold my own in a discussion. When I know I'm right, I don't back down just because someone pushes.
I don't go looking for fights, but I don't shy away from them.
All of this leads me to needing some advice.
India goes to this day care that we love. Jordan was there before her. We adore the woman who runs it, and the staff is terrific. Very kind and caring and attentive. I totally trust them.
There is, however, a kid there with a dad who is a giant asshole. And this is where I need some help.
He is so rude to the staff. They are all women, and all Latina. They all speak English, but to varying degrees. There is a power differential. He's essentially their client.
And he's just a dick. I've never seen him not be rude. He walks in and bosses them around. He snaps at these very nice, competent women.
One night he was there when I was picking up India. We were there minutes before it closed, and so most of the staff had left. The ones still there with the very last of the kids couldn't find the little paper you get at the end of the day that tells you what your kid ate and how long they slept and that they enjoyed swinging and sliding at the playground.
He stomped around and complained and glared and huffed and puffed.
I wanted to say, "Seriously? Here - take mine. They had cheerios and bananas for breakfast. Quinoa and carrots and peas for lunch. Crackers and pears for snack. They slept from 1-3. They enjoyed singing songs at circle time. It doesn't vary that fucking much from day to day."
It doesn't. They'll call you if your kid is sick. They tell you if he got a scratch on the playground. They tell you anything of note.
Anyway. They apologized and he stomped.
But he's always a jerk. And I don't say anything. But I want to the next time. But here's the problem.
If he were doing it to me, I could say, "Please don't speak to me like that. There's no reason to be so rude."
He's not talking to me, though. And I know they won't say anything. They'll just keep being polite and he'll keep being a douche. It's not fair, and it makes me so angry.
I don't, however, know what to say.
What would you do?
For a long time, I was terrified of confrontation. I would do just about anything to avoid it.
My dad was manipulative and my mom was and is passive, and these were my role models. I mean, they were many more things than that - plenty of positives. But our family was not direct, and there were lots of things we weren't allowed to talk about.
I mean, my dad could talk about anything he wanted. But for the rest of us, there were parameters. Voicing dissent or negative feelings? Not OK. My brother and I were taught early that we were fine. I'm fine, he's fine, she's fine. We're all fine. Fine, fine, always fine. Everything is fine.
One of my dad's phrases was, "End of discussion." He could say this at any time to shut down a conversation.
Makes you want to respond with a big, "Fuck you," doesn't it? Which of course none of us ever did.
And thus I may have this unrealistic need for fairness. I realize the world is not fair. But I do my best to make it so when I can.
So.
It took me an inordinately long time and a lot of work to learn how to be direct.
Actually, let me back up. I didn't even know I wasn't. It took me a very long time to learn how to recognize my feelings. And then to learn how to voice them to myself. And then to get the confidence to realize that they were valid and that I could express them to others.
I mean, I've always blurted out inappropriate, awkward things. But that's different.
So at this point, I think of myself as a fairly self-aware individual. I have the ability to put together a reasonable argument, and to hold my own in a discussion. When I know I'm right, I don't back down just because someone pushes.
I don't go looking for fights, but I don't shy away from them.
All of this leads me to needing some advice.
India goes to this day care that we love. Jordan was there before her. We adore the woman who runs it, and the staff is terrific. Very kind and caring and attentive. I totally trust them.
There is, however, a kid there with a dad who is a giant asshole. And this is where I need some help.
He is so rude to the staff. They are all women, and all Latina. They all speak English, but to varying degrees. There is a power differential. He's essentially their client.
And he's just a dick. I've never seen him not be rude. He walks in and bosses them around. He snaps at these very nice, competent women.
One night he was there when I was picking up India. We were there minutes before it closed, and so most of the staff had left. The ones still there with the very last of the kids couldn't find the little paper you get at the end of the day that tells you what your kid ate and how long they slept and that they enjoyed swinging and sliding at the playground.
He stomped around and complained and glared and huffed and puffed.
I wanted to say, "Seriously? Here - take mine. They had cheerios and bananas for breakfast. Quinoa and carrots and peas for lunch. Crackers and pears for snack. They slept from 1-3. They enjoyed singing songs at circle time. It doesn't vary that fucking much from day to day."
It doesn't. They'll call you if your kid is sick. They tell you if he got a scratch on the playground. They tell you anything of note.
Anyway. They apologized and he stomped.
But he's always a jerk. And I don't say anything. But I want to the next time. But here's the problem.
If he were doing it to me, I could say, "Please don't speak to me like that. There's no reason to be so rude."
He's not talking to me, though. And I know they won't say anything. They'll just keep being polite and he'll keep being a douche. It's not fair, and it makes me so angry.
I don't, however, know what to say.
What would you do?
Thursday, April 05, 2012
A modest proposal
You all know I'm not political but that certain issues - particularly ones pertaining to my body, my uterus and the contents therein, and the rights of women in general - fire me the fuck up.
Background
I should shamefully admit that I was a political science major - something Nick loves to point out, because isn't Chapel Hill supposed to be a really good school? - and yet I know next to nothing about how our government works. I only added it in my senior year because my dad said French wasn't practical enough, that I should double major with something useful, like Poli Sci.
Hilarious, I know. And now I ask Nick or Google everything I'm interested in knowing about governmental processes.
What I'm saying is, I have no idea how this proposal might actually work. Also, I might have details wrong. Nick's been away all week and I haven't had time to watch the Daily Show.
In other words: I'm giving you the general gist of my vitriol. Feel free to correct me on facts.
What's pissing me off:
But here's what I've been stewing about. 1. The abortion ultrasound bills; and 2. the Affordable Care Act in the hands of right-wing justices on the Supreme Court.
Naturally, the whole idea of forcing women seeking abortion to undergo ultrasounds - vaginal or not - enrages me. So now in Virginia they can't force a vaginal one on you...but they can make you get an ultrasound.
And all these wretched political elites criticizing other politicians for being elitist - want to keep health care in the hands of those who can afford it. Rather than extending it to those who can't.
It's so fucking galling.
A modest proposal:
Basically, I'd like to propose some kind of asshole scan for politicians and justices who take women's rights lightly.
You want to take the right to choice - reproductive choice as well as the choice to carry a child to term or not - away from women?
You're an asshole. I say this without hesitation.
You want to make sure that universal health care is not an option? And yet you want to force women - women who potentially can barely afford to pay for an abortion - to also pay for an ultrasound?
I'm going to confidently say you're an asshole.
But really, there must be some objective way of measuring assholiness. And my guess is that the rectum would be the best source of the information. And you'd need some sort of medical device that measures, I don't know, something.
So I'd propose the use of an ultrasound wand in the ass to confirm it.
Not being a medical professional, I don't know what you'd be measuring. Level of bile? Level of contempt for women? For humanity? Maybe you could get this with a large swab rather than needing an ultrasound.
But who fucking cares? Let's mandate an ultrasound as well.
It costs more - more for insurance companies to pocket. So they're more likely to lobby for it, no? Which would make politicians more likely to vote for it. There must be other special interest groups I could get on board, don't you think?
Of course I'd leave the details on the testing to the doctors. I mean, they're the professionals. Oh, wait, the OB-GYN's opinions don't actually matter in terms of pregnancy and ultrasound.
So I suppose the best thing to do would be to find a politician to write a bill and then, uh, try to ram it through?
Like I said, my understanding of political processes is kind of sketch.
Background
I should shamefully admit that I was a political science major - something Nick loves to point out, because isn't Chapel Hill supposed to be a really good school? - and yet I know next to nothing about how our government works. I only added it in my senior year because my dad said French wasn't practical enough, that I should double major with something useful, like Poli Sci.
Hilarious, I know. And now I ask Nick or Google everything I'm interested in knowing about governmental processes.
What I'm saying is, I have no idea how this proposal might actually work. Also, I might have details wrong. Nick's been away all week and I haven't had time to watch the Daily Show.
In other words: I'm giving you the general gist of my vitriol. Feel free to correct me on facts.
What's pissing me off:
But here's what I've been stewing about. 1. The abortion ultrasound bills; and 2. the Affordable Care Act in the hands of right-wing justices on the Supreme Court.
Naturally, the whole idea of forcing women seeking abortion to undergo ultrasounds - vaginal or not - enrages me. So now in Virginia they can't force a vaginal one on you...but they can make you get an ultrasound.
And all these wretched political elites criticizing other politicians for being elitist - want to keep health care in the hands of those who can afford it. Rather than extending it to those who can't.
It's so fucking galling.
A modest proposal:
Basically, I'd like to propose some kind of asshole scan for politicians and justices who take women's rights lightly.
You want to take the right to choice - reproductive choice as well as the choice to carry a child to term or not - away from women?
You're an asshole. I say this without hesitation.
You want to make sure that universal health care is not an option? And yet you want to force women - women who potentially can barely afford to pay for an abortion - to also pay for an ultrasound?
I'm going to confidently say you're an asshole.
But really, there must be some objective way of measuring assholiness. And my guess is that the rectum would be the best source of the information. And you'd need some sort of medical device that measures, I don't know, something.
So I'd propose the use of an ultrasound wand in the ass to confirm it.
Not being a medical professional, I don't know what you'd be measuring. Level of bile? Level of contempt for women? For humanity? Maybe you could get this with a large swab rather than needing an ultrasound.
But who fucking cares? Let's mandate an ultrasound as well.
It costs more - more for insurance companies to pocket. So they're more likely to lobby for it, no? Which would make politicians more likely to vote for it. There must be other special interest groups I could get on board, don't you think?
Of course I'd leave the details on the testing to the doctors. I mean, they're the professionals. Oh, wait, the OB-GYN's opinions don't actually matter in terms of pregnancy and ultrasound.
So I suppose the best thing to do would be to find a politician to write a bill and then, uh, try to ram it through?
Like I said, my understanding of political processes is kind of sketch.
Monday, February 06, 2012
Crabby kid, crabby mom, and choosing from 735 varieties of weird. At least.
Last night I asked our across the street friends and neighbors if they would be up for trading Jordan for their adorable French bulldog, just for a couple days.
I was kidding. Sort of. Anyway, that's how they took it.
Although very candidly, and I know this will make me sound dreadful and hateful, this weekend I was totally fantasizing about a kiddie kennel/hotel. If I had somewhere to send Jordan for amonth week couple days where I knew he would be totally safe and happy, I would do it.
I just want time to do nothing in the evening, without feeling guilty, because it means someone else is picking up the kid slack. Last pregnancy, I laid in bed and ate frozen yogurt and read the Twilights. It sounds like the epitome of luxury to me at this point.
Anyway.
Jordan was sick last week and Thursday morning Nick took him to the pediatrician, who said he didn't have another ear infection (yay!) but to watch him. And then Friday I came home early because he had a 102 fever. (He was up and down all weekend but has kicked it and is back to fine, thankfully.)
What I have now realized is this: Jordan, much like my dad, is very sweet and docile and malleable when he's really sick. It sounds terrible, but my dad was at his most agreeable when he was particularly feeble. It was always the nice respite after big trauma.
And Jordan, when Jordan is all feeble he will snuggle against you and cuddle and ask you to read to him and it's so deliciously sweet. And you don't want him to be terribly sick, of course, but it is delightful to have a very calm little snuggle-boy.
However.
When he's not really sick, and improves to the point of feeling sort of bad, as far as I can tell, he's kind of a belligerent asshole. And neeeeeeeeedy. Oh, needy. Cannot play with toys without you being RIGHT THERE. And at his beck and call every moment. And screamy cry-y when you don't do his bidding immediately.
My mother keeps reminding me that he's two and I'm the adult. And I try to be all take a deep breath and silently intone SERENITY NOW MOTHERFUCKING SERENITY NOW but...I'm not great at it.
Because apparently, I'm not much older than two.
AND: this all coincided with my starting a new medication. Because, while I don't have gestational diabetes (thank you, JesusBuddhaMahavir!), my thyroid turns out to not be working as well as it should. While apparently common in pregnancy, it has implications for the baby - like possible stillbirth, lower cognitive function, and such.
In other words, as soon as they called in the prescription on Friday I sprinted over to CVS.
My midwife said I should expect to feel kind of weird in the beginning. "Weird how?"
Because I know full well from experience that there are more than 735 official kinds of weird. And I was just wanting to be a little prepared for which kind of weird I might need to embrace.
"Just...different. It's a foreign substance your body has to get used to!"
So I took it as directed on an empty stomach Saturday morning and waited for the weird.
Mostly, it makes...very agitatey. I was extra-crabby and tired all weekend. Which initially I attributed to the kid being particularly needy and trying and also sort of sucking the life out of me.
But at today's midwife visit, when I told her I was all agitated and exhausted she said, "Yes, probably."
Which is an annoying kind of weird, but I guess better than, I don't know, a toe growing out of your neck or something.
I was kidding. Sort of. Anyway, that's how they took it.
Although very candidly, and I know this will make me sound dreadful and hateful, this weekend I was totally fantasizing about a kiddie kennel/hotel. If I had somewhere to send Jordan for a
I just want time to do nothing in the evening, without feeling guilty, because it means someone else is picking up the kid slack. Last pregnancy, I laid in bed and ate frozen yogurt and read the Twilights. It sounds like the epitome of luxury to me at this point.
Anyway.
Jordan was sick last week and Thursday morning Nick took him to the pediatrician, who said he didn't have another ear infection (yay!) but to watch him. And then Friday I came home early because he had a 102 fever. (He was up and down all weekend but has kicked it and is back to fine, thankfully.)
What I have now realized is this: Jordan, much like my dad, is very sweet and docile and malleable when he's really sick. It sounds terrible, but my dad was at his most agreeable when he was particularly feeble. It was always the nice respite after big trauma.
And Jordan, when Jordan is all feeble he will snuggle against you and cuddle and ask you to read to him and it's so deliciously sweet. And you don't want him to be terribly sick, of course, but it is delightful to have a very calm little snuggle-boy.
However.
When he's not really sick, and improves to the point of feeling sort of bad, as far as I can tell, he's kind of a belligerent asshole. And neeeeeeeeedy. Oh, needy. Cannot play with toys without you being RIGHT THERE. And at his beck and call every moment. And screamy cry-y when you don't do his bidding immediately.
My mother keeps reminding me that he's two and I'm the adult. And I try to be all take a deep breath and silently intone SERENITY NOW MOTHERFUCKING SERENITY NOW but...I'm not great at it.
Because apparently, I'm not much older than two.
AND: this all coincided with my starting a new medication. Because, while I don't have gestational diabetes (thank you, JesusBuddhaMahavir!), my thyroid turns out to not be working as well as it should. While apparently common in pregnancy, it has implications for the baby - like possible stillbirth, lower cognitive function, and such.
In other words, as soon as they called in the prescription on Friday I sprinted over to CVS.
My midwife said I should expect to feel kind of weird in the beginning. "Weird how?"
Because I know full well from experience that there are more than 735 official kinds of weird. And I was just wanting to be a little prepared for which kind of weird I might need to embrace.
"Just...different. It's a foreign substance your body has to get used to!"
So I took it as directed on an empty stomach Saturday morning and waited for the weird.
Mostly, it makes...very agitatey. I was extra-crabby and tired all weekend. Which initially I attributed to the kid being particularly needy and trying and also sort of sucking the life out of me.
But at today's midwife visit, when I told her I was all agitated and exhausted she said, "Yes, probably."
Which is an annoying kind of weird, but I guess better than, I don't know, a toe growing out of your neck or something.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Meager Mushroom
November 22 update: I got an email from one of Mellow Mushroom's co-owners, and she was incredibly kind and gracious and wanted to make it up to us. We will be going back to try their pizza, and I will report back.
-----
I don't know if you've tried the new pizza place the Mellow Mushroom in Adams Morgan?
I was excited to try it. Until we did. And I'll never get pizza from there again.
We've been eating really well, but last Friday we all decided was a pizza night.
So I called Mellow Mushroom, which I'd heard good things about, and ordered a large pizza with gluten-free crust, tomato sauce, two kinds of cheese, peppers, sun dried tomatoes, and Italian sausage.
(We were splurging, health-wise, on pizza for dinner, but being a little virtuous with the gluten-free. Plus we used to go to Rustico and have amazing gluten-free pizza. So that was my frame of reference. I miss Rustico.)
Nick and I walked over to pick it up. It was $27. He plunked down his credit card.
And then they handed me the box.
It was so light and small, I was sure they'd given us the wrong order. "This is your large?"
"Oh, no. There's only one size in gluten-free. They should've told you that."
Huh.
And then we got home, and opened the box. There was a suggestion of sauce, a hint of cheeses, a giggle of sausage, perhaps three to five sun-dried tomatoes, and a pirouette of peppers on it.
In other words, a very thin, tasteless crust with the pretense of a number of delicious-sounding toppings.
For $27.
I wanted Nick to go back and complain, because he is good at that sort of thing and I am not, but it was Friday and he was tired, and he said fuck it and ordered a white pizza from Astor instead.
It was about half the price and fucking delicious.
And now I think it's just too late. You can go back later in the evening or the next day, but you can't really show up a week later and say that your pizza is really fucking expensive and skimpy and tasteless.
Or can you? Because candidly, it still pisses me off. I don't know why it's stuck with me, but it has.
Or should I just remind myself to breathe and there are children starving all over the world and one overpriced crappy pizza is nothing to be worked up about?
-----
I don't know if you've tried the new pizza place the Mellow Mushroom in Adams Morgan?
I was excited to try it. Until we did. And I'll never get pizza from there again.
We've been eating really well, but last Friday we all decided was a pizza night.
So I called Mellow Mushroom, which I'd heard good things about, and ordered a large pizza with gluten-free crust, tomato sauce, two kinds of cheese, peppers, sun dried tomatoes, and Italian sausage.
(We were splurging, health-wise, on pizza for dinner, but being a little virtuous with the gluten-free. Plus we used to go to Rustico and have amazing gluten-free pizza. So that was my frame of reference. I miss Rustico.)
Nick and I walked over to pick it up. It was $27. He plunked down his credit card.
And then they handed me the box.
It was so light and small, I was sure they'd given us the wrong order. "This is your large?"
"Oh, no. There's only one size in gluten-free. They should've told you that."
Huh.
And then we got home, and opened the box. There was a suggestion of sauce, a hint of cheeses, a giggle of sausage, perhaps three to five sun-dried tomatoes, and a pirouette of peppers on it.
In other words, a very thin, tasteless crust with the pretense of a number of delicious-sounding toppings.
For $27.
I wanted Nick to go back and complain, because he is good at that sort of thing and I am not, but it was Friday and he was tired, and he said fuck it and ordered a white pizza from Astor instead.
It was about half the price and fucking delicious.
And now I think it's just too late. You can go back later in the evening or the next day, but you can't really show up a week later and say that your pizza is really fucking expensive and skimpy and tasteless.
Or can you? Because candidly, it still pisses me off. I don't know why it's stuck with me, but it has.
Or should I just remind myself to breathe and there are children starving all over the world and one overpriced crappy pizza is nothing to be worked up about?
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The 3 am certainty that I would rather be a lesbian
You know how when you're awakened at some ungodly hour things seem so much more dire?
I don't mean that I was ready to leap up and find a lesbian partner at 3:00 this morning. No. Well, sort of. But not exactly.
What I mean is this: Men are idiots. Or anyway, men I am or have been related to, and men I love. And by love I mean have slept with. Because there are certainly men I love as friends who are likely not idiots. Although I can't be sure.
But if you're a guy and you're reading this, I probably don't mean you. Unless I've slept with you. In which case, sorry, but I'm putting you in the idiot bucket.
Also, I don't want to give readers the impression that either of these categories cover a large swath of the world. Because they don't. I have a small family. And there are plenty of idiots I've never slept with.
In fact, we all know I wish I'd slept around a whole lot more in my 20s.
But anyway. I say this because the men I am related to or choose all have one thing in common. They decide how their realities are going to work, and they hold firm to their belief that they can make it so, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Idiots.
Nick has been in trial this week, which means he worked at least 24 hours last weekend and has been coming home around midnight and getting up and out by 7 am. They won't convene on Friday, which happens to be the day that he had long-ago scheduled to drive to Charlottesville for lunch.
Also, and more important in this story, he hurt his back about a month ago.
Now, the back injury is a recurring one, and every fucking time his back goes out and I try to harangue him into seeing a doctor, he insists he doesn't have time, and then he hobbles off to work and has a similarly-overweight man walk on his back and he insists that this miraculously fixes it.
Honestly. I'm not heavy enough to shove his disk back into place or whatever the fuck the man does for him.
So a few weeks ago his back went out, and he limped around for days without the miracle cure at work and then we ran into a family friend who is a physical therapist who focuses on sports injuries who was all, "For god's sake, stop being an idiot; come to my office."
(This was well before I'd had my Men Are Idiots epiphany, so I was all, "Yeah, stop being an idiot.")
They did a rundown of Nick's issues, and then talked about his lifestyle.
Nick said they were just chatting about Nick's normal life and routine and then our friend said: So basically, you work 12 hour days, and you play with your kid before work, and come home and deal with the house?
Nick: Yes.
Friend: And you probably have a couple drinks to unwind when you come home?
Nick: Yes.
Friend: So, you're an overweight, middle aged man who works really long hours. You come home and have a couple drinks, which shuts down your metabolism, and you don't get enough exercise. And you're really surprised when your back gives out.
Nick: Uhh, when you put it that way.
Our friend is both candid and cagey - qualities I appreciate.
So Physical Therapist Friend basically said something needs to change, and Nick has to start exercising daily. He showed him things like how to pick up heavy stuff (like Jordan) while still protecting your back.
Nick saw him a couple more times and started feeling a lot better. And then he stopped picking things up the way he should, started working even more round-the-clock, didn't have time to exercise...You may see where this is going.
So at 3:00 am, I woke up to see Nick getting back into bed, and wincing as he was doing so. He was clearly in a lot of pain.
And so I said, knowing that in the next two days, he will have no time to take care of it, "I think you should see someone Friday morning."
"We'll see."
"I would also ask you not to spend six hours driving to sit for two hours for lunch on Friday."
"We'll see."
I know what "we'll see" means. I means that that idiot motherfucker thinks that he's invincible. And the he can spend all day Friday doing whatever the fuck he wants and not taking care of himself. And then be incapacitated all weekend.
And so I there I lay, stewing on The Problem With Men. I know I've talked about this before, and my friend Steve is likely right, and I would just suck at being a lesbian. And because he's a gay man I defer to him in all things gay.
Even though he's not a woman and even if he got a sex change, he still wouldn't be a lesbian because his partner is a man. He still knows more about the gayness than I do.
But seriously. I'm quite sure that if my partner were a woman, we wouldn't be dealing with this idiocy.
And also, if that man spends the day in the car and then thinks I'm going to feel remotely sorry for him, rather than take it out on him all weekend, he's got another thing coming.
Motherfucker? Oh, I don't think so.
I don't mean that I was ready to leap up and find a lesbian partner at 3:00 this morning. No. Well, sort of. But not exactly.
What I mean is this: Men are idiots. Or anyway, men I am or have been related to, and men I love. And by love I mean have slept with. Because there are certainly men I love as friends who are likely not idiots. Although I can't be sure.
But if you're a guy and you're reading this, I probably don't mean you. Unless I've slept with you. In which case, sorry, but I'm putting you in the idiot bucket.
Also, I don't want to give readers the impression that either of these categories cover a large swath of the world. Because they don't. I have a small family. And there are plenty of idiots I've never slept with.
In fact, we all know I wish I'd slept around a whole lot more in my 20s.
But anyway. I say this because the men I am related to or choose all have one thing in common. They decide how their realities are going to work, and they hold firm to their belief that they can make it so, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Idiots.
Nick has been in trial this week, which means he worked at least 24 hours last weekend and has been coming home around midnight and getting up and out by 7 am. They won't convene on Friday, which happens to be the day that he had long-ago scheduled to drive to Charlottesville for lunch.
Also, and more important in this story, he hurt his back about a month ago.
Now, the back injury is a recurring one, and every fucking time his back goes out and I try to harangue him into seeing a doctor, he insists he doesn't have time, and then he hobbles off to work and has a similarly-overweight man walk on his back and he insists that this miraculously fixes it.
Honestly. I'm not heavy enough to shove his disk back into place or whatever the fuck the man does for him.
So a few weeks ago his back went out, and he limped around for days without the miracle cure at work and then we ran into a family friend who is a physical therapist who focuses on sports injuries who was all, "For god's sake, stop being an idiot; come to my office."
(This was well before I'd had my Men Are Idiots epiphany, so I was all, "Yeah, stop being an idiot.")
They did a rundown of Nick's issues, and then talked about his lifestyle.
Nick said they were just chatting about Nick's normal life and routine and then our friend said: So basically, you work 12 hour days, and you play with your kid before work, and come home and deal with the house?
Nick: Yes.
Friend: And you probably have a couple drinks to unwind when you come home?
Nick: Yes.
Friend: So, you're an overweight, middle aged man who works really long hours. You come home and have a couple drinks, which shuts down your metabolism, and you don't get enough exercise. And you're really surprised when your back gives out.
Nick: Uhh, when you put it that way.
Our friend is both candid and cagey - qualities I appreciate.
So Physical Therapist Friend basically said something needs to change, and Nick has to start exercising daily. He showed him things like how to pick up heavy stuff (like Jordan) while still protecting your back.
Nick saw him a couple more times and started feeling a lot better. And then he stopped picking things up the way he should, started working even more round-the-clock, didn't have time to exercise...You may see where this is going.
So at 3:00 am, I woke up to see Nick getting back into bed, and wincing as he was doing so. He was clearly in a lot of pain.
And so I said, knowing that in the next two days, he will have no time to take care of it, "I think you should see someone Friday morning."
"We'll see."
"I would also ask you not to spend six hours driving to sit for two hours for lunch on Friday."
"We'll see."
I know what "we'll see" means. I means that that idiot motherfucker thinks that he's invincible. And the he can spend all day Friday doing whatever the fuck he wants and not taking care of himself. And then be incapacitated all weekend.
And so I there I lay, stewing on The Problem With Men. I know I've talked about this before, and my friend Steve is likely right, and I would just suck at being a lesbian. And because he's a gay man I defer to him in all things gay.
Even though he's not a woman and even if he got a sex change, he still wouldn't be a lesbian because his partner is a man. He still knows more about the gayness than I do.
But seriously. I'm quite sure that if my partner were a woman, we wouldn't be dealing with this idiocy.
And also, if that man spends the day in the car and then thinks I'm going to feel remotely sorry for him, rather than take it out on him all weekend, he's got another thing coming.
Motherfucker? Oh, I don't think so.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Which just feels kind of like begging the sucky ex-boyfriend to get back together with you and he's all sure and then stands you up
Yeah, so we tried to sign up for Comcast. Again.
Go ahead, call me an idiot. If you've been with me through this journey, you know all the bullshit we dealt with when we had them, to the point where I started referring to them as douchemonkeys and Nick accused them of being likely to pee on his rug.
Also, I should mention that I've never had an ex-boyfriend pee on my rug. In fact, nobody has peed on my rugs, as far as I know. Jordan did pee on my foot the other day, but we were outside.
Right. So, anyway.
So we've had DirecTV since we moved into our house two years ago. Sometime last year Verizon said they were putting in FiOS!, any minute now! Many, many minutes have gone by, and there's no FiOS available. Plus we wind up paying a lot having the cable with one company and the Internet with another.
Also, I hate the DirecTV interface. We liked being able to have TiVO. I understand how it works. Betty, who will be moving when the endless construction ends, understands how it works.
The understanding of technical functions, it is not a small thing.
Now, cable and Internet are not critical in the same way as access to clean drinking water and antibiotics, but you know, such is our world.
Anyway, Nick clenched his teeth and called Comcast. When their service works - if you can get it in the first place, I mean - it's very good. A week or two ago, he set up an appointment for this morning.
He took half a day off work to be home for the installation. The installation, which was scheduled - and confirmed, I might add - for between 8 and 11 am.
And then they called at almost 9 am all, "Yeah, the guy is running a bit late. More like 11:45." And then somewhere past noon Nick called, and they said, "Yeah, he stopped by, but nobody was home."
To which Nick said, "Bullshit."
He then went on to rant about things that to my mind have no connection to cable service, like child molesters and prison. But I think it made him feel better.
By better I mean completely furious and powerless, because when you really want to give someone your money for service and they can't be bothered to show up...what can you do, really?
Go ahead, call me an idiot. If you've been with me through this journey, you know all the bullshit we dealt with when we had them, to the point where I started referring to them as douchemonkeys and Nick accused them of being likely to pee on his rug.
Also, I should mention that I've never had an ex-boyfriend pee on my rug. In fact, nobody has peed on my rugs, as far as I know. Jordan did pee on my foot the other day, but we were outside.
Right. So, anyway.
So we've had DirecTV since we moved into our house two years ago. Sometime last year Verizon said they were putting in FiOS!, any minute now! Many, many minutes have gone by, and there's no FiOS available. Plus we wind up paying a lot having the cable with one company and the Internet with another.
Also, I hate the DirecTV interface. We liked being able to have TiVO. I understand how it works. Betty, who will be moving when the endless construction ends, understands how it works.
The understanding of technical functions, it is not a small thing.
Now, cable and Internet are not critical in the same way as access to clean drinking water and antibiotics, but you know, such is our world.
Anyway, Nick clenched his teeth and called Comcast. When their service works - if you can get it in the first place, I mean - it's very good. A week or two ago, he set up an appointment for this morning.
He took half a day off work to be home for the installation. The installation, which was scheduled - and confirmed, I might add - for between 8 and 11 am.
And then they called at almost 9 am all, "Yeah, the guy is running a bit late. More like 11:45." And then somewhere past noon Nick called, and they said, "Yeah, he stopped by, but nobody was home."
To which Nick said, "Bullshit."
He then went on to rant about things that to my mind have no connection to cable service, like child molesters and prison. But I think it made him feel better.
By better I mean completely furious and powerless, because when you really want to give someone your money for service and they can't be bothered to show up...what can you do, really?
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Blame it on the rain that was falling falling...
Have I told you that I take inclement weather extremely personally?
I do.
Also, today, I hate everything. The craptacular weather is like the freezy grey icing on the hate-cake that is me today. Grr! Hatey hate! Stabbity stab!
And I hate being this grumpy. Any suggestions for getting out of a grump?
Back to the weather, though. Somehow, it is all about me. And this winter, this eternal-endlessly-eternal-suckass-cold-grim-even-though-it's-officially-spring winter, has lasted MY ENTIRE LIFE.
I don't do this with nice weather. (Does one ever say clement weather? I never hear it. Only inclement.) But once it's bad weather, well, it's been visited directly upon me. Smote, I tell you, smote by the rain!
Devious droplets of dickishness.
This morning as I walked to work, the weather broke my umbrella. The wind was coming from 37 different directions and kept turning my cute red umbrella with admittedly oddly-yellow-tinted zebras inside out and now it is broken.
I felt like my two-mile walk to the office was this Sisyphean task, and I wanted to shake my fist at the gods. Instead I just glowered and stomped along, trying to avoid the other pedestrians who were also being buffeted about, trying to salvage their umbrellas.
(Which gave me the suspicion that it is not directed specifically at me. That was short-lived, though.)
And I hate wind. I am not one of those, oh, gentle breezes softly caressing my cheek! oh, for the wind in the willows! kind of people.
No. For me it is more like when we were kids and my brother and I were in the back seat of the car and there would be a Very Firm Line down the middle. And he would keep crossing it and touching me.
And I would be all, "Stop touching me! Daaaaaad! Sibling is crossing the line and touching me! Stoooooop! Touching! Me!"
I dislike the feeling on my skin. I don't even particularly like house fans. Which is unfortunate because they seem to be one of Nick's passions in life. Also the sailing. There is necessarily a lot of wind involved.
But that is a whole nother topic.
Anyway, there was the wind. And the rain. Also coming from multiple directions. And the coldy cold!
Will it ever get warm? When was the last time it was warm? I seriously cannot remember being warm.
Well, except yesterday. Yesterday was actually quite lovely.
I do.
Also, today, I hate everything. The craptacular weather is like the freezy grey icing on the hate-cake that is me today. Grr! Hatey hate! Stabbity stab!
And I hate being this grumpy. Any suggestions for getting out of a grump?
Back to the weather, though. Somehow, it is all about me. And this winter, this eternal-endlessly-eternal-suckass-cold-grim-even-though-it's-officially-spring winter, has lasted MY ENTIRE LIFE.
I don't do this with nice weather. (Does one ever say clement weather? I never hear it. Only inclement.) But once it's bad weather, well, it's been visited directly upon me. Smote, I tell you, smote by the rain!
Devious droplets of dickishness.
This morning as I walked to work, the weather broke my umbrella. The wind was coming from 37 different directions and kept turning my cute red umbrella with admittedly oddly-yellow-tinted zebras inside out and now it is broken.
I felt like my two-mile walk to the office was this Sisyphean task, and I wanted to shake my fist at the gods. Instead I just glowered and stomped along, trying to avoid the other pedestrians who were also being buffeted about, trying to salvage their umbrellas.
(Which gave me the suspicion that it is not directed specifically at me. That was short-lived, though.)
And I hate wind. I am not one of those, oh, gentle breezes softly caressing my cheek! oh, for the wind in the willows! kind of people.
No. For me it is more like when we were kids and my brother and I were in the back seat of the car and there would be a Very Firm Line down the middle. And he would keep crossing it and touching me.
And I would be all, "Stop touching me! Daaaaaad! Sibling is crossing the line and touching me! Stoooooop! Touching! Me!"
I dislike the feeling on my skin. I don't even particularly like house fans. Which is unfortunate because they seem to be one of Nick's passions in life. Also the sailing. There is necessarily a lot of wind involved.
But that is a whole nother topic.
Anyway, there was the wind. And the rain. Also coming from multiple directions. And the coldy cold!
Will it ever get warm? When was the last time it was warm? I seriously cannot remember being warm.
Well, except yesterday. Yesterday was actually quite lovely.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Mind your own uterus: The reason that stupid minivan is still on my mind
I was raised pro-choice. There's never been a moment in my life where I thought that abortion should not be a personal choice.
But having been pregnant, and being a mother, and being a mother who wants to be pregnant again, I have never, ever been so vehemently pro-choice as I am now.
I grew up knowing that if I found myself pregnant young or in the wrong circumstances, I'd have an abortion. It was just kind of a fact.
It was also a fact in our household that condoms were the solution to everything: poverty, world hunger, STDs, overpopulation...and of course, on a personal level, avoidance of finding one's self all knocked up.
So fortunately, I never found myself all knocked up. Until, you know, I wanted to be.
But for all those years, I don't remember getting so violently angry about abortion. I mean, I felt strongly enough to march and give money to Planned Parenthood and get into arguments.
But not so strongly that I'd want to ram into the back of an anti-abortion-bumper-sticker having car. But now, now I do.
I was pro-choice because it just seemed fair to be able to have control over your fertility. Because friends of mine had gotten pregnant accidentally, and made the choice, and gone on with their lives. Lives that would've been dramatically different had they been forced into teen and early 20-s motherhood.
But I didn't give it a lot of thought beyond, "Fuck you, don't tell me what to do with my body."
And then I got pregnant. And I realized how pregnancy takes over your entire body, mind, soul. It affects every cell of your being. I learned how fucking hard it is.
And I had it easy. I'm not a manual laborer. I have a desk job. I have an accommodating workplace. And ample leave. And a supportive husband. And good health care.
I whined about it a lot, but comparatively, pregnancy was not so hard for me.
Then I had the kid. You know, the one I talk about all the damn time and love like crazy.
Having a kid you hoped for, one you want and have the means to provide for, one you and your spouse and your mother dote on, it's amazing. It's also amazingly hard.
And once again, we have it easy. There's more than one of us. We live in a comfortable, safe house in a nice neighborhood. We can afford to meet all of our needs. We rush to meet his, and we revel in him. He has it easy.
But forcing someone to go through a pregnancy they don't want, just because you think it's wrong? Feeling like you have the right to force the birth of an unwanted child?
Life is fucking hard. Why make it harder? And why make it harder from birth? My ass these people are actually thinking about the child.
I get so infuriated by the smug self-righteous fucks pushing an anti-abortion agenda. I'm not telling you what do to with your body (except occasionally to stick your agenda up your ass); don't tell me what to do with mine.
And I can't even get started on men with an anti-abortion stance. Men! The ones who will never, ever be pregnant! I get apoplectic. If you have a penis and I'm not married to you, stay the fuck out of my uterus.
(Although actually, now that I'm thinking about it technically, it's not like the person I am married to could actually get into my uterus. Because of course my cervix is in the way. But that's anatomy, not politics. You know what I'm saying.)
But having been pregnant, and being a mother, and being a mother who wants to be pregnant again, I have never, ever been so vehemently pro-choice as I am now.
I grew up knowing that if I found myself pregnant young or in the wrong circumstances, I'd have an abortion. It was just kind of a fact.
It was also a fact in our household that condoms were the solution to everything: poverty, world hunger, STDs, overpopulation...and of course, on a personal level, avoidance of finding one's self all knocked up.
So fortunately, I never found myself all knocked up. Until, you know, I wanted to be.
But for all those years, I don't remember getting so violently angry about abortion. I mean, I felt strongly enough to march and give money to Planned Parenthood and get into arguments.
But not so strongly that I'd want to ram into the back of an anti-abortion-bumper-sticker having car. But now, now I do.
I was pro-choice because it just seemed fair to be able to have control over your fertility. Because friends of mine had gotten pregnant accidentally, and made the choice, and gone on with their lives. Lives that would've been dramatically different had they been forced into teen and early 20-s motherhood.
But I didn't give it a lot of thought beyond, "Fuck you, don't tell me what to do with my body."
And then I got pregnant. And I realized how pregnancy takes over your entire body, mind, soul. It affects every cell of your being. I learned how fucking hard it is.
And I had it easy. I'm not a manual laborer. I have a desk job. I have an accommodating workplace. And ample leave. And a supportive husband. And good health care.
I whined about it a lot, but comparatively, pregnancy was not so hard for me.
Then I had the kid. You know, the one I talk about all the damn time and love like crazy.
Having a kid you hoped for, one you want and have the means to provide for, one you and your spouse and your mother dote on, it's amazing. It's also amazingly hard.
And once again, we have it easy. There's more than one of us. We live in a comfortable, safe house in a nice neighborhood. We can afford to meet all of our needs. We rush to meet his, and we revel in him. He has it easy.
But forcing someone to go through a pregnancy they don't want, just because you think it's wrong? Feeling like you have the right to force the birth of an unwanted child?
Life is fucking hard. Why make it harder? And why make it harder from birth? My ass these people are actually thinking about the child.
I get so infuriated by the smug self-righteous fucks pushing an anti-abortion agenda. I'm not telling you what do to with your body (except occasionally to stick your agenda up your ass); don't tell me what to do with mine.
And I can't even get started on men with an anti-abortion stance. Men! The ones who will never, ever be pregnant! I get apoplectic. If you have a penis and I'm not married to you, stay the fuck out of my uterus.
(Although actually, now that I'm thinking about it technically, it's not like the person I am married to could actually get into my uterus. Because of course my cervix is in the way. But that's anatomy, not politics. You know what I'm saying.)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Watch your ass
I don't know about you, but I totally judge people on their bumper stickers.
And while I'm not terribly political, nothing enrages me like the issue of choice. But that's a whole nother post.
So the judgey. If someone gets all in my way and is a terrible driver, I'll be all annoyed, but then if they have a sticker for a politician I like, or for the Humane Society or something, then I'm all, "Oh, they're from Virginia. Maybe they're lost."
And the reverse is also true, but more so. So much more so.
If you're advertising beliefs that are antithetical to mine, I immediately assume you're a tremendous asshole and you're probably on your cell phone.
Little Betty is under the weather, and so last night I drove out to bring her to our house. I just feel better having her under my nose and knowing exactly how she's doing.
Anyway, I was on my way out of DC and for three different lights I was stuck behind this minivan with Virginia plates. It was festooned with numerous stickers.
The two I remember are: "Choosy Mothers Choose Life" and "What's the Cost of Abortion? One Human Life." The others were of the same ilk.
Light one: I read the stickers and had this extreme urge to throw my car into reverse and ram into the back of that minivan as hard as possible. Multiple times. A la Fried Green Tomatoes.
The light changed before I could do this. But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have.
Light two: I tried to get in front of them on the way to this light, one because they were slow, but just fast enough, and two, because being stuck behind their enormous proselytizing minivanass was making me mad.
I was unsuccessful. But this light went fast.
Light three: I remembered that I have that awesome Cut Your Seat Belt and Escape from Death! hammer that lovely Laura bought for me in my glove box. I pictured myself jumping out of my car, running up to theirs, and smashing the shit out of their windows.
I didn't do this either.
Karma and The Law, you know?
And while I'm not terribly political, nothing enrages me like the issue of choice. But that's a whole nother post.
So the judgey. If someone gets all in my way and is a terrible driver, I'll be all annoyed, but then if they have a sticker for a politician I like, or for the Humane Society or something, then I'm all, "Oh, they're from Virginia. Maybe they're lost."
And the reverse is also true, but more so. So much more so.
If you're advertising beliefs that are antithetical to mine, I immediately assume you're a tremendous asshole and you're probably on your cell phone.
Little Betty is under the weather, and so last night I drove out to bring her to our house. I just feel better having her under my nose and knowing exactly how she's doing.
Anyway, I was on my way out of DC and for three different lights I was stuck behind this minivan with Virginia plates. It was festooned with numerous stickers.
The two I remember are: "Choosy Mothers Choose Life" and "What's the Cost of Abortion? One Human Life." The others were of the same ilk.
Light one: I read the stickers and had this extreme urge to throw my car into reverse and ram into the back of that minivan as hard as possible. Multiple times. A la Fried Green Tomatoes.
The light changed before I could do this. But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have.
Light two: I tried to get in front of them on the way to this light, one because they were slow, but just fast enough, and two, because being stuck behind their enormous proselytizing minivanass was making me mad.
I was unsuccessful. But this light went fast.
Light three: I remembered that I have that awesome Cut Your Seat Belt and Escape from Death! hammer that lovely Laura bought for me in my glove box. I pictured myself jumping out of my car, running up to theirs, and smashing the shit out of their windows.
I didn't do this either.
Karma and The Law, you know?
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
You could make bank with a baby hotel and I know this because Jon Stewart gave Betty the flu
So, listen. This is not something I could ever do, because children, ew.
I mean, I love mine with all my heart. But other people's children? Are sticky. And screamy. And have boogersnots. And just ew.
Which is not to say that mine isn't and doesn't. He is and does. He's just, you know, mine.
But look at that little grub. He rolls in the dirty laundry every chance he gets.
So here's the deal: Betty went to the rally on Saturday with Maude's mom. And then yesterday morning she called us, too sick to come over and hang out with our progeny. She's got the flu. She still sounds terrible.
Nick was all, "She got it from one of the millions of people at the rally. She took metro. I bet she held onto the pole with her bare hand and then touched her nose."
I imagined this short video of hand to pole to nose playing over and over.
So Betty is sick-abed, and Nick couldn't stay home for more than a few hours yesterday morning. So I gathered material at the office and headed home. For what turns out to be the rest of the week.
But not before calling one of those emergency nanny services, who I thought I'd just hire for a couple days. This nearly made me pass out.
Because. Listen.
OK, yes, having your kid well cared for in a pinch? Priceless. Of course. Of course.
But if you want prices? Here's the breakdown.
Signing up to be a client for a year, which means you can call them at any time and they'll find you a nanny: $100. Daily fee if you schedule in advance: $35. This is per day, even if you're going to have the same person two days in a row. Then the nanny charges $16-20 per hour. She quotes her rate when she calls you. If it's too high for you, you are free to ask the agency for someone else.
Ready? This makes $170 to the agency. (Although to be fair, the $100 does last for the year.) Plus nanny fees ranging from $288-$360, depending on her hourly rate.
Total? Somewhere between $458-$520. For two days of care.
I'm not saying caregivers shouldn't be compensated. I just wasn't ready for the numbers.
So I headed into my boss's office and asked if I could take the next two days off. Or work from home while J is napping. I can get things done during his three-hour afternoon nap and at night.
My boss, who has kids and knows how it all goes and really just wants you to get your work done, said sure. Which is wonderful.
But if you didn't work at a family-friendly place? Or for someone understanding? Or make boatloads of cash?
You'd be screwed.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wednesday with a side of whine
I know you all like me better when I'm funny, but I don't have a drop of funny in me today.
The funny might be in there somewhere, but it's probably trapped in mucus, dying a slow and ugly death. Kind of like those bugs in amber. Hahaha gasp gasp.
Because here's why: My kid has been sick and not sleeping for a week. Now I'm sick.
Also, I hate my hair. And my shoes. In fact, I think I hate everything today.
Jordan slept all the way till 4ish am before waking up all coughing and congesty and unhappy. This is a dramatic improvement from the awake every several hours all night long that's been going on since Friday night.
However. It's still 4ish in the goddamn morning.
So at about 4:30 I did him the severe injustice of squirting saline in his nostrils and then sucking out the snot with that little blue bulb thing they give you in the hospital. Not to be confused with the squarch bottle. They're very different things.
Can you say Violated! and Enraged! 25 times fast and really really LOUD?
That was him at 4:30 am.
But then he was able to breathe and slept till 7:15 and that made things much better, except that I'm all snotty and congesty and tired and bitter.
Somehow he doesn't understand that it's going to make him feel better, even though I explain it to him. I'm all, "Look, you can breathe now!"
And he's all, "FUUUUCK YOOOOUUUU, NASAL VIOLATOR! WAAAAAAAAH!"
In other words, we're not having healthy dialogue.
Not that I'm happy to be sick, but the good thing about being all congested as an adult is that you're allowed to take decongestants and shit that make you feel better. Or at least allow you to sleep.
Except when someone is yelling for you from the other room. Not naming names, but it starts with J and ends with ordan.
Nick's sister, who is a nurse, said that when her year-old son got sick, her pediatrician prescribed these drops that were an antihistamine and cough suppressant and I don't know what-all so he could sleep at night. She said there were very few things you could safely give babies, and to ask for these.
You bet I did.
Our pediatrician didn't feel comfortable prescribing anything for such a young child. Just saline and humidifier and hanging out in a warm steamy bathroom.
And if this goes on for more than another week, to bring him back in.
I kind of wanted to stab her at 4 am. Fuck you and your warm steamy bathroom and no nose drops for my kid.
And I know this isn't the worst thing on the planet. But I'm fucking tired. And whiny.
I made Nick pinky swear that if this goes on another week, that he'll go in to the doctor's office and give them a stern talking-to and tell them We. Cannot. Live. Like. This. and give us some motherfucking nose drops. Bitchez.
That last sentence is the reason Nick needs to do it. Because he'll be poised and reasonable. Whereas I'd be all shrill and hysterical and maybe even insulting and belligerent.
Which doesn't tend to get you anywhere good. Not speaking from experience or anything.
The funny might be in there somewhere, but it's probably trapped in mucus, dying a slow and ugly death. Kind of like those bugs in amber. Hahaha gasp gasp.
Because here's why: My kid has been sick and not sleeping for a week. Now I'm sick.
Also, I hate my hair. And my shoes. In fact, I think I hate everything today.
Jordan slept all the way till 4ish am before waking up all coughing and congesty and unhappy. This is a dramatic improvement from the awake every several hours all night long that's been going on since Friday night.
However. It's still 4ish in the goddamn morning.
So at about 4:30 I did him the severe injustice of squirting saline in his nostrils and then sucking out the snot with that little blue bulb thing they give you in the hospital. Not to be confused with the squarch bottle. They're very different things.
Can you say Violated! and Enraged! 25 times fast and really really LOUD?
That was him at 4:30 am.
But then he was able to breathe and slept till 7:15 and that made things much better, except that I'm all snotty and congesty and tired and bitter.
Somehow he doesn't understand that it's going to make him feel better, even though I explain it to him. I'm all, "Look, you can breathe now!"
And he's all, "FUUUUCK YOOOOUUUU, NASAL VIOLATOR! WAAAAAAAAH!"
In other words, we're not having healthy dialogue.
Not that I'm happy to be sick, but the good thing about being all congested as an adult is that you're allowed to take decongestants and shit that make you feel better. Or at least allow you to sleep.
Except when someone is yelling for you from the other room. Not naming names, but it starts with J and ends with ordan.
Nick's sister, who is a nurse, said that when her year-old son got sick, her pediatrician prescribed these drops that were an antihistamine and cough suppressant and I don't know what-all so he could sleep at night. She said there were very few things you could safely give babies, and to ask for these.
You bet I did.
Our pediatrician didn't feel comfortable prescribing anything for such a young child. Just saline and humidifier and hanging out in a warm steamy bathroom.
And if this goes on for more than another week, to bring him back in.
I kind of wanted to stab her at 4 am. Fuck you and your warm steamy bathroom and no nose drops for my kid.
And I know this isn't the worst thing on the planet. But I'm fucking tired. And whiny.
I made Nick pinky swear that if this goes on another week, that he'll go in to the doctor's office and give them a stern talking-to and tell them We. Cannot. Live. Like. This. and give us some motherfucking nose drops. Bitchez.
That last sentence is the reason Nick needs to do it. Because he'll be poised and reasonable. Whereas I'd be all shrill and hysterical and maybe even insulting and belligerent.
Which doesn't tend to get you anywhere good. Not speaking from experience or anything.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
And I asked Henry, my bartending friend, if I should bother dating unfamous men
I think I loathe the new W.
I used to like the rooftop of the Hotel Washington. The food was mediocre, but it was such a nice place to have drinks and hang out. It was friendly and low key with a beautiful view.
And now, now it's all Very Important and Extremely Annoying.
You walk towards the elevator and a beautiful skinny woman dressed in black asks where you're going and you tell her and then it is all, "Oh, do you have a reservation? No? Well, you could go up to the standing room only section."
"Uh, OK."
"The beautiful skinny woman in black - no, not her, the other beautiful skinny woman in black - will take you up in the elevator. And then you can go out onto the roof and feel inadequate."
So we did this. Three friends and I, all in cute outfits with good shoes - because it was a DATE! With each other! Because, yay! We are moms, and we go out pretty much never. Happy hour! With other people taking care of our kids! Let's try the W!
So it's not like we were under-dressed. Or like any of us are provincial.
I think it's just the W.
Although I don't remember being made to feel like I was just so lucky to be there at other Ws.
So we went to the roof. On a hot as balls day. The balls hotness I cannot blame on the W.
The irritating pretentiousness, though? Definitely.
We arrived about 5:30. Which is when we were told that we could stand. We figured it would be super crowded.
There were about 10 people up there. With a jillion empty tables and chairs, all with reserved signs on them. It wasn't like you were jostling for the standing room.
You were just, well, standing.
The bartender was nice, and he said it's that they get reserved for dinner, so they have to put the signs up early. But we could sit until someone with reservations arrived for their table.
Just at that point, though, two bar stools opened up. We took them.
I learned then and there it was better to stand. Because that way the sweat could run all the way down your legs. Rather than pooling in your butt crack.
It was that kind of hot. And I am that kind of charming.
So we decided, we're here, the view is great, we'll have one glass of wine, and then we go inside or elsewhere.
I'd have been amenable to going inside until they decided it was time to take away our stools.
Seriously.
The guy said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask for your stools."
And then he took them away! Everybody stand now!
At which point we decided it was time to head elsewhere.
I think that if I ever want to feel inadequate while I drink, I'm just going to stay home with a Vogue magazine and a bottle of wine. At least it'll be air conditioned, and nobody's taking my chair away.
I used to like the rooftop of the Hotel Washington. The food was mediocre, but it was such a nice place to have drinks and hang out. It was friendly and low key with a beautiful view.
And now, now it's all Very Important and Extremely Annoying.
You walk towards the elevator and a beautiful skinny woman dressed in black asks where you're going and you tell her and then it is all, "Oh, do you have a reservation? No? Well, you could go up to the standing room only section."
"Uh, OK."
"The beautiful skinny woman in black - no, not her, the other beautiful skinny woman in black - will take you up in the elevator. And then you can go out onto the roof and feel inadequate."
So we did this. Three friends and I, all in cute outfits with good shoes - because it was a DATE! With each other! Because, yay! We are moms, and we go out pretty much never. Happy hour! With other people taking care of our kids! Let's try the W!
So it's not like we were under-dressed. Or like any of us are provincial.
I think it's just the W.
Although I don't remember being made to feel like I was just so lucky to be there at other Ws.
So we went to the roof. On a hot as balls day. The balls hotness I cannot blame on the W.
The irritating pretentiousness, though? Definitely.
We arrived about 5:30. Which is when we were told that we could stand. We figured it would be super crowded.
There were about 10 people up there. With a jillion empty tables and chairs, all with reserved signs on them. It wasn't like you were jostling for the standing room.
You were just, well, standing.
The bartender was nice, and he said it's that they get reserved for dinner, so they have to put the signs up early. But we could sit until someone with reservations arrived for their table.
Just at that point, though, two bar stools opened up. We took them.
I learned then and there it was better to stand. Because that way the sweat could run all the way down your legs. Rather than pooling in your butt crack.
It was that kind of hot. And I am that kind of charming.
So we decided, we're here, the view is great, we'll have one glass of wine, and then we go inside or elsewhere.
I'd have been amenable to going inside until they decided it was time to take away our stools.
Seriously.
The guy said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask for your stools."
And then he took them away! Everybody stand now!
At which point we decided it was time to head elsewhere.
I think that if I ever want to feel inadequate while I drink, I'm just going to stay home with a Vogue magazine and a bottle of wine. At least it'll be air conditioned, and nobody's taking my chair away.
Monday, August 02, 2010
What I imagine it would be like to spend time with a two-foot tall teenage girl with no language skills and six teeth
I know you're not supposed to say this, but I just can't stand my kid today.
I've been pulling some serious revisionist history and fantasizing about how awesome my single life was.
The fact is, I couldn't really stand him yesterday, either. Nick went out of town for work and I was all, fuck, now I'm alone with the kid.
Because everything? Everything is terrible.
UP! MAMAMAAAA I. WANT. UP!
NOOOOO! UP IS TERRIBLE! WAAAAAAAAAH! DOWN! I WANT DOWN!
WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA YOU ASSHOLE! DOWN IS TERRIBLE! IN FACT, DOWN IS WOOOOOOOORRSSSEE THAN TERRIBLE! WAAAAAAAHHHHH!
I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAAAAAANNNNTTTT AND YOU'RE NOT DOING IT!
Being awake is terrible.
Napping is terrible.
The only things he wants to do are things he's not allowed to do. And this enrages him.
I suck because I'm not allowing him to actually eat the corner of the board book that he manages to chew off.
I suck because I closed the bathroom door, when the toiled could be an endless source of delight, if only I weren't so mean.
But I am. I'm so mean.
I suck because I won't let him pull on that one fucking plug in the middle of the fucking wall that was the only fucking place that Nick could plug in the fucking speaker.
AAAAHHHHH! THAT PLUG! IS ALL I WANT IN THE WORLD! AND YOU'VE TAKEN THAT AWAY!
Yes, yes I have.
The high chair? Might as well be a guillotine.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH NOOOOOOO NOT THE HIGH CHAIR!
WAIT! NOOOO! DON'T PUT ME DOWN FROM THE HIGH CHAIR! WAAAAAAAH! DON'T YOU LOVE ME?
And I am all, listen, little pal. If I didn't love you this much, or have this much self-restraint, you think we'd still be here, doing the Asshole Dance together?
I've been pulling some serious revisionist history and fantasizing about how awesome my single life was.
The fact is, I couldn't really stand him yesterday, either. Nick went out of town for work and I was all, fuck, now I'm alone with the kid.
Because everything? Everything is terrible.
UP! MAMAMAAAA I. WANT. UP!
NOOOOO! UP IS TERRIBLE! WAAAAAAAAAH! DOWN! I WANT DOWN!
WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA YOU ASSHOLE! DOWN IS TERRIBLE! IN FACT, DOWN IS WOOOOOOOORRSSSEE THAN TERRIBLE! WAAAAAAAHHHHH!
I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAAAAAANNNNTTTT AND YOU'RE NOT DOING IT!
Being awake is terrible.
Napping is terrible.
The only things he wants to do are things he's not allowed to do. And this enrages him.
I suck because I'm not allowing him to actually eat the corner of the board book that he manages to chew off.
I suck because I closed the bathroom door, when the toiled could be an endless source of delight, if only I weren't so mean.
But I am. I'm so mean.
I suck because I won't let him pull on that one fucking plug in the middle of the fucking wall that was the only fucking place that Nick could plug in the fucking speaker.
AAAAHHHHH! THAT PLUG! IS ALL I WANT IN THE WORLD! AND YOU'VE TAKEN THAT AWAY!
Yes, yes I have.
The high chair? Might as well be a guillotine.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH NOOOOOOO NOT THE HIGH CHAIR!
WAIT! NOOOO! DON'T PUT ME DOWN FROM THE HIGH CHAIR! WAAAAAAAH! DON'T YOU LOVE ME?
And I am all, listen, little pal. If I didn't love you this much, or have this much self-restraint, you think we'd still be here, doing the Asshole Dance together?
Monday, June 14, 2010
The mantra rug, jeans babies, and the busy business of mamama eeeeee thump up! down! bang blam here! there! blam! In other words: send liquor.
I'm going to start by reminding you how much I love my son.
Also, I put this rug in his room. For me.
But you know I love him more than my life, right? And that I would do anything for him?
I would never actually toss him out a window, or hand him to a passer-by, in the same way that I would never actually stab Nick. Even though I mention doing so on a regular basis. You know this.
Right?
Plus, on the whole he is happy and smiley and sweet and charming and he makes me laugh and I squeeze on him and kiss him approximately 956 times a day.
So when I tell you that lately in addition to all that, he's being kind of an asshole and driving me up the fucking wall, I trust you'll understand that I realize he's a baby and not an asshole and I'm not actually resorting to baby window tossing or giving away and you won't call Child Protective Services.
Just so we're clear.
Also please forgive any possible run-on sentences. I'm tired and cranky and did I mention tired and that my kid is kind of pushing me to the frazzled ends of my little rope?
So I am never around babies, because: 1. I avoided most of them like the plague before I had one, and 2. I generally suck at organizing play dates.
And since I love to generalize, I just assume most babies are probably like mine. No?
NO.
My friend Karen came over last Friday with her daughter Summer, who is six weeks older than J. I don't know if you gender differences play a role, but I was really struck by how much calmer and gentler her daughter is.
We celebrated managing to get together with tea and Jeans Diaper Dance Party 2010.
While Karen changed her, Summer kicked back and was all, "Cool, a dry diaper! Thanks, mom!"
She made some kind of adorable little cooing noise.
Whereas Jordan did his typical clutching at the side rails for dear life and wailing and flailing and generally behaving as if the changing pad is covered in acid and nooooo not another toy to hold and please God, please grant him the dexterity to scale the wall and escape.
Finally I got the diaper on and put him on the floor and he was all, "Awesome! Now Summer, let me show you these amazing drawer pulls. One day I'll be strong enough to pull and the contents of the drawer will be MINE! To strew about! Mhahahahahaha!"
Summer sat on the carpet near her mom and watched. While J bounced off every single wall we have and pulled out all his toys and generally caused as much chaos as possible.
And then she stood up and raised her little arms so her mom would pick her up.
While J raised his arms for up, and then as soon as I picked him up he was all nooooo fllooooor is so much more interesting and down down is where I want to be!
Because you see when he is down UP! Up is where he wants except he'd also like to be THERE! Until he is THERE and then here - wherever here is - is far preferable.
And so we are up!ing! and down!ing! and busybusybusy!
(Also the extra !s are for emphasis and I don't actually speak Xhosa. Although I do think it would be really cool to speak a click language.)
All the while I'm eying Summer, who is making cute noises and gently picking up one toy after another and examining and playing quietly. And watching politely while my little hurricane is grabbing toys, pounding the floor, and being all bang! Blam! Bang! This one goes to eleven!
In this picture we're at the end of our date. You can see Summer is kind of like, "Oh, thank you so much for having us over. I've enjoyed it immensely and your son has a certain charm and now I'm tired."
While my little rocket scientist is all, "I can't believe you're interrupting my BANG THUMP busy business for a picture! Don't you know how many more bells and whistles and BAM BANG BANG THUMP I need to demonstrate before they leave?"
It's like I said: send liquor.
Also, I put this rug in his room. For me.But you know I love him more than my life, right? And that I would do anything for him?
I would never actually toss him out a window, or hand him to a passer-by, in the same way that I would never actually stab Nick. Even though I mention doing so on a regular basis. You know this.
Right?
Plus, on the whole he is happy and smiley and sweet and charming and he makes me laugh and I squeeze on him and kiss him approximately 956 times a day.
So when I tell you that lately in addition to all that, he's being kind of an asshole and driving me up the fucking wall, I trust you'll understand that I realize he's a baby and not an asshole and I'm not actually resorting to baby window tossing or giving away and you won't call Child Protective Services.
Just so we're clear.
Also please forgive any possible run-on sentences. I'm tired and cranky and did I mention tired and that my kid is kind of pushing me to the frazzled ends of my little rope?
So I am never around babies, because: 1. I avoided most of them like the plague before I had one, and 2. I generally suck at organizing play dates.
And since I love to generalize, I just assume most babies are probably like mine. No?
NO.
My friend Karen came over last Friday with her daughter Summer, who is six weeks older than J. I don't know if you gender differences play a role, but I was really struck by how much calmer and gentler her daughter is.
We celebrated managing to get together with tea and Jeans Diaper Dance Party 2010.
While Karen changed her, Summer kicked back and was all, "Cool, a dry diaper! Thanks, mom!"
She made some kind of adorable little cooing noise.
Whereas Jordan did his typical clutching at the side rails for dear life and wailing and flailing and generally behaving as if the changing pad is covered in acid and nooooo not another toy to hold and please God, please grant him the dexterity to scale the wall and escape.
Finally I got the diaper on and put him on the floor and he was all, "Awesome! Now Summer, let me show you these amazing drawer pulls. One day I'll be strong enough to pull and the contents of the drawer will be MINE! To strew about! Mhahahahahaha!"
Summer sat on the carpet near her mom and watched. While J bounced off every single wall we have and pulled out all his toys and generally caused as much chaos as possible.And then she stood up and raised her little arms so her mom would pick her up.
While J raised his arms for up, and then as soon as I picked him up he was all nooooo fllooooor is so much more interesting and down down is where I want to be!
Because you see when he is down UP! Up is where he wants except he'd also like to be THERE! Until he is THERE and then here - wherever here is - is far preferable.
And so we are up!ing! and down!ing! and busybusybusy!
(Also the extra !s are for emphasis and I don't actually speak Xhosa. Although I do think it would be really cool to speak a click language.)
All the while I'm eying Summer, who is making cute noises and gently picking up one toy after another and examining and playing quietly. And watching politely while my little hurricane is grabbing toys, pounding the floor, and being all bang! Blam! Bang! This one goes to eleven!
In this picture we're at the end of our date. You can see Summer is kind of like, "Oh, thank you so much for having us over. I've enjoyed it immensely and your son has a certain charm and now I'm tired."
While my little rocket scientist is all, "I can't believe you're interrupting my BANG THUMP busy business for a picture! Don't you know how many more bells and whistles and BAM BANG BANG THUMP I need to demonstrate before they leave?"
It's like I said: send liquor.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
It's not the iPhone, it's the people
I used to really want an iPhone.
I already have AT&T, so that wouldn't be a switch. But I have a BlackBerry for work, and I'm not really a need-to-be-connected-all-the-time person, so I just never did anything about it.
I know that the iPhone does all kinds of amazing things and there are apps for everything. And I find that pretty enticing.
But what puts me off is how annoying most iPhone havers are.
And how I don't want to be one of those people.
Have you noticed this?
Most iPhone people cannot sit in a meeting without fondling it, and checking it 57 times a minute. If you're out socially with someone who has one, they tend to pay more attention to it than to you.
Which makes me feel unimportant. And when I feel unimportant enough times, I stop feeling like you're all that interesting in my life.
But there is probably a Friend App for the iPhone, so real-life friends might not be all that critical.
And on top of all the iPhone fiddling with, I am tired of the word. It's in your hand the whole time we're talking. Do you also need to refer to it 17 times in conversation?
"So I was reading the Post on my iPhone..."
"I'm working from home this afternoon. I'll have my iPhone with me."
"Let me get a picture of that with my iPhone."
So.
I've been mentally substituting the word "vagina" for "iPhone."
Colleague sits down at meeting, pats pocket, stands up. "I'll be right back. I left my vagina on my desk!"
It keeps me pretty amused.
I already have AT&T, so that wouldn't be a switch. But I have a BlackBerry for work, and I'm not really a need-to-be-connected-all-the-time person, so I just never did anything about it.
I know that the iPhone does all kinds of amazing things and there are apps for everything. And I find that pretty enticing.
But what puts me off is how annoying most iPhone havers are.
And how I don't want to be one of those people.
Have you noticed this?
Most iPhone people cannot sit in a meeting without fondling it, and checking it 57 times a minute. If you're out socially with someone who has one, they tend to pay more attention to it than to you.
Which makes me feel unimportant. And when I feel unimportant enough times, I stop feeling like you're all that interesting in my life.
But there is probably a Friend App for the iPhone, so real-life friends might not be all that critical.
And on top of all the iPhone fiddling with, I am tired of the word. It's in your hand the whole time we're talking. Do you also need to refer to it 17 times in conversation?
"So I was reading the Post on my iPhone..."
"I'm working from home this afternoon. I'll have my iPhone with me."
"Let me get a picture of that with my iPhone."
So.
I've been mentally substituting the word "vagina" for "iPhone."
Colleague sits down at meeting, pats pocket, stands up. "I'll be right back. I left my vagina on my desk!"
It keeps me pretty amused.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
How to be embrace the fact that you never gave up on profanity
1. Live in a house with radiator heat.
2. And also one old boiler that supplies all hot water for the house, including aforementioned radiators. (Note: foreshadowing!)
3. Wait for Snowmaggedon DC 2010! Biggest snow of the year/the decade/the ever! Lots of snow! Freezy fucking freezing!
4. Suddenly notice that it has gotten progressively colder in the house.
5. Realize that not only does the thermostat register coldy-cold, but in fact, radiators are no longer radiating.
6. Ask husband to fix the situation. Have full confidence, as not only is he handy, but he's remedied this before.
7. Be told by husband that the pilot light for the boiler, the goddamnedsonofabitchemeffing boiler, is off and refuses to go back on. And the boiler guy, whose number husband apparently has on speed dial, cannot come over (see #3 Snowmageddon). Until Monday.
8. Swear profusely. Repeat this step as often as necessary. Also maybe stamp feet. For warmth. And emphasis.
9. Ask neighbor, who is over hanging out, to borrow space heaters.
10. Pray that the power doesn't go out.
Fuck fuck fuckity fucking goddamn fuckaliciousness fuckity fuck! For example.
2. And also one old boiler that supplies all hot water for the house, including aforementioned radiators. (Note: foreshadowing!)
3. Wait for Snowmaggedon DC 2010! Biggest snow of the year/the decade/the ever! Lots of snow! Freezy fucking freezing!
4. Suddenly notice that it has gotten progressively colder in the house.
5. Realize that not only does the thermostat register coldy-cold, but in fact, radiators are no longer radiating.
6. Ask husband to fix the situation. Have full confidence, as not only is he handy, but he's remedied this before.
7. Be told by husband that the pilot light for the boiler, the goddamnedsonofabitchemeffing boiler, is off and refuses to go back on. And the boiler guy, whose number husband apparently has on speed dial, cannot come over (see #3 Snowmageddon). Until Monday.
8. Swear profusely. Repeat this step as often as necessary. Also maybe stamp feet. For warmth. And emphasis.
9. Ask neighbor, who is over hanging out, to borrow space heaters.
10. Pray that the power doesn't go out.
Fuck fuck fuckity fucking goddamn fuckaliciousness fuckity fuck! For example.
Monday, January 25, 2010
And then you realize that you're your own problem
So earlier today I wrote this long, venting post about how we aren't getting any sleep and how there's this proffered solution, and how my husband hasn't read it and how it makes me want to stab him.
Not irrevocably. Just a little.
But the real problem is not my husband or the fact that he hasn't read one particular fucking book. And in fact, I feel like a huge asshole for complaining.
The real problem is more like this: The real me has gone somewhere - probably on some exotic vacation - and left this sleep-deprived, low-humor, crabby, wrinkly, flabby woman in her place.
Neither of us get enough sleep. We're both trying to be good parents. And we're both maintaining full time jobs - and Nick's is fuller than full time, really.
And we have this house that's still so much work. Work that Nick does a lot of. And on top of everything else, he's a fantastic dad. He really is.
While me, I don't feel like such a fantastic mom. I feel like I do a good job of feeding Big J and playing with him and talking to him. Really, everything during the day. But I am so tired and resentful at night.
At night, I wish we could close the door on a soundproof room and just not hear him till morning. I want eight straight hours of sleep. Truth be told, I want ten.
How horrible is that? It makes me feel so guilty.
And I also feel like a sucky wife. I'm no fun. I'm always tired. I get mad and stabby so easily. And even so, Nick supports me.
I miss being enthusiastic and energetic and joking and laughing and putting on cute outfits and wearing tarty boots. I miss the me I used to be.
One evening last week the weather was lovely and a couple people ran past me on my walk home. And I thought, oh, if I didn't have a child, I'd be out for a delicious evening run. And then probably I'd be meeting friends for drinks. We'd chat and laugh and maybe even drink too much. And then I'd crawl in bed and sleep all night.
I feel like being a mom just consumes me. I love J so much and wouldn't trade being his mom for anything.
But I feel like I scrape by with the bare minimum in every other piece of my life.
And there I am, complaining about the men in my life, when really, I'm my own problem.
Not irrevocably. Just a little.
But the real problem is not my husband or the fact that he hasn't read one particular fucking book. And in fact, I feel like a huge asshole for complaining.
The real problem is more like this: The real me has gone somewhere - probably on some exotic vacation - and left this sleep-deprived, low-humor, crabby, wrinkly, flabby woman in her place.
Neither of us get enough sleep. We're both trying to be good parents. And we're both maintaining full time jobs - and Nick's is fuller than full time, really.
And we have this house that's still so much work. Work that Nick does a lot of. And on top of everything else, he's a fantastic dad. He really is.
While me, I don't feel like such a fantastic mom. I feel like I do a good job of feeding Big J and playing with him and talking to him. Really, everything during the day. But I am so tired and resentful at night.
At night, I wish we could close the door on a soundproof room and just not hear him till morning. I want eight straight hours of sleep. Truth be told, I want ten.
How horrible is that? It makes me feel so guilty.
And I also feel like a sucky wife. I'm no fun. I'm always tired. I get mad and stabby so easily. And even so, Nick supports me.
I miss being enthusiastic and energetic and joking and laughing and putting on cute outfits and wearing tarty boots. I miss the me I used to be.
One evening last week the weather was lovely and a couple people ran past me on my walk home. And I thought, oh, if I didn't have a child, I'd be out for a delicious evening run. And then probably I'd be meeting friends for drinks. We'd chat and laugh and maybe even drink too much. And then I'd crawl in bed and sleep all night.
I feel like being a mom just consumes me. I love J so much and wouldn't trade being his mom for anything.
But I feel like I scrape by with the bare minimum in every other piece of my life.
And there I am, complaining about the men in my life, when really, I'm my own problem.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
And yet again, it's dang dratted monster trucking cable
Nick says it looks like we're going to have to slam our dick in the door.
By this he means switch back to Comcast. The idea makes me want to spoon my eyes out.
I reminded him about the terrible customer service, and how they might pee on our rug. How they kept charging us because we'd packed some stupid little card rather than returning it, even though we'd disconnected everything, and how he'd rather eat rocks and nails than use them again.
He remembers this. But here's the thing: he wants to watch his shows. He wants them to record when they're set to record. And then he wants the service to work when he sits down to watch.
And when Comcast service works, and you don't need them to do anything for you, well, the service works.
But it turns out that if you want good service, DirecTV kind of sucks, at least for us. We can't use our TiVO, and their record show thingy doesn't work half the time. And the service is sketch. As far as I know, nobody has yet been rude to us or stood us up. But the service is for sugar honey iced tea.
(And do you like how well I'm doing on the not swearing?)
There's no FIOS where we are, alas. (And I wonder - Foggy Dew, did you ever switch over?)
If we watched the sports, I am told DirecTV would be great. They have lots of sports, apparently.
This appeals to me not one bit. And thank the dear Lord I am married to a man who, apart from the very occasional rugby game(??), is not remotely interested in watching sports. Or attending sporting events.
I feel like I must have done something right somewhere along the way.
But back to our dick. In the door...
By this he means switch back to Comcast. The idea makes me want to spoon my eyes out.
I reminded him about the terrible customer service, and how they might pee on our rug. How they kept charging us because we'd packed some stupid little card rather than returning it, even though we'd disconnected everything, and how he'd rather eat rocks and nails than use them again.
He remembers this. But here's the thing: he wants to watch his shows. He wants them to record when they're set to record. And then he wants the service to work when he sits down to watch.
And when Comcast service works, and you don't need them to do anything for you, well, the service works.
But it turns out that if you want good service, DirecTV kind of sucks, at least for us. We can't use our TiVO, and their record show thingy doesn't work half the time. And the service is sketch. As far as I know, nobody has yet been rude to us or stood us up. But the service is for sugar honey iced tea.
(And do you like how well I'm doing on the not swearing?)
There's no FIOS where we are, alas. (And I wonder - Foggy Dew, did you ever switch over?)
If we watched the sports, I am told DirecTV would be great. They have lots of sports, apparently.
This appeals to me not one bit. And thank the dear Lord I am married to a man who, apart from the very occasional rugby game(??), is not remotely interested in watching sports. Or attending sporting events.
I feel like I must have done something right somewhere along the way.
But back to our dick. In the door...
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Well, yah
I told you this would be hard.
We have been here since 7 pm last night.
The Cervidil did nothing. Why? Because I have some scarring on my cervix.
The OB has tried three times to break it up. Nothing doing. And so I have to have a C-section.
We are next but we're also so fucking healthy that we'e not an emergency. So we've been about to be taken in to the OR since oh. noonish.
I have an IV. I have a catheter. I had an epidural. I can't feel most of my body.
I'm nauseous; Ive thrown up. A bunch. I might do so again - not clear at the moment.
I've cried and cried. It scares the shit out of me.
And now they just said the OB I've been waiting on isn't feeling well. So we are waiting on her replacement from the practice.
Who, on the bright side, might be less of a bitch than today's doctor.
I'm so upset. And I'm so frustrated. I was prepared for stamina-requiring feats of strength.
But this?
We have been here since 7 pm last night.
The Cervidil did nothing. Why? Because I have some scarring on my cervix.
The OB has tried three times to break it up. Nothing doing. And so I have to have a C-section.
We are next but we're also so fucking healthy that we'e not an emergency. So we've been about to be taken in to the OR since oh. noonish.
I have an IV. I have a catheter. I had an epidural. I can't feel most of my body.
I'm nauseous; Ive thrown up. A bunch. I might do so again - not clear at the moment.
I've cried and cried. It scares the shit out of me.
And now they just said the OB I've been waiting on isn't feeling well. So we are waiting on her replacement from the practice.
Who, on the bright side, might be less of a bitch than today's doctor.
I'm so upset. And I'm so frustrated. I was prepared for stamina-requiring feats of strength.
But this?
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