Thursday, May 31, 2007

Hello? Social Services?

We are truly nice people.
Just not very BRIGHT people.
There are some days when I am truly afeared for our poor child.
Case in point:

*As Husband and I are settling into bed…*

Me: Hey, I think that bag of jelly beans is on the counter. It’s rolled up and at the back of the counter… but do you think we should go down and move it? What if Bleu wants a snack?

Husband: Hmm….nah, I don’t think they’ll mess with it.

Me: *half asleep already* Yeah… and worst case, they’ll just poo in technicolor for a day or two.

Husband: Exactly.

*Next morning- Husband has gone downstairs*

Husband: *calling upstairs* Hey Honey….. remember how I told you they wouldn’t mess with those jelly beans?

Me: Were you wrong?

Husband: No…I was right… they didn’t mess with the jelly beans

Me: Crap. What DID they mess with?

Husband: Nothing… just that ENTIRE BAG OF DOG TREATS we left out too…

See? Told you. Not that bright. But oh-so attractive. And humble.

We're auditioning for foster parents. For the dogs AND the kid. If you think you can keep them reasonably clean and not let the kid have an entire bag of sugar donuts at 11 p.m.- please call. You're already ahead of us.

Hey, anybody know how to construct a safe crib from a Dell computer box?

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Of Dogs, Donuts, & Parental Paranoia

As documented in my masthead, one of my great guilty pleasures in this world is a bag of those little sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts. (They can’t really be called doughnuts- they’re donuts.) I love them. I do not share them. Husband made a special early Sunday morning trip to Publix for them just to cease my progesterone-induced bitching.
As documented at the end of this post, we have also learned that our newest doggie can and will help himself to things on the kitchen counter.
Do you see where this might be going?
I came downstairs around 11:00 last night (long story- got tired of listening to Husband’s stomach growl). In the half-light, I caught a glimpse of some kind of debris on the kitchen floor. Pushing past my ogres- er… dogs, I turned on the light.
Scattered far and wide across the linoleum were… PIECES OF THE SWEET SIXTEEN DONUT BAG! *GASP*
And nary a donut to be had. Not one scrap. My 80-some-odd-pound monsters had consumed every last bit. There wasn’t even any powdered sugar on the floor. (Daisy did have a touch on her snoot- tres cute!) There they sat, all waggy tails and happy faces. (I mean, of course they were happy. I’d be happy too if I’d happened upon HALF A BAG OF SWEET SIXTEEN DONUTS at 11:00! )
Let us please note that the beasts could have partaken of a number of other human foodstuffs on the counter including club crackers, raw potatoes, spinach wraps, and chai green tea. Those items were untouched, pristine in their wrappers without so much as a slobber spot.
The damn dogs have good taste.
I called Husband downstairs- we had a little laugh and a shake of our heads while we cleaned up the carnage. We wondered if the pups would eat breakfast in the morning. And we went to bed.
Fast forward to five-thirty this morning. I sat bolt upright in the bed and said to Husband
“I just had a thought.”
Husband (drooling & half-asleep): Whaa….?
Me: OMG, I hope they didn’t eat the little flexy-metal thing that holds the bag closed!
Husband: Who…? Ate wha…? The 18 year… on the rocks, please…
Me (getting out of bed): That thing! On the donut bag! It’s METAL! It could perf their intestines! I didn’t see it last night- did you see it? I have to go check! Is that magnet with the emergency vet number still on the fridge? Maybe it was under their beds- I didn’t check there. You don’t think they’d eat it, right? Can well call your Mom this early?
Husband (following me): *mutter* might as well get my ass up…. *grumble* alarm goes off in 15 minutes…. *mutter mutter* damn dogs … *grumble grumble*… f____ing tired…
And there, in the trash, still attached to the top of the bag, was the metal flexy thing that holds the bag shut.
Damn dogs. Good thing they're so cute.
We are SO ready to be parents.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Tinky Winky say "Buh-Bye!"

Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry….
I will never rejoice in someone else’s death. It’s unkind and mean-spirited, things I endeavor not to be. Besides, no matter how awful of a hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit you were, you were somebody’s Uncle/Daddy/Grandpa hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit. Those folks are hurting because you’re gone. I don’t like to see anyone hurt… even right wing freaks. (Well, maybe a little...)
And while I won’t rejoice in Falwell’s death, there is a little part of me that’s wondering how the trip to the other side went for ol’ Jer. I imagine it went something like this:

St. Peter: Welcome to the afterlife! What was your name in creation?

Falwell: Why, you should know me! I’m Reverend Jerry Falwell! And I am here to live eternally in the grace and glory of the Lord! I have done his work on Earth- I fought the gays and the feminists and the Teletub-

St. Peter: Right. Right. Falwell, you said?

Falwell: Yes, REVEREND Falwell. Will I be fitted for wings right away? ‘Cause I brought a nice gilded set that Pat Robertson gave me…

St. Peter: Uh… not exactly. Reverend, would you do me a favor? Just stand by these elevators right here- the ones with all “down” buttons.

Falwell: Down buttons? You’re sending me back? Is this a near-death experience? That’s perfect! Think of the testimony!

St. Peter: You might want to leave that suit here- wool is probably not your best choice of fabrics.

Falwell: Well, fine. I’m normally opposed to nudity of any kind, but I understand. I shall re-enter the world as I first came into it… stripped bare, a perfect and innocent creation, washed clean by faith!

St. Peter: Is that tie flame-retardant?

Falwell: What?

St. Peter: How 'bout the toupee? Will that melt?

Falwell: Melt? Wha- I don't... surely....

St. Peter: Any sulfur allergies?

Falwell: Shit.

St. Peter: Yeah…

Monday, May 14, 2007

Mothers' Day

A woman I know, a very kind, wonderful woman, recently married late in life and was eager to start a family. This lady was very thoughtful in how she approached me after Cecilia’s birth. She was heartbroken for me, for Husband.
Last week, the docs told this good woman she is going through menopause. Her children will not be born of her body. Her age (and her husband’s age) mean she faces a long road to adopting.
I have been through loss, but not the kind of loss she is facing. I know what it is to have nature break your heart, but I do not know what it is to have your hope taken from you. Even at the bottom of our grief, we had “the next time” to look forward to. We knew another child would never replace Cecilia, but at least we could expect there would be another child.
When you start to seek support for pregnancy loss, you inevitably find yourself among people for whom loss and infertility are, unfortunately, a way of life. I took their stories and their frustrations to heart, hoping to learn something and become a better friend, a better person. I wish I could thank all of them today, because I think I may have done right by this nice lady.

I DID NOT do any of the following:
I didn’t say “oh, it’s ok- you can just adopt!”
I didn’t tell her the miracle story of some friend-of-a-roomate’s-relative who conceived against all odds.
I didn’t tell her it was “God’s will” and she should just trust in that.
I didn’t tell her I knew how she felt.

I DID do these things:
I gave her a huge hug.
I told her I was sorry.
I acknowledged her loss, and that she’d need to grieve.
I offered my office as a refuge if she needed to escape the cube farm for a good cry.
I gave her another huge hug.

And then I went home that night and hugged Husband. And we took a moment to realize that even after all that happened with our first pregnancy, we are truly fortunate. Our memories of Cecilia will always be bittersweet and she will always be in our hearts. But she will not be the end of our family- she will not be our only child. Hope and Cecilia’s sibling are growing inside of me.

Happy Mothers Day to all the women who are mothers in their hearts even when nature has other ideas for their bodies. May the world treat you with the same respect and kindness we afford all mothers on this day- and perhaps with a little more for your journey.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

A Funny Thing Happened When I Peed on a Stick

Some of the people who read my blog love me dearly and care about the most intimate details of my life. Some of them do not- they’re here for the witty commentary (shut up- this is my world!) and random rants.

The first lesson of corporate training is KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! (The second is check your fly.) So this blog shall remain my usual fragmented diatribes.

But you should know that I am pregnant. Let’s pause for some answers to the obvious questions:
Yes, me. Pregnant.
Yes, the state plans to let me keep the child.
No, I will not name it after you or your company.
Yes, it’s Husband’s baby.
No, I will not post video of the conception.

Ahem. As I was saying, I’m going to try to keep most of the pregnancy updates off this page, except for the occasional rant about how the world inconveniences pregnant women. Those are fair game for their general subject matter. But the details, the cutesy crap, will go on here:
Family and friends, this is your spot for regular updates, ultrasound pictures, and other baby-related information.

But let me know offer my deepest and most humble apologies for not updating LL&VT more often. See, I’m pregnant and I’m sick and my Mom reads this from time to time which renders most of the language I would use to describe the world right now off limits.

But I will say this.
To the f***stick asswipe guy who took my parking space at jury duty yesterday:
I hope you get a rotten case of the crabs from a hooker who turns out to have a d*** and you go to a doctor who accidentally gives you laxatives instead of the antibiotic and you get stuck in horrendous traffic no where near an exit driving a RENTAL CAR and then you have to explain the bill for the cleanup to your demure and pure Christian wife who sends you to a dry rehab facility for sex addicts where you run into your MOTHER!


See? Fragmented diatribes. Business as usual.