Hey, good news! We’ve finally started doing something that resembles getting ready for having a baby in the house!
Up until now, our general plan was to line a cardboard box with a nice fluffy towel and put the baby in that. You know, like with a kitten, only we’d use a good towel. My mom and sister had already given her enough clothing for approximately four outfit changes per day until she goes to kindergarten and I’m planning to do this breastfeeding thing, so we figured we were all set. OK… so we knew we weren’t. We were just pretending. (Kids like pretending, right? Right?)
Last weekend my glorious Girlfriends threw us a baby shower and we wound up with some truly useful items. For instance, we got a car seat which means the hospital will have no choice but to let her leave with us. (Suckers!)
We also started painting the nursery last night. The prior owners of our house had an affinity for the shade of yellow normally reserved for laboratory caution placards. That and very very large fruit patterns. And teal. Yes, it was a regular early 90s designer showcase. But the yellow? I believe it was a Sherman-Williams shade, “Anxiety Attack”. Or maybe “Prozac Lullaby”. It had to go. Pronto.
Now, I know infants can’t see most colors right away. (See! I’ve totally been reading those books!) But truthfully, isn’t nursery décor more about our sanity? That’s why I’ve never understood people who decorate in little animals with I’m-so-happy-I’m-smug-about-it expressions on their faces. Seems to me that at 3 a.m. when you’re rocking the baby who has been screaming for the last 14 days of its life, you’d be about ready to wring that pleasant little giraffe by his super cute neck. We’ve selected a nice neutral sage-ish green and the only animals around are some lambs with nice innocuous expressions that do not imply any superior zen levels.
And last night Husband and I had this conversation:
Husband: Do you need any clothes washed?
Me: Um yeah… can you grab that toile maternity blouse of mine?
Husband: …….. toile?........
Me: Yeah.
Husband:…… toile?......
Me: Yes, dear. The blue and cream flowery little pattern thing?
*silence*
Me: You know, this does make me wonder how much attention you were paying when you agreed to that green toile nursery bedding…
Husband: What toile nursery bedding? I’ve never seen or talked about anything “toile” in my life!
Me: You did too- we looked at it on Overstock.com!
Husband: I would remember using the word “toile”….I’m sorry, but there are things you don’t forget saying like “toile” and “quad toggle” and “not that hole!”
Yeah, so maybe we’re not totally prepared yet. But I figure we have at least 6-8 months after she’s born to clean up sexual innuendo… we’ll get to it right after the electrical outlet covers…
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
This just in...
Bill Maher is an asshat of epic proportions.
A misogynistic, prudish, uneducated asshat.
I won't even take the time and energy to expound. Other women bloggers have done as much, more eloquently than I could manage.
But I will say this...
If I ever see him in my post-partum days, I will promptly pull up my shirt and squirt him right in the damn eye.
A misogynistic, prudish, uneducated asshat.
I won't even take the time and energy to expound. Other women bloggers have done as much, more eloquently than I could manage.
But I will say this...
If I ever see him in my post-partum days, I will promptly pull up my shirt and squirt him right in the damn eye.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Reference Manuel.. I think I met him once on Spring Break...
Husband has a new job! (Hooray!) Increased salary and better benefits aside, I’m pleased to report that he’s also learning a lot of new things. You see, Husband was hired for a professional position with in a large insurance-related organization. But for the first two weeks, he is taking the standard corporate new hire training as well as sitting in on some of the customer service rep training, since he’ll be delegating a lot of things to the CSRs. Husband (and I, by way of his daily recountings) have learned so much from the CSRs this week. First and foremost, we learned this:
We’re both really freakin’ grateful for our education and socio-economic status.
Here are some of the other valuable lessons!
1. We know which clinic in town pays the most for plasma donations and which blood types are more valuable.
2. An important question to ask of the trainer conducting new hire training is “What is the most common thing that gets people fired? Is it absences?”
3. When presented with a baby daddy who refuses to pay child support, it is best to seek him out at a relative’s house and threaten him with physical violence.
4. If your electricity is cut off for non-payment, you can call the utility company and tell them your child has a medical condition requiring equipment that runs on electricity- you know, like “a breathin’ machine”. This will restore your service regardless of payment status (and regardless of whether your child is actually perfectly healthy).
5. If you pay your boyfriend’s CO $100, you can get a little privacy for 15 minutes or so in order to engage in sex acts.
6. If your prior employer delays in getting you your last paycheck, you can always drive over there and threaten to blow the place up. You will be paid promptly.
7. Pennsylvania may well be either a city or a state, but it’s not one of the “major ones” that would be commonly known to everyone.
8. If a boy is semi-stalking your 16-year-old sister, there is no need to engage law enforcement or school administrators when you can simply pay $5 for admission to the high school football game and beat the boy senseless.
And last but not least…
9. If you’re at a loss, consult the “REFERENCE MANUEL” you’ve got on your desk.
I too have had some significant learning experiences at work this week. I have an office. I heart my office with rainbow and unicorn drawings all around it. Due to some ill-timed door varnishing, I had to relocate to a cube downstairs this week. It’s official, I am not cut out for life in the cube farm. Here are some notes for my fellow employees:
If I can sing along, your music is too loud. This is why the sweet baby Jesus gave us headphones.
Your chair squeaks. Loudly. Every time you move. For the love of all that is holy, FIX THAT SHIT.
I could say more… about the glorious redneck family dramas I got to listen to playing out on our phone lines, but frankly I’m exhausted. Just let it be noted that I will gladly panhandle before I sit in a cube again.
I know. I’m a snob.
I just don’t care.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Birth Order
“Is this your first baby?”
Um…uh…
If I had a nickel for every time I’ve faltered trying to answer that question… well, I wouldn’t be trying to sell Husband’s kidney to pay for daycare. (Sorry guy- but you do have TWO and they won’t take mine.)
Seriously, though. I have two daughters. This is my second child. That sounds so odd, because I don’t go home every day to a little girl about to celebrate her first birthday. There are no large pieces of brightly colored plastic fun in my den. The dogs have never known the joy of high chair leftovers raining down on them. My work clothes don’t have faint yellowish spots on the shoulders and boobs. (Except for that one shirt… margaritas involved… long story.) Husband and I spend leisurely evenings playing with said dogs and chatting about each other’s days over dinner eaten in a room with *gasp* carpet on the floor.
And yet, there she is- Cecilia Ruth. Born May 2006. First child of Charles and Lauren. Grandchild of Kenneth and Lynn, of Michael and Eileen, all of whom were there to hold her, see her, love her, and kiss her goodbye. She is as real and as human to me as any of the folks who were in the room that day. She is my daughter and she was a living being, as sure as she kicked and tumbled inside of me.
I feel dishonest and as though I am dishonoring my daughter to just answer “yes” to the first baby question. In my heart, acknowledging her seems the only logical and natural thing to do. I will always miss her, and her short life left an indelible and bittersweet impression on my heart. But she’s still my child and I’m proud to be her mother. I’m proud of what a little fighter she was and I’m proud of myself for making incredibly tough decisions that were in her best interest, as any mother would.
I don’t include Cecilia in my answer expecting sympathy or trying to make the asker uncomfortable, yet those are the responses it seems to invoke. They wind up mumbling something like “I’m sorry…” or “you poor thing…” and I find myself stammering and apologizing for … for what… for acknowledging my own baby’s existence? I hate that. But I hate making people uncomfortable. But I also hate the idea of ignoring Cecilia. Maybe I’m overanalyzing what should be a simple superficial social situation. But to any mother who has lost a child, especially a child she has held and dressed and rocked, it’s WAY more important than that. And after some time and some healing, we don’t mention our babies entirely with sadness. We mention them because… well, because they’re our babies. I find myself saying things like “don’t be sorry – I’m ok…” because it’s true. I am ok. And I’m ok in part because I haven’t pushed Cecilia’s life and memory into some dark closet and thrown away the key.
A friend said of my quandary “well, how would you WANT them to respond?” I want to be able to name my daughter, to validate her life and her place in our family, and to have people view that as a positive, healing thing. A simple “oh, so this is your second child- how wonderful!” or something along those lines would be perfect. I know it’s not the easiest sunshiniest (patent pending on that word…) of situations, but it’s as simple as this- let my daughter be my daughter in the light of day and public discourse. By simply letting me count her among my children without feeling so incredibly awkward and without living mired in past grief, you have done the heart of a mother a huge service. Births are normally happy, wonderful events. All the world loves a pregnant lady (except maybe if she has a married boyfriend…) but be prepared to acknowledge all children- because they all have their place in that pregnant lady’s heart.
Um…uh…
If I had a nickel for every time I’ve faltered trying to answer that question… well, I wouldn’t be trying to sell Husband’s kidney to pay for daycare. (Sorry guy- but you do have TWO and they won’t take mine.)
Seriously, though. I have two daughters. This is my second child. That sounds so odd, because I don’t go home every day to a little girl about to celebrate her first birthday. There are no large pieces of brightly colored plastic fun in my den. The dogs have never known the joy of high chair leftovers raining down on them. My work clothes don’t have faint yellowish spots on the shoulders and boobs. (Except for that one shirt… margaritas involved… long story.) Husband and I spend leisurely evenings playing with said dogs and chatting about each other’s days over dinner eaten in a room with *gasp* carpet on the floor.
And yet, there she is- Cecilia Ruth. Born May 2006. First child of Charles and Lauren. Grandchild of Kenneth and Lynn, of Michael and Eileen, all of whom were there to hold her, see her, love her, and kiss her goodbye. She is as real and as human to me as any of the folks who were in the room that day. She is my daughter and she was a living being, as sure as she kicked and tumbled inside of me.
I feel dishonest and as though I am dishonoring my daughter to just answer “yes” to the first baby question. In my heart, acknowledging her seems the only logical and natural thing to do. I will always miss her, and her short life left an indelible and bittersweet impression on my heart. But she’s still my child and I’m proud to be her mother. I’m proud of what a little fighter she was and I’m proud of myself for making incredibly tough decisions that were in her best interest, as any mother would.
I don’t include Cecilia in my answer expecting sympathy or trying to make the asker uncomfortable, yet those are the responses it seems to invoke. They wind up mumbling something like “I’m sorry…” or “you poor thing…” and I find myself stammering and apologizing for … for what… for acknowledging my own baby’s existence? I hate that. But I hate making people uncomfortable. But I also hate the idea of ignoring Cecilia. Maybe I’m overanalyzing what should be a simple superficial social situation. But to any mother who has lost a child, especially a child she has held and dressed and rocked, it’s WAY more important than that. And after some time and some healing, we don’t mention our babies entirely with sadness. We mention them because… well, because they’re our babies. I find myself saying things like “don’t be sorry – I’m ok…” because it’s true. I am ok. And I’m ok in part because I haven’t pushed Cecilia’s life and memory into some dark closet and thrown away the key.
A friend said of my quandary “well, how would you WANT them to respond?” I want to be able to name my daughter, to validate her life and her place in our family, and to have people view that as a positive, healing thing. A simple “oh, so this is your second child- how wonderful!” or something along those lines would be perfect. I know it’s not the easiest sunshiniest (patent pending on that word…) of situations, but it’s as simple as this- let my daughter be my daughter in the light of day and public discourse. By simply letting me count her among my children without feeling so incredibly awkward and without living mired in past grief, you have done the heart of a mother a huge service. Births are normally happy, wonderful events. All the world loves a pregnant lady (except maybe if she has a married boyfriend…) but be prepared to acknowledge all children- because they all have their place in that pregnant lady’s heart.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Senator Craig and zone defense for babies...
Seriously? I mean… really…? Let me see… your premise is that you are:
1. an English-speaking native-born citizen
2. college educated
3. a millionaire with easy access to the best counsel you can buy
4. and a FUCKING SENATOR
BUT…you suffered a “manifest injustice” despite the fact that you
1. waived your right to counsel
2. plead guilty BY MAIL weeks later
3. and voluntarily never appeared before a judge
Craig apparently “wishes that he had sought legal council in the months between his arrest and entering his guilty plea.”
Yeah. In the words of that modern-day-philosopher, Justin Timberlake, cry me a river.
I wish I had never used a credit card for crap I didn’t really need. I wish I hadn’t been going 86 in a 60 when that state trooper saw me. I wish I had sought counsel from a personal trainer before getting pregnant 15 pounds over weight.
But you know what else?
I know how credit debt works and how difficult it is to pay off.
I know what “speed limit” means and what will happen if I get caught speeding.
I know the risks and perils of carrying extra weight and I know how to lose it and I have access to freakin’ Weight Watchers.
Point? We humans do stupid shit. And we get caught doing stupid shit. And if we are Americans who are reasonably well-educated , not destitute and English is our primary language and we have a working knowledge of the institutions of our country, WE DO NOT GET TO CALL A DO-OVER just because the press got wind of what we did.
Here is a man with every advantage and all the information. Here is a man knew damn full good and well what his rights were and the realities of how the justice system works. (At least he should have- if he didn’t, then he shouldn’t be a freakin’ LAWMAKER in the first damn place!) Here is a man who had class and native language and time and resources on his side. With all that, I’m sorry, you knew full and well what “guilty” meant. GUILTY means you admit to the wrongdoing. Don’t want to admit that? But don’t think you can win against the big bad justice system? (The system you have manipulated to be biased against everyone except you and your white wealthy allegedly-hetero brethren?) That’s what “no contest” is for, buddy.
So please…go ahead and tell me the detective “misconstrued” your actions in the men’s room. Insist to me that you are not gay. But do not for a single minute tell me you didn’t understand or couldn’t have gotten full counsel before making this guilty plea. Was the plea a mistake? From the perspective of your political career, you betcha it was. But you gambled and lost. The game was as fair as it gets for you, Senator Craig.
Oh, and just come on out already.
And now for a funny interlude:
Husband: I can’t wait for next college football season! I’ll have Vivi in her little Clemson onesie and I can teach her all the ins and outs of (blah, blah, blah…names of strategies here…)
Me: You realize teaching her all that is only going to one day make her MORE attractive to teenage boys?
Husband: And then there’s karate class…
Me: For her or you?
Husband: Both... And Daddy may need a lifetime pass to the firing range for Christmas...
1. an English-speaking native-born citizen
2. college educated
3. a millionaire with easy access to the best counsel you can buy
4. and a FUCKING SENATOR
BUT…you suffered a “manifest injustice” despite the fact that you
1. waived your right to counsel
2. plead guilty BY MAIL weeks later
3. and voluntarily never appeared before a judge
Craig apparently “wishes that he had sought legal council in the months between his arrest and entering his guilty plea.”
Yeah. In the words of that modern-day-philosopher, Justin Timberlake, cry me a river.
I wish I had never used a credit card for crap I didn’t really need. I wish I hadn’t been going 86 in a 60 when that state trooper saw me. I wish I had sought counsel from a personal trainer before getting pregnant 15 pounds over weight.
But you know what else?
I know how credit debt works and how difficult it is to pay off.
I know what “speed limit” means and what will happen if I get caught speeding.
I know the risks and perils of carrying extra weight and I know how to lose it and I have access to freakin’ Weight Watchers.
Point? We humans do stupid shit. And we get caught doing stupid shit. And if we are Americans who are reasonably well-educated , not destitute and English is our primary language and we have a working knowledge of the institutions of our country, WE DO NOT GET TO CALL A DO-OVER just because the press got wind of what we did.
Here is a man with every advantage and all the information. Here is a man knew damn full good and well what his rights were and the realities of how the justice system works. (At least he should have- if he didn’t, then he shouldn’t be a freakin’ LAWMAKER in the first damn place!) Here is a man who had class and native language and time and resources on his side. With all that, I’m sorry, you knew full and well what “guilty” meant. GUILTY means you admit to the wrongdoing. Don’t want to admit that? But don’t think you can win against the big bad justice system? (The system you have manipulated to be biased against everyone except you and your white wealthy allegedly-hetero brethren?) That’s what “no contest” is for, buddy.
So please…go ahead and tell me the detective “misconstrued” your actions in the men’s room. Insist to me that you are not gay. But do not for a single minute tell me you didn’t understand or couldn’t have gotten full counsel before making this guilty plea. Was the plea a mistake? From the perspective of your political career, you betcha it was. But you gambled and lost. The game was as fair as it gets for you, Senator Craig.
Oh, and just come on out already.
And now for a funny interlude:
Husband: I can’t wait for next college football season! I’ll have Vivi in her little Clemson onesie and I can teach her all the ins and outs of (blah, blah, blah…names of strategies here…)
Me: You realize teaching her all that is only going to one day make her MORE attractive to teenage boys?
Husband: And then there’s karate class…
Me: For her or you?
Husband: Both... And Daddy may need a lifetime pass to the firing range for Christmas...
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Scenes from an Ultrasound
Ultrasound Tech: “She is just NOT going to hold still and let me get a profile picture.”
That’s my girl!
Tech Again: “Woah…little thunder thighs on this one!”
That’s DEFINITELY my girl!
Blogosphere, Vivi Mae would like to wave hello. See her "fingeras" as the ultrasound tech labeled them?
20 week anatomy scan went very well. She has a small chorioplexus cyst in the right side of her brain, but we’re told that A) they’re very common and normally resolve by 28 weeks and B) we already know she doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome, so it’s really nothing to worry about at all. She flipped and waved and kicked and generally put on a show for her grandparents. Her Daddy and I got weepy, as usual. I’m about a week past the time in the pregnancy when I delivered Cecilia. I guess that makes me the most pregnant I’ve ever been. Cecilia was so small that I didn’t feel a lot of what I’m feeling now. It’s amazing how different this pregnancy has been. And hey- bonus! My cervix is nice and long and closed up tight. After the damage from Cecilia's delivery, that was a huge relief.
Mom & Dad were here for the weekend and I got an early birthday present. ALL HAIL THE SNOOGLI PREGNANCY PILLOW! If I could bend over comfortably, I would have kissed my Mom's feet for this one... I wonder if Husband would consider changing her name to Snoogli Mae?
In other non-baby-related news....
I hope Michael Vick winds up in a cell with a 400 lb. sociopath who was recently recruited by a PETA jailhouse program. That bastard deserves to have a set of jumper cables attached to his balls... and the other end attached to a Mack truck. If the NFL doesn't hit him with a lifetime ban, I will personally burn every piece of franchised logo-bearing clothing in a three-state radius. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
Anyone seen "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1? I do not understand this show. I do not understand this "Mystery" guy. Well, wait... that's not right. I do not understand why in the hell so many women seem ready to drop their panties for this guy. Uh... let's see... you're an obviously 30-something guy who wears more eyeliner than I do and you call yourself Mystery.....yeah, you just REEK of relationship potential. I don't even understand wanting to sleep with him- he looks weasely and unemployed. Not exactly the type I'd trust put any part of his in any part of mine. Maybe that's a sign I'm getting old. I just want to call him Harold and tell him to cut his hair and get a legitimate job. What's worse is how he's teaching these poor regular guys all his "techniques". They seemed like pretty good fellas to begin with. And do they really want the kind of women who respond to Mystery's crap? Vapid is as vapid does, I suppose. Yeah, I'm old.
That’s my girl!
Tech Again: “Woah…little thunder thighs on this one!”
That’s DEFINITELY my girl!
Blogosphere, Vivi Mae would like to wave hello. See her "fingeras" as the ultrasound tech labeled them?
20 week anatomy scan went very well. She has a small chorioplexus cyst in the right side of her brain, but we’re told that A) they’re very common and normally resolve by 28 weeks and B) we already know she doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome, so it’s really nothing to worry about at all. She flipped and waved and kicked and generally put on a show for her grandparents. Her Daddy and I got weepy, as usual. I’m about a week past the time in the pregnancy when I delivered Cecilia. I guess that makes me the most pregnant I’ve ever been. Cecilia was so small that I didn’t feel a lot of what I’m feeling now. It’s amazing how different this pregnancy has been. And hey- bonus! My cervix is nice and long and closed up tight. After the damage from Cecilia's delivery, that was a huge relief.
Mom & Dad were here for the weekend and I got an early birthday present. ALL HAIL THE SNOOGLI PREGNANCY PILLOW! If I could bend over comfortably, I would have kissed my Mom's feet for this one... I wonder if Husband would consider changing her name to Snoogli Mae?
In other non-baby-related news....
I hope Michael Vick winds up in a cell with a 400 lb. sociopath who was recently recruited by a PETA jailhouse program. That bastard deserves to have a set of jumper cables attached to his balls... and the other end attached to a Mack truck. If the NFL doesn't hit him with a lifetime ban, I will personally burn every piece of franchised logo-bearing clothing in a three-state radius. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
Anyone seen "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1? I do not understand this show. I do not understand this "Mystery" guy. Well, wait... that's not right. I do not understand why in the hell so many women seem ready to drop their panties for this guy. Uh... let's see... you're an obviously 30-something guy who wears more eyeliner than I do and you call yourself Mystery.....yeah, you just REEK of relationship potential. I don't even understand wanting to sleep with him- he looks weasely and unemployed. Not exactly the type I'd trust put any part of his in any part of mine. Maybe that's a sign I'm getting old. I just want to call him Harold and tell him to cut his hair and get a legitimate job. What's worse is how he's teaching these poor regular guys all his "techniques". They seemed like pretty good fellas to begin with. And do they really want the kind of women who respond to Mystery's crap? Vapid is as vapid does, I suppose. Yeah, I'm old.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Inflammatory Breast Cancer
A few weeks ago, I had no idea what IBC was, much less that it was about to affect a woman whose writing I have enjoyed for some time now. And then I heard. And then all I could think about was how Widget and Little Bear are fighting to keep their Mommy... and they don't even know it. Her blog is here:
http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/
But today I repost her July 23 entry on IBC. I repost in her honor- hoping that by participating in her campaign to raise awareness, I may prevent another Mom, another sister, another friend from going through this ordeal. And you can bet that thanks to this brave lady, I will not cavalierly chalk anything up to "normal" changes from pregnancy and breastfeeding.
From Toddler Planet, July 23, 2007
We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?
I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.
Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.
Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.
There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.
Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer
http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/
But today I repost her July 23 entry on IBC. I repost in her honor- hoping that by participating in her campaign to raise awareness, I may prevent another Mom, another sister, another friend from going through this ordeal. And you can bet that thanks to this brave lady, I will not cavalierly chalk anything up to "normal" changes from pregnancy and breastfeeding.
From Toddler Planet, July 23, 2007
We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?
I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.
Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.
Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.
There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.
Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer
Friday, August 10, 2007
Mother, Whore, Warrior, Hero... Crazy Cat Lady
Text Message from Baby Sister 8:56 p.m.
*throwing hand to forehead* no on is ever going to love me! I’m going to die a crazy cat lady!
Text Message Reply from Me 8:58 p.m.
What? You’re what? 26? Isn’t that a little early in life to start buying litter in bulk?
Baby Sister is reeling from a bit of an ugly breakup. She will be fine and her text message was sent mostly in melodramatic jest. (Hence my smart-ass reply… I would never have done that if I thought she was serious.)
I called her not long after this and we embarked on a lengthy discussion about the archetypal Crazy Cat Lady. We decided we need to commission an anthropological study of the phenomena. How exactly did the ownership of excessive numbers of cats become tied to older, unmarried women with varying degrees of mental illness? Why cats? Why not mice or hamsters or something squirrely… like squirrels? When did it begin? Were there Biblical crazy cat women? Were those the widows in the streets the Old Testament spoke of? And how many cats does one need to qualify? 10? 20? More? I’m thinking of pitching this to the History channel as a documentary- “Lonely Lunacy: The Legacy of Crazy Cat Women”.
We’ve already unraveled one piece of the puzzle. The crazy cat woman is a cross-cultural persona. Apparently Russia’s got ‘em too. (Warning: the video in that link will scare the shit out of you in a very Hitchcock kind of way.)
But my sister will not be one of them. I won’t let that happen. I figure once she gets more than 10 or so, she won’t notice if I smuggle out a couple each visit.
*throwing hand to forehead* no on is ever going to love me! I’m going to die a crazy cat lady!
Text Message Reply from Me 8:58 p.m.
What? You’re what? 26? Isn’t that a little early in life to start buying litter in bulk?
Baby Sister is reeling from a bit of an ugly breakup. She will be fine and her text message was sent mostly in melodramatic jest. (Hence my smart-ass reply… I would never have done that if I thought she was serious.)
I called her not long after this and we embarked on a lengthy discussion about the archetypal Crazy Cat Lady. We decided we need to commission an anthropological study of the phenomena. How exactly did the ownership of excessive numbers of cats become tied to older, unmarried women with varying degrees of mental illness? Why cats? Why not mice or hamsters or something squirrely… like squirrels? When did it begin? Were there Biblical crazy cat women? Were those the widows in the streets the Old Testament spoke of? And how many cats does one need to qualify? 10? 20? More? I’m thinking of pitching this to the History channel as a documentary- “Lonely Lunacy: The Legacy of Crazy Cat Women”.
We’ve already unraveled one piece of the puzzle. The crazy cat woman is a cross-cultural persona. Apparently Russia’s got ‘em too. (Warning: the video in that link will scare the shit out of you in a very Hitchcock kind of way.)
But my sister will not be one of them. I won’t let that happen. I figure once she gets more than 10 or so, she won’t notice if I smuggle out a couple each visit.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Of musicals, heat waves, and Scott Baio...
As previously documented, Husband’s migraine prevention drugs have the charming side-effect of making him have really ….uh…. groovy dreams. He seems to have a propensity for musicals. Yes, musicals. I don’t know why, as he is a) not a huge musicals fan in his waking life and b) decidedly heterosexual.
But musicals it is. And last night he reported to me that Lola Vader apparently had her very own Rogers-and-Hammerstein-esque extravaganza. It involved:
a row of high-kicking Lola Vader’s in pink helmets and capes
an elaborate, lengthy rendition of his Lola Vader song
and… wait for it…
SCOTT BAIO.
Now don’t go all conspiracy-theorist on me… just because a man has a dream in which Scott Baio figures prominently doesn’t mean he’s using me and this baby to do some hetero-posing. (Right??) No, really, it’s true. We had been watching Scott Baio is 45 and Single before we went to bed. And besides, Scott Baio was completely clothed in the dream. Or so I’m assuming…
I lay in bed the other night writing (in my head) a thought-provoking commentary on the ban of freebies from formula companies in NYC hospitals. And then things went positively ape-shit at work. So as soon as I have time to breathe, I’ll write that one out.
Speaking of breathing…easier to do when you’re not pregnant in A HUNDRED AND FIVE DEGREE HEAT! Yes, it was 105 here yesterday. I went home early. The dogs and I stripped down to our skivvies and laid around in the AC. And then I went out and got a quart of birthday cake flavor ice cream from Marble Slab. I did put clothes on first, but not before I called ahead to clarify that it was really necessary. Apparently that “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy doesn’t have an exemption clause for pregnant persons in hellish heat waves. Fascists.
I have to go. This child is demanding food yet again. But first, let's document the great food inventory at 9:45 a.m.
1 bowl oatmeal, 1 cup cranberry juice, 1 serving diced pears, 1 Kashi granola bar.
Yes, that's breakfast and TWO SNACKS before 10 a.m. I am AWESOME!
Monday, August 06, 2007
Cue the Imperial March & hand me a maracca....
Husband is a very funny guy- I think I’ve mentioned that before. He’s also one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet and you’d be hard pressed to get him to ever say anything intentionally hurtful or cruel. It’s just not his style, but irreverently humorous IS his style.
So you’ll understand why I was amused and not aggravated when he began responding to my requests for him to [insert random task here] with “Yes, Lord Vader.”
After a few months of this, I stopped him one day and said “Um… that’s LOURDES Vader, thank you very much… but you can call me Lola.”
So there you have it, I am Lola Vader. And now he’s making up songs like “Her name was Lo-la, she had a Death Star…”
I just hope I can get my light saber through airport security on my way to the Copa Cabana.
So you’ll understand why I was amused and not aggravated when he began responding to my requests for him to [insert random task here] with “Yes, Lord Vader.”
After a few months of this, I stopped him one day and said “Um… that’s LOURDES Vader, thank you very much… but you can call me Lola.”
So there you have it, I am Lola Vader. And now he’s making up songs like “Her name was Lo-la, she had a Death Star…”
I just hope I can get my light saber through airport security on my way to the Copa Cabana.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
GIT IN MAH BELLY!
It’s official. I’m hungry. And I’m not talking about polite ladies lunch “oh, my, yes… a finger sandwich would be lovely, but only half, please…” I’m talking about truck driver hungry. I’m talking linebacker in the off season hungry. I’m talking coworkers walking by and going “you’re eating AGAIN?” hungry. I eat and an hour later, my stomach is growling. Loudly.
PREGNANT HUNGRY- it ain’t for the faint of heart, folks.
Need proof?
Ladies and gentlemen, I present Exhibit A: What I’ve Eaten Today.
1 bowl of oatmeal
1 cup of cranberry pomegranate juice
1- 8 oz can of pineapple chunks (in juice, mind you!)
1 Kashi TLC peanut butter granola bar
1 single-serving container of steamed broccoli
1 Amy’s organic black bean burrito (so good!)
½ a snack bag of Cheetos
2 Hershey’s special dark miniatures
Oh, and the best part?
It’s 12:30.
Yeah- only HALFWAY THROUGH THE DAY.
Tremble in fear, mortals…
PREGNANT HUNGRY- it ain’t for the faint of heart, folks.
Need proof?
Ladies and gentlemen, I present Exhibit A: What I’ve Eaten Today.
1 bowl of oatmeal
1 cup of cranberry pomegranate juice
1- 8 oz can of pineapple chunks (in juice, mind you!)
1 Kashi TLC peanut butter granola bar
1 single-serving container of steamed broccoli
1 Amy’s organic black bean burrito (so good!)
½ a snack bag of Cheetos
2 Hershey’s special dark miniatures
Oh, and the best part?
It’s 12:30.
Yeah- only HALFWAY THROUGH THE DAY.
Tremble in fear, mortals…
Monday, July 30, 2007
Preparing for Baby...just add water!
And now, courtesy of Parents.com, a list of ways to “prepare for baby!” (*gag*) and my rebuttals.
First off, let me say that whoever wrote this list has clearly never been pregnant or lived with a pregnant woman. In fact, I’m pretty certain the author ascribes to the stork/cabbage patch theory. And they probably have a perfectly organized linen closet. (Ass.) But I digress… here we go…
1. Reduce Stress In Your Life- This is a lovely sentiment, but I’m afraid it flies in the face of the very fact that OH-MY-GOD-THERE’S-GOING-TO-BE-A-TINY-HELPLESS-HUMAN-HERE-FOR-WHOM-I-AM-ENTIRELY-RESPONSIBLE!!! If you have any idea the magnitude of the commitment you’ve undertaken, you SHOULD be stressed. Not to mention the fact that reducing stress is much easier when you aren’t pondering questions like:
What do you mean FMLA is unpaid?
The average cost of raising a baby is WHAT?
My vagina/cervix is going to get HOW BIG?
When do I stop puking and start glowing?
What the hell is a “boppy”?
Does training the dog to prop up a bottle count as adequate childcare?
2. Increase Your Social Support Network- Another lovely idea- and yet highly impractical for the pregnant person and partner. On a list of priorities topped by sleep and food, the pregnant woman places “increase social support network” right down there beside “learn the rules of Australian football.” When you fall asleep sometime right after Wheel of Fortune and long before any prime-time programming, you’re not likely to get invited to many a supper club. Your only hope is to befriend other pregnant women and their partners at the height of some sport’s playoffs so you can fall asleep together and the partners won’t care.
3. Begin Thinking About the Birth- Huh? Was I supposed to be thinking about ANYTHING ELSE? No, seriously… after the initial elation (or panic, depending on your circumstances) of finding out you’re pregnant passes, the very next thing you do is to start obsessing about giving birth. I know, the authors are speaking of the neatly typed double-spaced “birth plan”. As they said in Clueless… “WHAT-EV-ER.” Here’s the thing, birth is nothing but a series of messy, unpredictable, big ol’ fat unknown variables which normally render the “birth plan” little more than extra toilet paper (equally scratchy as the hospital variety, too). That scares the shittola out of most women which is why the first thought after “that IS a second line!” is usually “oh my GOD- this baby has to come OUT!” So if you have to actually instruct a woman to begin thinking about the birth, she’s either not pregnant yet or she’s so far in denial she will give birth in the bathroom at the prom and get back out on the dance floor. Is this one intended for these “partners” the article mentions? Because that would make sense. I wouldn’t want to think about birth if it didn’t involve my va-jay-jay either.
4. Take Care of Your Soul- Seriously? My soul? Now does that come before or after I take care of this freakin’ body of mine that has ceased to function normally? ‘Cause I bought some of those chicken soup books and so far they’ve been terrific ergonomic footrests to help with this low back pain. But my soul? Still the same black mar on the face of humanity it ever was. (Just ask the Republicans we know.) Should I have gotten that fixed before I got pregnant? I knew I was forgetting something…
5. Explore Your Expectations of Parenting with Your Partner- Now THIS is a suggestion I can get behind! It’s very important that expecting parents agree on the important issues. Like… exactly who is the baby daddy and discipline questions like to cage or not to cage. No, seriously…got to have a chat about those expectations. For instance, do you both consider getting 7-8 hours of sleep a night a reasonable expectation? If you do, consider psychopharmaceuticals and that you may be able to save money by buying in bulk. Does your partner expect that since you are breastfeeding, you will attend to the baby every time it cries at night? If he does that’s fine, but he should adjust his expectations to include you attaching the electric breast pump to his scrotum while he sleeps. See? Compromise!
We need a practical list of ways to prepare for baby. I’ll start it off… commenters, add on for me!
Rob a bank or implement plan for hostile takeover of Trump Enterprises.
Hire a cleaning service or drastically reduce your cleanliness standards.
Build conveyor belt from nursery straight to washing machine.
Learn to sleep standing up while rocking back and forth and bouncing lightly.
What else?
First off, let me say that whoever wrote this list has clearly never been pregnant or lived with a pregnant woman. In fact, I’m pretty certain the author ascribes to the stork/cabbage patch theory. And they probably have a perfectly organized linen closet. (Ass.) But I digress… here we go…
1. Reduce Stress In Your Life- This is a lovely sentiment, but I’m afraid it flies in the face of the very fact that OH-MY-GOD-THERE’S-GOING-TO-BE-A-TINY-HELPLESS-HUMAN-HERE-FOR-WHOM-I-AM-ENTIRELY-RESPONSIBLE!!! If you have any idea the magnitude of the commitment you’ve undertaken, you SHOULD be stressed. Not to mention the fact that reducing stress is much easier when you aren’t pondering questions like:
What do you mean FMLA is unpaid?
The average cost of raising a baby is WHAT?
My vagina/cervix is going to get HOW BIG?
When do I stop puking and start glowing?
What the hell is a “boppy”?
Does training the dog to prop up a bottle count as adequate childcare?
2. Increase Your Social Support Network- Another lovely idea- and yet highly impractical for the pregnant person and partner. On a list of priorities topped by sleep and food, the pregnant woman places “increase social support network” right down there beside “learn the rules of Australian football.” When you fall asleep sometime right after Wheel of Fortune and long before any prime-time programming, you’re not likely to get invited to many a supper club. Your only hope is to befriend other pregnant women and their partners at the height of some sport’s playoffs so you can fall asleep together and the partners won’t care.
3. Begin Thinking About the Birth- Huh? Was I supposed to be thinking about ANYTHING ELSE? No, seriously… after the initial elation (or panic, depending on your circumstances) of finding out you’re pregnant passes, the very next thing you do is to start obsessing about giving birth. I know, the authors are speaking of the neatly typed double-spaced “birth plan”. As they said in Clueless… “WHAT-EV-ER.” Here’s the thing, birth is nothing but a series of messy, unpredictable, big ol’ fat unknown variables which normally render the “birth plan” little more than extra toilet paper (equally scratchy as the hospital variety, too). That scares the shittola out of most women which is why the first thought after “that IS a second line!” is usually “oh my GOD- this baby has to come OUT!” So if you have to actually instruct a woman to begin thinking about the birth, she’s either not pregnant yet or she’s so far in denial she will give birth in the bathroom at the prom and get back out on the dance floor. Is this one intended for these “partners” the article mentions? Because that would make sense. I wouldn’t want to think about birth if it didn’t involve my va-jay-jay either.
4. Take Care of Your Soul- Seriously? My soul? Now does that come before or after I take care of this freakin’ body of mine that has ceased to function normally? ‘Cause I bought some of those chicken soup books and so far they’ve been terrific ergonomic footrests to help with this low back pain. But my soul? Still the same black mar on the face of humanity it ever was. (Just ask the Republicans we know.) Should I have gotten that fixed before I got pregnant? I knew I was forgetting something…
5. Explore Your Expectations of Parenting with Your Partner- Now THIS is a suggestion I can get behind! It’s very important that expecting parents agree on the important issues. Like… exactly who is the baby daddy and discipline questions like to cage or not to cage. No, seriously…got to have a chat about those expectations. For instance, do you both consider getting 7-8 hours of sleep a night a reasonable expectation? If you do, consider psychopharmaceuticals and that you may be able to save money by buying in bulk. Does your partner expect that since you are breastfeeding, you will attend to the baby every time it cries at night? If he does that’s fine, but he should adjust his expectations to include you attaching the electric breast pump to his scrotum while he sleeps. See? Compromise!
We need a practical list of ways to prepare for baby. I’ll start it off… commenters, add on for me!
Rob a bank or implement plan for hostile takeover of Trump Enterprises.
Hire a cleaning service or drastically reduce your cleanliness standards.
Build conveyor belt from nursery straight to washing machine.
Learn to sleep standing up while rocking back and forth and bouncing lightly.
What else?
Monday, July 16, 2007
State of the Uterus- I mean Union... and a Meme
Hi! Remember me? No? Sorry about that...
Here's the Reader's Digest version of things:
Went to the beach (Charleston- Isle of Palms) for half of July 4th week.
Came back and worked Thursday and Friday.
Went back to beach for weekend.
Came back to angry cat and pitiful dogs.
Hosted a management conference.
Spent the night in the ER with Husband mid-conference. (Migraine.)
Collapsed into coma this past weekend.
So much to update...
Had an OB appointment this morning. Miss Vivi (as her father is calling her) is doing fine. Mama has gained only 5.25 pounds despite... well, despite a lot of things. Our baby girl spent some quality time kicking the doppler thingie this morning and refusing to hold still long enough to get her heart rate counted. *Sniff* I'm so proud!
The lovely and talented Suburban Hostage has tagged me for a meme, so here you go. (A more profound post soon- I promise!)
What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let's see... July 1997... Working as an office manager for a construction company and preparing for January wedding to the ex. (One of those was a mistake... the job is still on my resume, so you do the math...)
What were you doing one year ago?
Going to Bro-in-Law's wedding at the beach in NC. Still hurting from the loss of our girl, but starting to see the light more days than not.
Five snacks you enjoy:
HA! Just five? I am pregnant, you know... I do not discriminate. Fine- just five...
1. Swedish fish
2. herbed goat cheese on club crackers
3. hummus & pita points
4. sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts
5. chocolate milkshakes
Five songs you know all the words to:
Uh... lots of them. Lots and lots. To the point that I amaze even Husband... and this is a guy who knows all the words to "The Humpty Dance".
Five things you'd do if you were a millionaire:
1. Take care of my parents and in-laws.
2. Pay off baby sister's student loans, and other sisters' houses/cars
3. Travel. Extensively. With Nanny in tow.
4. Hire Stacy & Clinton to dress me.
5. Make a huge donation to my alma mater.
Five bad habits:
1. Leaving drawers open. (Dressers, kitchen, etc... such a safety hazard. Must remedy pre-baby.)
2. Chewing my nails to nothingness. Add "get weekly gel manicure fill-ins" to my millionaire list.
3. Huge. Piles. Of. Clothes. All over my bedroom. To be fair, 1/2 are Husband's. Still...
4. Talking on my phone while driving. (I do use my bluetooth now... that's better, right?)
5. Procrastinating. See, I even saved that for last on the list!
Five things I like doing:
Remember... PREGNANT.
1. Sleeping.
2. Eating.
3. Napping.
4. Snacking.
5. Cooking.
5 Things I'd never wear again:
1. Any scrunchie.
2. A band t-shirt.* (*Exceptions for around the house and doing yardwork. Band t-shirts in public after you're 30 just make you look a tad pathetic.)
3. Black or dark red lipstick. (It was right at the time... I swear!)
4. Velvet.
5. Plastic shoes. I was the only 30-something on Isle of Palms without Crocs this year and dammit, I won't give in. I know, they're practical and comfy at the beach... I just can't get ever the idea that they're basically yuppie jelly shoes.
5 of my favorite toys:
Toys I have, or toys I want? Hmm... we'll go with have.
1. My Treo.
2. My KitchenAid mixer.
3. My Wusthof santoku knife.
4. My Calphalon roasting pan. (See a theme yet?)
5. My little 2 cup Cuisinart food processor.
Here's the Reader's Digest version of things:
Went to the beach (Charleston- Isle of Palms) for half of July 4th week.
Came back and worked Thursday and Friday.
Went back to beach for weekend.
Came back to angry cat and pitiful dogs.
Hosted a management conference.
Spent the night in the ER with Husband mid-conference. (Migraine.)
Collapsed into coma this past weekend.
So much to update...
Had an OB appointment this morning. Miss Vivi (as her father is calling her) is doing fine. Mama has gained only 5.25 pounds despite... well, despite a lot of things. Our baby girl spent some quality time kicking the doppler thingie this morning and refusing to hold still long enough to get her heart rate counted. *Sniff* I'm so proud!
The lovely and talented Suburban Hostage has tagged me for a meme, so here you go. (A more profound post soon- I promise!)
What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let's see... July 1997... Working as an office manager for a construction company and preparing for January wedding to the ex. (One of those was a mistake... the job is still on my resume, so you do the math...)
What were you doing one year ago?
Going to Bro-in-Law's wedding at the beach in NC. Still hurting from the loss of our girl, but starting to see the light more days than not.
Five snacks you enjoy:
HA! Just five? I am pregnant, you know... I do not discriminate. Fine- just five...
1. Swedish fish
2. herbed goat cheese on club crackers
3. hummus & pita points
4. sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts
5. chocolate milkshakes
Five songs you know all the words to:
Uh... lots of them. Lots and lots. To the point that I amaze even Husband... and this is a guy who knows all the words to "The Humpty Dance".
Five things you'd do if you were a millionaire:
1. Take care of my parents and in-laws.
2. Pay off baby sister's student loans, and other sisters' houses/cars
3. Travel. Extensively. With Nanny in tow.
4. Hire Stacy & Clinton to dress me.
5. Make a huge donation to my alma mater.
Five bad habits:
1. Leaving drawers open. (Dressers, kitchen, etc... such a safety hazard. Must remedy pre-baby.)
2. Chewing my nails to nothingness. Add "get weekly gel manicure fill-ins" to my millionaire list.
3. Huge. Piles. Of. Clothes. All over my bedroom. To be fair, 1/2 are Husband's. Still...
4. Talking on my phone while driving. (I do use my bluetooth now... that's better, right?)
5. Procrastinating. See, I even saved that for last on the list!
Five things I like doing:
Remember... PREGNANT.
1. Sleeping.
2. Eating.
3. Napping.
4. Snacking.
5. Cooking.
5 Things I'd never wear again:
1. Any scrunchie.
2. A band t-shirt.* (*Exceptions for around the house and doing yardwork. Band t-shirts in public after you're 30 just make you look a tad pathetic.)
3. Black or dark red lipstick. (It was right at the time... I swear!)
4. Velvet.
5. Plastic shoes. I was the only 30-something on Isle of Palms without Crocs this year and dammit, I won't give in. I know, they're practical and comfy at the beach... I just can't get ever the idea that they're basically yuppie jelly shoes.
5 of my favorite toys:
Toys I have, or toys I want? Hmm... we'll go with have.
1. My Treo.
2. My KitchenAid mixer.
3. My Wusthof santoku knife.
4. My Calphalon roasting pan. (See a theme yet?)
5. My little 2 cup Cuisinart food processor.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
It doesn't get much better than this...
The genetic counselor called.
The baby's screening came back perfectly normal.
It's a girl.
Her name is Vivian Mae.
Gratitude doesn't begin to describe it. Neither does joy.
For Husband, for this baby, for our families, for my life, for all of it... I am completely and overwhelmingly joyfully grateful.
I could not ask for more.
:)
The baby's screening came back perfectly normal.
It's a girl.
Her name is Vivian Mae.
Gratitude doesn't begin to describe it. Neither does joy.
For Husband, for this baby, for our families, for my life, for all of it... I am completely and overwhelmingly joyfully grateful.
I could not ask for more.
:)
Friday, June 22, 2007
Damn Husband with his stupid logic...
Email to Husband:
I want her!!!
http://search.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=8557550
Husband's Reply:
What are you doing on this unapproved website? Get back to work! ;)
Me:
Silly Husband!
I am not that easily diverted!
WANT. THAT. KITTY.
Dammit.
Husband:
Ummmm...Not trying to point out the obvious, but we are about to have another baby running around the house. Not to mention the cat and nearly 200 lbs of dog. We might already be at full capacity. Maybe.
Me:
Full capacity? I think not.
Besides, I am just trying to restore order and balance to our home. We have
two of us, we have two dogs, we plan to have two kids... we need TWO CATS.
See? Give it up- duality is ingrained in our Western way of thinking.
Resistance is futile.
Husband:
But we don't have two kids yet. You see MBM (that's my-baby-momma), this duality that you yearn for is a process. An ongoing transition. We can't expect to achieve it immediately. Be patient, Grasshopper. One day you will find the duality you seek.
I want her!!!
http://search.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=8557550
Husband's Reply:
What are you doing on this unapproved website? Get back to work! ;)
Me:
Silly Husband!
I am not that easily diverted!
WANT. THAT. KITTY.
Dammit.
Husband:
Ummmm...Not trying to point out the obvious, but we are about to have another baby running around the house. Not to mention the cat and nearly 200 lbs of dog. We might already be at full capacity. Maybe.
Me:
Full capacity? I think not.
Besides, I am just trying to restore order and balance to our home. We have
two of us, we have two dogs, we plan to have two kids... we need TWO CATS.
See? Give it up- duality is ingrained in our Western way of thinking.
Resistance is futile.
Husband:
But we don't have two kids yet. You see MBM (that's my-baby-momma), this duality that you yearn for is a process. An ongoing transition. We can't expect to achieve it immediately. Be patient, Grasshopper. One day you will find the duality you seek.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
I'm going to catch hell from someone for this...
As a parent-to-be, I know it’s dangerous to say “I will NEVER (insert parental action here) to my kids!” Like “I will NEVER call the Wiggles a God-awful band of narcissistic merchandising whores in front of my kids!” Wait… that’s probably a poor example. I can’t even pretend I have any intention of honoring that one.
We’ve all heard parents proclaim their high ideals for handling the wee lil’ buggers- only to find later that the wicked realities of parenthood are undoing their good intentions. Live and learn and then give them the damn binkie.
But I am willing to put this declaration of parental policy on record with the Internet because we all know that’s about as good as telling God herself.
I.WILL. NEVER. PIERCE. MY. BABY’S. EARS.
Got that? Never. Ever. Not in a million bazillion years. What the hell kind of parent does that to a baby? Most of the mothers and fathers I know leave those first pediatrician’s visits in tears themselves after their little one cries and cries with every immunization. It’s agonizing to see their baby in pain, but you do what you have to do to prevent them from… oh, DYING. And yet some of those same parents will hop up on a chair in a boutique at the mall to inflict an even thicker needle in an even more sensitive part of the body on their kiddo FOR VANITY. And not even the kid’s own chosen expression of vanity- their own screwed up superficial bullshit need to make their already perfect child “cute”. Why this form of abuse (yes, I said it, abuse) is even legal, I do not know. I’m sorry, but punching holes in your child’s body with no anesthesia for no damn good reason is an awful thing to do. You have to squelch the urge to clobber that kid at playgroup who pinches them, but you’ll do this to them on purpose? For shits and giggles?
Pierce your own ears but leave that poor baby alone. She'll want to do it on her own soon enough anyway- then you can say "I told you so" when she cries. I know it's delayed gratification, but that should be enough to satisfy the Barbie-sadist parents, right?
Yeesh.
We’ve all heard parents proclaim their high ideals for handling the wee lil’ buggers- only to find later that the wicked realities of parenthood are undoing their good intentions. Live and learn and then give them the damn binkie.
But I am willing to put this declaration of parental policy on record with the Internet because we all know that’s about as good as telling God herself.
I.WILL. NEVER. PIERCE. MY. BABY’S. EARS.
Got that? Never. Ever. Not in a million bazillion years. What the hell kind of parent does that to a baby? Most of the mothers and fathers I know leave those first pediatrician’s visits in tears themselves after their little one cries and cries with every immunization. It’s agonizing to see their baby in pain, but you do what you have to do to prevent them from… oh, DYING. And yet some of those same parents will hop up on a chair in a boutique at the mall to inflict an even thicker needle in an even more sensitive part of the body on their kiddo FOR VANITY. And not even the kid’s own chosen expression of vanity- their own screwed up superficial bullshit need to make their already perfect child “cute”. Why this form of abuse (yes, I said it, abuse) is even legal, I do not know. I’m sorry, but punching holes in your child’s body with no anesthesia for no damn good reason is an awful thing to do. You have to squelch the urge to clobber that kid at playgroup who pinches them, but you’ll do this to them on purpose? For shits and giggles?
Pierce your own ears but leave that poor baby alone. She'll want to do it on her own soon enough anyway- then you can say "I told you so" when she cries. I know it's delayed gratification, but that should be enough to satisfy the Barbie-sadist parents, right?
Yeesh.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
This wasn't in my Webster's.....
My new favorite word:
“clitzpah”- meaning strength or bravery or daringness directly related to being female
Some folks in the feminist blogging world came up with this one. They got tired of people using “ballsy” for being nervy- and thereby implying that it was a male trait. Sure, women could be ballsy, but by tying the language to testicles, you create sexist language and give men theoretical ownership on the characteristic.
So another feminist blogger suggested “clitty” to replace ballsy. It’s fine, I suppose, but it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. (Insert crude jokes and imagery here.) And then a Jewish feminist suggested “clitzpah” as a feminista’s take on chutzpah.
I.love.it.
“clitzpah”- meaning strength or bravery or daringness directly related to being female
Some folks in the feminist blogging world came up with this one. They got tired of people using “ballsy” for being nervy- and thereby implying that it was a male trait. Sure, women could be ballsy, but by tying the language to testicles, you create sexist language and give men theoretical ownership on the characteristic.
So another feminist blogger suggested “clitty” to replace ballsy. It’s fine, I suppose, but it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. (Insert crude jokes and imagery here.) And then a Jewish feminist suggested “clitzpah” as a feminista’s take on chutzpah.
I.love.it.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Wait for it....
I am at that point where I am pregnant enough that none of my regular clothes fit, but I don't necessarily need maternity clothes. But I am too cheap to buy an entirely new set of "in-between" clothes in a larger size. So I busted out the maternity jeans this week. True, wearing a belly panel this early in the game is a little depressing at moments, but I'm comfortable, dammit. And trust me when I say you need me in the best mood possible these days.
But the maternity jeans, they don't make a gal feel particularly sexy... but leave it to Husband... my "glass-half-full" guy....
*Sliding his hands down the back of the jeans*
Husband: Mmmm... maternity jeans.... easy access! All right!
Me: Leave it to you to find the sexy upside to MATERNITY JEANS.
*Pause*
Husband: This is going to wind up on your blog isn't it?
Me: Oh, totally. Yeah.
Husband *still groping in the jeans*: I figured.
Me: We're not having sex now.
Husband: I figured.
But the maternity jeans, they don't make a gal feel particularly sexy... but leave it to Husband... my "glass-half-full" guy....
*Sliding his hands down the back of the jeans*
Husband: Mmmm... maternity jeans.... easy access! All right!
Me: Leave it to you to find the sexy upside to MATERNITY JEANS.
*Pause*
Husband: This is going to wind up on your blog isn't it?
Me: Oh, totally. Yeah.
Husband *still groping in the jeans*: I figured.
Me: We're not having sex now.
Husband: I figured.
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?
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.
Dorks.
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.
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.
Dorks.
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.
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