While I was in New Jersey last weekend, I found the perfect item that provided a snapshot of a brief few months of my life. I have been using the same planner format from Daytimer since I started college. It's the one page per day format, and if they ever discontinue it, this whole facade of an organized life will crumble.
I was searching around for something to read while waiting for my parents' impossibly slow computer to load, and I found my planner circa 1997. On the outside, there were two stickers for Mil Mulliganos and Too Hectic, and inside, flipping through the planner pages, I found:
1. Directions to Wilmington, North Carolina and a phone number for the Fountain Motel. BB and I drove down to the WE Fest to watch Mil Mulliganos and The Sidedoor Johnnies perform that summer. We were also running from the roommate incident from Hell. Both of were all hung up about making sure that we had a place to stay with a pool and found the motel online. After a full day of driving, we found the motel and the pool AND the Interstate and the gas station both were next to. If you leaned on the headboards in that place, you would stick.
A quick Google search informs me that the WE Fest still exists and is described as "an artist driven celebration of up and coming musicians and independent culture, featuring more than 70 bands from around the country and the world." It should not be confused with the other WEFest, some sort of country music event.
I have pictures from this trip, and I am always wearing platform sandals. Also, a green floral bikini with boy shorts. Disturbing. I also remember a night at a bar where some idiot told BB she looked like Tori Spelling. She does not.
2. Plane ticket stubs to Chicago. I took a number of trips to Chicago to visit my then boyfriend. He was living with his band. He supposedly had an air mattress, but it was really a pool raft. I slept on the raft because that's what you do when you are cool enough to have a boyfriend in a band and you get to fly out and visit him. I also remember their favorite bar in the neighborhood and the cool people that worked there.
3. A big "21" scrawled in marker across the page for my birthday. The Mulliganos were back in Syracuse, playing at Chuck's. At midnight on Sept. 4, we went down to Armory Square so that I could have my first legal beer and then some. On my actual birthday, I wore a polyester leopard print shirt and two of the roommates from 850 made me a big leopard 21 that I wore as a necklace. I drank a lot of beer. The insane roommate fell off our porch and bit off part of her tongue. I have a picture of NN and KL in our house, looking all "are we dating or just hanging out?" Now they're married with two kids.
4. Postcards from different art students that lived in the Red House. I thought my life would be complete if I could be "arty" enough to be considered for The Red House. I still have a plastic beer cup from one of their last parties. It's a frat house now.
5. A post-it note that says "hand in assignment to Hubbard." Hubbard was one of our magazine professors and I believe he was my advisor for a while. NN and I were in a class together with a number of other women named Jennifer and a few faces from the Feminist Collective. He called us the coffee clatch because we all sat together.
I really miss college sometimes.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Post 16: Health Care Debate vs. The Anus Bandit
I like to think that I'm a fairly intelligent person. I watch the news. I read the paper. I'm somewhat well-informed. I had a dream about a brilliant post that I was going to write concerning the healthcare debate and how I see this more as a moral issue than a political one. It was super -- clear, articulate, etc. All the things I was hoping that this blog would be.
And then I spent more time than necessary flipping through Creative Cursing: A Mix 'n' Match Profanity Generator, and anything intelligent I had to say slipped out the window. YG's niece received this book as a 21st birthday present, and we got such a kick out of it that I made a special trip to Urban Outfitters to buy our own copy. The fact that it's stocked at Urban Outfitters should tell you that I am too old for this shit.
Still, YG and I laugh so hard that we now have a word of the day. Last night's was anus bandit. Say it with me -- anus bandit. Awesome.
Other recent favorites:
Fart Waffle
Rectum Diddler
Queef Stain
Boob Licker
Some people end up with book deals because of their blogs. I suspect this will not happen with anything that includes an anus bandit.
And then I spent more time than necessary flipping through Creative Cursing: A Mix 'n' Match Profanity Generator, and anything intelligent I had to say slipped out the window. YG's niece received this book as a 21st birthday present, and we got such a kick out of it that I made a special trip to Urban Outfitters to buy our own copy. The fact that it's stocked at Urban Outfitters should tell you that I am too old for this shit.
Still, YG and I laugh so hard that we now have a word of the day. Last night's was anus bandit. Say it with me -- anus bandit. Awesome.
Other recent favorites:
Fart Waffle
Rectum Diddler
Queef Stain
Boob Licker
Some people end up with book deals because of their blogs. I suspect this will not happen with anything that includes an anus bandit.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Post 15: Like More Dumb Shit That I Say
A list of other idiotic phrases I've noticed myself saying in my attempts to speak like a literate adult.
1. Yeah, but....
When there's a break in the conversation for a bit. It's my version of "as I was saying."
2. I mean...
Of course I mean it. I'm saying it.
3. Literally...
Incorrectly.
4. Dude, totally...
I do not surf.
5. Ya know?
6. It's like...
A like, but somehow more annoying.
7. Do I even need to mention the swearing? You know me.
WHY DID YOU PEOPLE NOT TELL ME THAT I SOUND LIKE AN ILLITERATE OAF?
Like seriously, in my head, I sound much smarter. Dude.
1. Yeah, but....
When there's a break in the conversation for a bit. It's my version of "as I was saying."
2. I mean...
Of course I mean it. I'm saying it.
3. Literally...
Incorrectly.
4. Dude, totally...
I do not surf.
5. Ya know?
6. It's like...
A like, but somehow more annoying.
7. Do I even need to mention the swearing? You know me.
WHY DID YOU PEOPLE NOT TELL ME THAT I SOUND LIKE AN ILLITERATE OAF?
Like seriously, in my head, I sound much smarter. Dude.
Post 14: BREAKING NEWS REPORT -- Foot Discovered in Suburban New Jersey
Whippany, NJ -- Two feet were discovered earlier this morning after several unsuccessful attempts to locate them.
The discoverer, a three month old child named Zygote, located the feet at approximately 9:01 a.m. ET this morning. She described the event as "gaaahh.."
Onlookers noted that she seemed quite proud of the achievement, with continuous shouts and smiles.
Attempts to place the feet in the child's mouth have been unproductive thus far.
The discoverer, a three month old child named Zygote, located the feet at approximately 9:01 a.m. ET this morning. She described the event as "gaaahh.."
Onlookers noted that she seemed quite proud of the achievement, with continuous shouts and smiles.
Attempts to place the feet in the child's mouth have been unproductive thus far.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Post 13: Like Seriously with the Likes
If you're a friend of mine on Facebook, you most likely saw the video that my good friend, SKB, posted of Zygote doing...well, nothing. Zygote is staring, immobile, and SKB and I are talking in the background. SBK is, as usual, hilarious and in between my own daily 5 minutes of funniness, I noticed a horrible, glaring defect. Like a totally awful defect like. Like it was totally like gross.
My love of "like."
I've long known that I use the word "like" way too often. I took a public speaking class to try and help with it and I try to catch myself. But it always slips in. "Like" has replaced "said" in almost all my stories and it's become a replacement for all my other "ums," "uhs" and "ya knows." I was hoping that people couldn't notice, or that if they did, they were so utterly taken with my wit and charm that they let it slide.
Then I saw that video, and holy shit, am I mortified. I sound RIDICULOUS. I am 33 years old and I used the phrase "like, oh my god" for real. I have a Masters Degree. In Communications. Something is not right here.
I asked YG for his opinion on me and my likes, and when his response was "honestly?" I knew that I have a serious problem here. He says that it is fairly rampant, but because I make up for it with that aforementioned wit and charm, it's just one more of my lovable quirks. Hmmmm....He says he notices it most when I "prattle." Hmmm again. He's not an asshole, and even if I tried, there's no way I could convince the world that Mr. Eagle Scout/Good Citizen of the World YG was an asshole. I appreciate him because he will give an honest opinion, and when he says that I should work on something because it could be holding me back, I know it's the truth.
So...I'm working on it. And it's hard. Now I stop talking when I catch a "like" so instead of just sounding like an idiot, I now sound like an idiot with a speech impediment. Progress, not perfection.
The world would be so much easier if I didn't need to communicate with other humans.
My love of "like."
I've long known that I use the word "like" way too often. I took a public speaking class to try and help with it and I try to catch myself. But it always slips in. "Like" has replaced "said" in almost all my stories and it's become a replacement for all my other "ums," "uhs" and "ya knows." I was hoping that people couldn't notice, or that if they did, they were so utterly taken with my wit and charm that they let it slide.
Then I saw that video, and holy shit, am I mortified. I sound RIDICULOUS. I am 33 years old and I used the phrase "like, oh my god" for real. I have a Masters Degree. In Communications. Something is not right here.
I asked YG for his opinion on me and my likes, and when his response was "honestly?" I knew that I have a serious problem here. He says that it is fairly rampant, but because I make up for it with that aforementioned wit and charm, it's just one more of my lovable quirks. Hmmmm....He says he notices it most when I "prattle." Hmmm again. He's not an asshole, and even if I tried, there's no way I could convince the world that Mr. Eagle Scout/Good Citizen of the World YG was an asshole. I appreciate him because he will give an honest opinion, and when he says that I should work on something because it could be holding me back, I know it's the truth.
So...I'm working on it. And it's hard. Now I stop talking when I catch a "like" so instead of just sounding like an idiot, I now sound like an idiot with a speech impediment. Progress, not perfection.
The world would be so much easier if I didn't need to communicate with other humans.
Post 12: Three Months and 9/11
Zygote is three months old today. It seems weird to celebrate on a date that will always be associated with something bad. More on that in a bit.
First, Zygote is fabulous. She has grown into an engaging little person that I enjoy spending time with. She has crazy big eyes that follow you around a room, and even though I know it's not possible, I imagine that we are communicating when we stare at each other -- that we GET each other. She likes grabbing at things, especially her purple dinosaur, and everything goes immediately into her mouth. I suspect that my laissez faire attitude about germ prevention is going to have to change soon or else she's going to end up with Ebola or some other insane disease. We still go for walks every day and have a routine where we walk down to Harvard Square, browse the bookstores, get a cupcake and then have a feed on Cambridge Common. I'm sad that this will change once the weather gets colder and I have to go back to work. We've traveled quite a bit with her and she mainly sleeps in the car, but will kick her feet a bit when the music plays. The Beatles are a favorite, along with Fiona Apple and Cat Power. She screams when she's tired and hungry, and well, so do I. Or I wish I could. Basically, I love her to pieces and can't imagine her changing, but I'm looking forward to those changes too.
Second, her three month anniversary marks the 8 year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. It's hard to imagine that my child will have no understanding of a pre 9/11 world. YG said the other night, "I hate the post 9/11 world."
I was watching the coverage this morning and had to turn it off. It was always devastating, but now, having Zygote and imagining all those people who lost their children...it feels different. I couldn't quite handle it.
I'm back in Whippany again which is where I was on 9/11. I was living in Brooklyn at the time and had made it in to work to watch everything unfold on t.v. I couldn't get back to my apartment so I stayed in Whippany, waiting in the house by myself until my parents came home.
I tried to write a story about my experience of that day for one of my classes, but the feedback that I got was that I lost my voice -- that it wasn't funny and it wasn't me. I have a really hard time trying to figure out how you write a funny 9/11 story, but when the teacher asked me why I chose to wrote about 9/11, I told her that this dumb fuck that I work with was chastizing me for allowing the MG to ride the T because "you know, 9/11." I guess I was extremely animated in retelling the story and how I tore this woman a new one, and the teacher suggested I write about that or at least my animosity toward a certain breed of suburban woman who won't allow her child to play in the yard or take a dump by himself lest there be terrorists lurking around somewhere. I don't know. It still seems wrong. It seems wrong to even write about it here.
I do know that I will never forget, and maybe that's all that is important. I don't need to retell it.
First, Zygote is fabulous. She has grown into an engaging little person that I enjoy spending time with. She has crazy big eyes that follow you around a room, and even though I know it's not possible, I imagine that we are communicating when we stare at each other -- that we GET each other. She likes grabbing at things, especially her purple dinosaur, and everything goes immediately into her mouth. I suspect that my laissez faire attitude about germ prevention is going to have to change soon or else she's going to end up with Ebola or some other insane disease. We still go for walks every day and have a routine where we walk down to Harvard Square, browse the bookstores, get a cupcake and then have a feed on Cambridge Common. I'm sad that this will change once the weather gets colder and I have to go back to work. We've traveled quite a bit with her and she mainly sleeps in the car, but will kick her feet a bit when the music plays. The Beatles are a favorite, along with Fiona Apple and Cat Power. She screams when she's tired and hungry, and well, so do I. Or I wish I could. Basically, I love her to pieces and can't imagine her changing, but I'm looking forward to those changes too.
Second, her three month anniversary marks the 8 year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. It's hard to imagine that my child will have no understanding of a pre 9/11 world. YG said the other night, "I hate the post 9/11 world."
I was watching the coverage this morning and had to turn it off. It was always devastating, but now, having Zygote and imagining all those people who lost their children...it feels different. I couldn't quite handle it.
I'm back in Whippany again which is where I was on 9/11. I was living in Brooklyn at the time and had made it in to work to watch everything unfold on t.v. I couldn't get back to my apartment so I stayed in Whippany, waiting in the house by myself until my parents came home.
I tried to write a story about my experience of that day for one of my classes, but the feedback that I got was that I lost my voice -- that it wasn't funny and it wasn't me. I have a really hard time trying to figure out how you write a funny 9/11 story, but when the teacher asked me why I chose to wrote about 9/11, I told her that this dumb fuck that I work with was chastizing me for allowing the MG to ride the T because "you know, 9/11." I guess I was extremely animated in retelling the story and how I tore this woman a new one, and the teacher suggested I write about that or at least my animosity toward a certain breed of suburban woman who won't allow her child to play in the yard or take a dump by himself lest there be terrorists lurking around somewhere. I don't know. It still seems wrong. It seems wrong to even write about it here.
I do know that I will never forget, and maybe that's all that is important. I don't need to retell it.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Post 11: Birthday Weekend
For someone feeling kind of maudlin at the start of the weekend, it ended up being fab.
Zygote's present to me was sleeping until 5:30 on Friday night, allowing me to function unlike the walking dead on my actual birthday. We packed up the car and headed out to Walden Pond where we found a spot under the trees. YG and I took turns laying on the blanket, playing with Z and reading, and swimming in the water with the MG. It was a perfect summer day -- blue sky, not too hot and the water temperature was "warm" by New England standards. I left feeling warm and freckly, my favorite summer feeling.
After returning home, YG took the girls out for a walk and I went and got a pedicure, a screaming pink color. The woman at the salon remembered that I was getting a I'm-going-to-have-a-baby pedicure the last time I visited and told me how nice I looked. Win! I spent the rest of the afternoon in a quiet house, journaling and drinking wine. YG and the girls came home with a bouquet of sunflowers and hydrangea (my favorite) and we went out for Indian food and people watching in the Square. Followed by cupcakes and the MG's presents at home. She gave me a beautiful pair of earrings and a "to-do list" pad, a gift after my own heart. YG's present would come later.
On Sunday morning, YG gave me time to get in a 2.5 mile run before church and brunch. His sister came over for babysitting duties at 2:30, and he wisked me off to my surprise destination. I asked what we were doing. His response, "what are two of your favorite things?" Well, eating, obviously, and shopping. It pains me to write that. I feel like I should say that my favorite things include visiting art galleries and attending poetry readings and debating philosophy with my professorial friends. And, true, I do like those things, but dudes, I'm from Jersey. I LOVE the mall.
So, we went to the mall, or the Boston equivalent, the Prudential Center. YG knew that I needed a dress for his sister's upcoming wedding and some back-to-work clothes. Most of my clothing post-Zygote is weirdly ill-fitted, and I was hating on my mom pooch and hips and anything else I could think of to bitch about. He escorted me from store to store, helping me pick out dresses, sitting patiently while I tried them on and offering decent advice. We left with one beautiful Calvin Klein dress for the wedding, a pair of jeans sans elastic waist band, a courderoy blazer, two sweaters and a scarf. I was giddy, and felt good about myself. He really is the best gift giver ever.
We had martinis and then dinner at Top of the Hub and were back home by 8:30 p.m. Not a rock star evening, but a great one regardless.
Today, he went biking and I went running again and we took the girls out for lunch again. Now we're all just lounging around, basking in hangover of a long weekend.
Zygote's present to me was sleeping until 5:30 on Friday night, allowing me to function unlike the walking dead on my actual birthday. We packed up the car and headed out to Walden Pond where we found a spot under the trees. YG and I took turns laying on the blanket, playing with Z and reading, and swimming in the water with the MG. It was a perfect summer day -- blue sky, not too hot and the water temperature was "warm" by New England standards. I left feeling warm and freckly, my favorite summer feeling.
After returning home, YG took the girls out for a walk and I went and got a pedicure, a screaming pink color. The woman at the salon remembered that I was getting a I'm-going-to-have-a-baby pedicure the last time I visited and told me how nice I looked. Win! I spent the rest of the afternoon in a quiet house, journaling and drinking wine. YG and the girls came home with a bouquet of sunflowers and hydrangea (my favorite) and we went out for Indian food and people watching in the Square. Followed by cupcakes and the MG's presents at home. She gave me a beautiful pair of earrings and a "to-do list" pad, a gift after my own heart. YG's present would come later.
On Sunday morning, YG gave me time to get in a 2.5 mile run before church and brunch. His sister came over for babysitting duties at 2:30, and he wisked me off to my surprise destination. I asked what we were doing. His response, "what are two of your favorite things?" Well, eating, obviously, and shopping. It pains me to write that. I feel like I should say that my favorite things include visiting art galleries and attending poetry readings and debating philosophy with my professorial friends. And, true, I do like those things, but dudes, I'm from Jersey. I LOVE the mall.
So, we went to the mall, or the Boston equivalent, the Prudential Center. YG knew that I needed a dress for his sister's upcoming wedding and some back-to-work clothes. Most of my clothing post-Zygote is weirdly ill-fitted, and I was hating on my mom pooch and hips and anything else I could think of to bitch about. He escorted me from store to store, helping me pick out dresses, sitting patiently while I tried them on and offering decent advice. We left with one beautiful Calvin Klein dress for the wedding, a pair of jeans sans elastic waist band, a courderoy blazer, two sweaters and a scarf. I was giddy, and felt good about myself. He really is the best gift giver ever.
We had martinis and then dinner at Top of the Hub and were back home by 8:30 p.m. Not a rock star evening, but a great one regardless.
Today, he went biking and I went running again and we took the girls out for lunch again. Now we're all just lounging around, basking in hangover of a long weekend.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Accent Edition
Lying in bed, playing with Zygote, who is immune to all of our tactics to make her laugh:
SG: Z, why are you so humorless this morning?
(Z stares)
YG: Because she's missing the "h" in humorless.
(Glare)
Hahhhhhumorless.
SG: Z, why are you so humorless this morning?
(Z stares)
YG: Because she's missing the "h" in humorless.
(Glare)
Hahhhhhumorless.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Post 10: Thirty Three
I haven't been looking forward to this birthday. I haven't been dreading it either. It's just there. Thirty three. It's not a milestone birthday or anything special -- it's just, to be over dramatic, a marker that another year has passed. I sometimes wake up and think, "how did I get to be this old?" Not that 33 is old, but I feel like I should FEEL older in some ways, and most of the time, I still feel like a kid in adult clothes.
So, a gratitude list if you will, of things that are working for me at 33:
* My beautiful girl and the successful, interesting pregnancy and labor that brought her here
* YG
* the MG
* my family, as far away as they are
* a great apartment in a fabulous city
* running again
* reading lots of books during my time off
* dribs and drabs of writing
* an uneasy truce with how I look
* my other two children, the cats
* summer nights in Davis Square
* and countless other everyday moments that would be uninteresting to most people but me
The big hole is that I feel largely...unfinished. My return-to-work date is now looming over, and I dread going back. It has absolutely nothing to do with the job or the people. The work is fine, and I actually really love my coworkers. I just feel like I've wasted over a decade doing work that I don't enjoy and that the time is slipping away. And that if I don't figure out something else to do soon, it won't be a decade that I wasted, but rather a life. Most of you that read know that I've been complaining about the same thing for years, but with each passing year, it seems more urgent. And it caught up to me, to some extent. In my horrible-for-many-reasons review this year, I was asked, point blank, "Do you even want to be here?" There is no problem with my work or my work ethic. The problem, I was told, is that people get the sense that I don't want to be there and it's that -- this weird lack of commitment to the fact that this IS my life and my job -- that is keeping me stuck in the bowels of middle management. It hurt. Because it was unbelievably true.
YG scolds me when I say that I have "wasted" a decade of my life and reminds me of all the things that I have accomplished. I also remind myself that it took a while to get the other things that I am truly grateful for like a husband that I respect and who treats me well, and a place to live where I truly feel comfortable. It took me the better part of a decade to figure those things out, and it's going to continue to take time to figure out where I belong work-wise.
The good thing is that 33 doesn't feel too old. I feel like I have a good balance between wondering how the hell I ended up an adult and feeling like 33 is still just the beginning of a lifetime, that I have time to work things out and navel gaze a bit more.
So, a gratitude list if you will, of things that are working for me at 33:
* My beautiful girl and the successful, interesting pregnancy and labor that brought her here
* YG
* the MG
* my family, as far away as they are
* a great apartment in a fabulous city
* running again
* reading lots of books during my time off
* dribs and drabs of writing
* an uneasy truce with how I look
* my other two children, the cats
* summer nights in Davis Square
* and countless other everyday moments that would be uninteresting to most people but me
The big hole is that I feel largely...unfinished. My return-to-work date is now looming over, and I dread going back. It has absolutely nothing to do with the job or the people. The work is fine, and I actually really love my coworkers. I just feel like I've wasted over a decade doing work that I don't enjoy and that the time is slipping away. And that if I don't figure out something else to do soon, it won't be a decade that I wasted, but rather a life. Most of you that read know that I've been complaining about the same thing for years, but with each passing year, it seems more urgent. And it caught up to me, to some extent. In my horrible-for-many-reasons review this year, I was asked, point blank, "Do you even want to be here?" There is no problem with my work or my work ethic. The problem, I was told, is that people get the sense that I don't want to be there and it's that -- this weird lack of commitment to the fact that this IS my life and my job -- that is keeping me stuck in the bowels of middle management. It hurt. Because it was unbelievably true.
YG scolds me when I say that I have "wasted" a decade of my life and reminds me of all the things that I have accomplished. I also remind myself that it took a while to get the other things that I am truly grateful for like a husband that I respect and who treats me well, and a place to live where I truly feel comfortable. It took me the better part of a decade to figure those things out, and it's going to continue to take time to figure out where I belong work-wise.
The good thing is that 33 doesn't feel too old. I feel like I have a good balance between wondering how the hell I ended up an adult and feeling like 33 is still just the beginning of a lifetime, that I have time to work things out and navel gaze a bit more.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Post 9: But I Am Running
Ah, yes, a running update. I'm back up to 3 miles a couple of times a week. My first race is the last weekend in September, and I'm signed up for a 10K on Oct. 12. I highly doubt I will be able to run the whole 10K, but we'll see. I don't love the jogging stroller, but it's better than nothing. It's more of a pain in the ass to time my runs with my boobs and Zygote's nursing schedule. I won't even get into the gladiator wear I need to put on to keep those boobs in place.
Post 8: These Days
There are days when I really don't know what the hell I am doing. They were there before baby, but since Zygote's arrival, the frequency has definitely increased. I really don't have much to do during the day beyond feed baby, walk baby, feed cats, and bathe myself, and that last one isn't necessarily a necessity. Occasionally, I try and pull a meal together and there's always a mountain of laundry to do.
Still, I should be able to accomplish this stuff and have room for other things as well, no?
Today, I had grand plans to run to Staples to fax off some things, pick up cat food, go for a walk or a jog with the jogger, finish thank you notes, put away the laundry and maybe shower. Exciting. I still couldn't figure out how to get it done. Zygote seems to be teething early so today was a scream-all-day kind of day. I didn't take a shower until 6:30 p.m. with the baby screaming in the bouncy seat on the bathroom floor, and I'm now eating cold leftovers and desperately trying to get the house in some kind of order so that YG doesn't come home from his business trip and wonder why I'm such a sloth and what I was doing all day.
Two steps forward, one step back, right? And the writing? Well, it's not really happening. I feel like I'm too close to the baby stuff to write about it, and everything else seems so abstract right now.
I think I need a glass of wine.
Still, I should be able to accomplish this stuff and have room for other things as well, no?
Today, I had grand plans to run to Staples to fax off some things, pick up cat food, go for a walk or a jog with the jogger, finish thank you notes, put away the laundry and maybe shower. Exciting. I still couldn't figure out how to get it done. Zygote seems to be teething early so today was a scream-all-day kind of day. I didn't take a shower until 6:30 p.m. with the baby screaming in the bouncy seat on the bathroom floor, and I'm now eating cold leftovers and desperately trying to get the house in some kind of order so that YG doesn't come home from his business trip and wonder why I'm such a sloth and what I was doing all day.
Two steps forward, one step back, right? And the writing? Well, it's not really happening. I feel like I'm too close to the baby stuff to write about it, and everything else seems so abstract right now.
I think I need a glass of wine.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Post 7: The Students Return
Zygote and I went to Central Square this morning to pick up her birth certificate, and because the weather was gorgeous, we decided to walk the three miles home. On the way, we passed a number of moving trucks. They have been lined up all weekend, clogging the streets and causing traffic jams, and Harvard Square is teeming with meandering parents in Harvard visors and maps, not quite sure where they're going. And I know that I'm getting older because it seems like the new students are looking younger and younger each year.
Still, I love this time of year. There's something about the beginning of a new school year that feels like you're getting a clean slate. My birthday has always come near the start of the school year as well, so every September has that "this is the year I'm going to xxxx" feeling.
I'm not quite sure what I'll be doing this year. Spending time with Zygote, trying to figure out the rest of my life? I won't be taking any classes in the Fall semester because I want to try and figure out how to juggle my work/home schedule first, but I know that I'm going to miss it.
In the meantime, I'll try to be helpful to the tourists and the new kids, giving directions when asked and attempting friendliness and avoiding cursing them for taking my parking spots and my seat at Diesel.
Still, I love this time of year. There's something about the beginning of a new school year that feels like you're getting a clean slate. My birthday has always come near the start of the school year as well, so every September has that "this is the year I'm going to xxxx" feeling.
I'm not quite sure what I'll be doing this year. Spending time with Zygote, trying to figure out the rest of my life? I won't be taking any classes in the Fall semester because I want to try and figure out how to juggle my work/home schedule first, but I know that I'm going to miss it.
In the meantime, I'll try to be helpful to the tourists and the new kids, giving directions when asked and attempting friendliness and avoiding cursing them for taking my parking spots and my seat at Diesel.
Post 6: Middle School
"No, the worst thing, worse even than sitting around crying about that inevitable day when my son will leave for college, worse than thinking about whether or not in the meantime to get him those hideous baby shots he probably should have but that some babies die from, worse than the fears I have when I lie awake at 3:00 in the morning (that I won't be able to make enough money and will have to live in a tenement house where the rats will bite our heads while we sleep, or that I will lose my arms in some tragic accident and will have to go to court and diaper my son using only my mouth and feet and the judge won't think I've done a good enough job and put Sam in a foster home), worse even than the fear I feel whenever a car full of teenagers drives past my house going 200 miles an hour on our sleepy little street, worse than thinking about my son being run over by one of those drunken teenagers, or his one day becoming one of those teenagers -- worse than just about anything else is the agonizing issue of how on earth anyone can bring a child into this world knowing full well that he or she is eventually going to have to go through the seventh and eighth grades." -- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions.
Zygote has a number of years to go before we have to confront this particular horror, but this morning, the MG packed up her stuff and headed out for her first day of middle school. She's only in fifth grade, but in her district, middle school runs from grades 5-8, with the little kids getting thrown in with a bunch of large-breasted hozzles and boys who already have facial hair. The school has done everything it can to assuage parents' fears, keeping the kids apart except for when they enter and leave the building. Still, I am nervous. If I had the power to redo, or just skip, any time in my life, I would probably choose middle school. I don't think I'm unique.
The MG must sense this because she has had tons of anxiety preparing for school. She's worried about remembering her locker combination, changing classes, and getting bullied. And how have we responded to her questions and needs for reassurance? Well, basically, I've flat out lied. I tell her that it will all be okay, and that while it wasn't enjoyable ALL the time, I've always liked school.
What I didn't tell her: it was horrendous. I don't tell her that the mean girls were out of control and that some of the mean girls were supposed best friends. That the boys are still ridiculously babyish, until they're snapping your bra or whispering filthy comments to you. I don't tell her that you are never smart enough or pretty enough or funny enough or skinny enough, and that if you think these things don't matter, your friends and classmates will tell you that you're immature. You will have boobs or you won't. You will have your period or you won't. You will have a first boyfriend or you won't. Neither is preferable because with all of your raging hormones, every option will seem awful and you'll probably hate the world and everyone in it. Melodramatic much? Well, at least she doesn't have to take the bus. I would have to do some of my best PR work yet to put a good spin on that.
I read Queen Bees and Wannabes: Helping Your Daughter Survive Cliques, Gossip, Boyfriends, and Other Realities of Adolescence about a year ago and one of the most important bits of information that I took from that book was to check your baggage at the door. I obviously have my own biases, but I'm trying not to let them influence the MG's experience of middle school. I honestly hope, for her sake and selfishly for mine (I wouldn't sic my preteen self on my worst enemies), that her experience is different from mine and that she thrives.
One day down. 1,459 to go.
And then there's high school.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Post 5: Sentimental Nonsense
Zygote has learned how to laugh. She will open her mouth wide, move her head from side to side and bellow. It's redonk adorable.
Tonight, YG and I were leaning over her changing table, shoulder to shoulder, talking to her. She had been a little bitch earlier in the evening, probably tired out from the long drive. We had to leave our friend's house because of her constant screaming, and home was no better. Eventually, though, she calmed down and we set on her table to get her ready for bed. We would each say something to her and she'd coo and giggle. If we didn't know better (and to avoid becoming the type of holier-than-thou parents who think their children are geniuses), we would swear she was talking to us. YG tickled her and she screeched and smiled, and he exclaimed, "oh, you are so cute."
"Look what we made," I said, staring at her. Then I started to cry AGAIN.
"See, Zygote," YG exclaimed. "Mommy isn't the crusty, cold person she thinks she is. She's a sentimental softie."
Zygote cocked her head. I spoke for her, "I don't know, man. Sometimes she's a real bitch."
And then we all laughed.
Tonight, YG and I were leaning over her changing table, shoulder to shoulder, talking to her. She had been a little bitch earlier in the evening, probably tired out from the long drive. We had to leave our friend's house because of her constant screaming, and home was no better. Eventually, though, she calmed down and we set on her table to get her ready for bed. We would each say something to her and she'd coo and giggle. If we didn't know better (and to avoid becoming the type of holier-than-thou parents who think their children are geniuses), we would swear she was talking to us. YG tickled her and she screeched and smiled, and he exclaimed, "oh, you are so cute."
"Look what we made," I said, staring at her. Then I started to cry AGAIN.
"See, Zygote," YG exclaimed. "Mommy isn't the crusty, cold person she thinks she is. She's a sentimental softie."
Zygote cocked her head. I spoke for her, "I don't know, man. Sometimes she's a real bitch."
And then we all laughed.
Post 4: Leaving Zygote
For the past eleven and a half weeks, Zygote and I have been, quite literally, attached. Because of nursing, I hadn't really been away from her for more than a couple of hours here and there. In the insane, sleep-deprived weeks after she was born, this fact could send me into a tailspin, with lots of tears and moaning about how everyone else got to go someplace cool except me. Insert eye roll here.
YG and I both think that it's important to spend time away from kids for a number of reasons, but the first being that you should have some time to reconnect (ew, Hallmark word) and remember why exactly you wanted to have kids with this person in the first place. My parents went on a vacation by themselves every year, and we hope to do the same.
So we began planning. At the start of the summer, I could not wait to get away. It didn't matter where. I just didn't want to be here. I didn't want to constantly be feeding and doing laundry and crying. I wanted out. I know this was all post partum hormones raging, but when you're in it, it's hard to see that it's temporary.
We scheduled a trip to Atlantic City. At first, we were planning to spend a full week away, but we couldn't line up my parents for babysitting duty for a full week, so we decided on a two-night stay. I started dutifully pumping and preparing.
And then I didn't want to go. That's probably not entirely true. I wanted to go, but I was afraid of missing Zygote too much while I was gone. I've gone from hating this attachment to enjoying it and accepting that laundry and feedings and elastic waist pants are my life for a while now. I also became paranoid, thinking about all the things that could go wrong while she was with my parents (who have raised three semi well-adjusted children) for two days. They could get in a car accident. They could think it was too cold and swaddle her in too many blankets and then she would suffocate. They could trip and fall while carrying her. She could get attacked by deer (seriously, this one woke me up out of a deep sleep). Or worst, she would do totally fine and not miss me at all. Or worst worst, she would do totally fine and take to the bottle and not need the one thing I can exclusively give her and not need me anymore.
I am not normal.
I cried a little in the bathroom this past Thursday when we were getting ready to leave her but knew, deep down, that YG and I needed this trip, and that my parents would enjoy their time with her. It was fabulous. We gambled and spent a whole day doing nothing but sleeping late, swimming in the pool and drinking and eating and gambling some more. We read books and magazines and watched Sports Center uninterrupted. I drank a ton of girly drinks and wore dresses and regular bras and praise Jesus, stillettos. I missed her terribly, but I had a blast.
YG and I both think that it's important to spend time away from kids for a number of reasons, but the first being that you should have some time to reconnect (ew, Hallmark word) and remember why exactly you wanted to have kids with this person in the first place. My parents went on a vacation by themselves every year, and we hope to do the same.
So we began planning. At the start of the summer, I could not wait to get away. It didn't matter where. I just didn't want to be here. I didn't want to constantly be feeding and doing laundry and crying. I wanted out. I know this was all post partum hormones raging, but when you're in it, it's hard to see that it's temporary.
We scheduled a trip to Atlantic City. At first, we were planning to spend a full week away, but we couldn't line up my parents for babysitting duty for a full week, so we decided on a two-night stay. I started dutifully pumping and preparing.
And then I didn't want to go. That's probably not entirely true. I wanted to go, but I was afraid of missing Zygote too much while I was gone. I've gone from hating this attachment to enjoying it and accepting that laundry and feedings and elastic waist pants are my life for a while now. I also became paranoid, thinking about all the things that could go wrong while she was with my parents (who have raised three semi well-adjusted children) for two days. They could get in a car accident. They could think it was too cold and swaddle her in too many blankets and then she would suffocate. They could trip and fall while carrying her. She could get attacked by deer (seriously, this one woke me up out of a deep sleep). Or worst, she would do totally fine and not miss me at all. Or worst worst, she would do totally fine and take to the bottle and not need the one thing I can exclusively give her and not need me anymore.
I am not normal.
I cried a little in the bathroom this past Thursday when we were getting ready to leave her but knew, deep down, that YG and I needed this trip, and that my parents would enjoy their time with her. It was fabulous. We gambled and spent a whole day doing nothing but sleeping late, swimming in the pool and drinking and eating and gambling some more. We read books and magazines and watched Sports Center uninterrupted. I drank a ton of girly drinks and wore dresses and regular bras and praise Jesus, stillettos. I missed her terribly, but I had a blast.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Post 3: Henry David Thoreau Probably Never Called Your Grandmother A Bitch
Today was a gorgeous summer day, and YG had to work so I decided to take the girls to Walden Pond for some swimming and sleeping and reading in the sun. It was glorious. Zygote napped for most of the time. I finally got around to starting The Emperor of Ocean Park. And the MG made a few friends and swam for most of the afternoon.
But because this is me, you know there's a catch, right?
I was nursing Zygote when I noticed that an older woman was shooing the MG away from the little girl she was playing with. MG followed them over to their blanket, where the woman shooed her away again. MG went back in the water, upset, and I heard her shouting, "Stella, stella! Come play with me!" The girl ran back in the water, smiling, but was grabbed by the woman again. MG sulked back to the blanket in tears. When I asked what was wrong, she said that the woman, the girl's grandmother, told her she was too old to play with Stella and to go away. We saw Stella going back into the water so the MG took off, and I told her to nicely tell the grandmother that she would like to play. The two girls splashed around a bit, but then the grandmother came over and shooed the MG away again. The poor kid sat in the water, doing her best Brando impersonation, shouting "Stella! STELLA!" If it wasn't so heartbreaking, I would have laughed.
Defeated, MG returned to the blanket and I let her play with Zygote while I went for a swim. I did a few laps, and noticed the grandmother at the water's edge. I swam over and introduced myself as MG's stepmother, and said that while I understood that MG was a few years older, she really enjoyed playing with Stella.
I don't know what I was expecting. Usually, I'm the bitch or at best, the cold one, in social situations so I'm caught off guard when someone else is inexplicably rude. The woman replied, in a heavy accent, "I told her to go away. She's too big." I said that I understood, but they seemed to be playing together nicely. "I told her to go away, to stop annoying people. She's annoying."
Immediately, I am in bitch mode. Annoying? It's one thing for me to think the MG is annoying. Let's face it: most kids are from time to time. But we're related. I'm ALLOWED to think she is annoying. This, though, was a total stranger telling me that my kid was an irritation. I attempted to remember that mothers are supposed to have manners (I think. Although I didn't read it anywhere, it makes sense) , and responded with a not-too-snotty, "well, okay then. No need to be rude."
Then, HER fur was up. "Rude? Rude? Your daughter. She is annoying and rude."
Editorial note: the MG may be many things. Rude is not one of them. She's overly polite and always says "excuse me," "please" and "thank you."
Manners were gone. "Sure, lady, whatever you say. Go ahead and be a freakin' bitch [emphasis on the bitch] about it."
Then I smiled and stomped away while a few other parents gaped.
Back at the blanket, the MG asked what we were talking about and I gave a noncommittal response about the weather. I let her go back in the water where she made a number of other friends and they played about a year's worth of Marco Polo.
After we packed up our stuff, I took her for pizza at Mike's in Davis Square where we people watched and played with Zygote. And yes, she did annoy me with about 60 billion questions and stories. She's allowed.
But because this is me, you know there's a catch, right?
I was nursing Zygote when I noticed that an older woman was shooing the MG away from the little girl she was playing with. MG followed them over to their blanket, where the woman shooed her away again. MG went back in the water, upset, and I heard her shouting, "Stella, stella! Come play with me!" The girl ran back in the water, smiling, but was grabbed by the woman again. MG sulked back to the blanket in tears. When I asked what was wrong, she said that the woman, the girl's grandmother, told her she was too old to play with Stella and to go away. We saw Stella going back into the water so the MG took off, and I told her to nicely tell the grandmother that she would like to play. The two girls splashed around a bit, but then the grandmother came over and shooed the MG away again. The poor kid sat in the water, doing her best Brando impersonation, shouting "Stella! STELLA!" If it wasn't so heartbreaking, I would have laughed.
Defeated, MG returned to the blanket and I let her play with Zygote while I went for a swim. I did a few laps, and noticed the grandmother at the water's edge. I swam over and introduced myself as MG's stepmother, and said that while I understood that MG was a few years older, she really enjoyed playing with Stella.
I don't know what I was expecting. Usually, I'm the bitch or at best, the cold one, in social situations so I'm caught off guard when someone else is inexplicably rude. The woman replied, in a heavy accent, "I told her to go away. She's too big." I said that I understood, but they seemed to be playing together nicely. "I told her to go away, to stop annoying people. She's annoying."
Immediately, I am in bitch mode. Annoying? It's one thing for me to think the MG is annoying. Let's face it: most kids are from time to time. But we're related. I'm ALLOWED to think she is annoying. This, though, was a total stranger telling me that my kid was an irritation. I attempted to remember that mothers are supposed to have manners (I think. Although I didn't read it anywhere, it makes sense) , and responded with a not-too-snotty, "well, okay then. No need to be rude."
Then, HER fur was up. "Rude? Rude? Your daughter. She is annoying and rude."
Editorial note: the MG may be many things. Rude is not one of them. She's overly polite and always says "excuse me," "please" and "thank you."
Manners were gone. "Sure, lady, whatever you say. Go ahead and be a freakin' bitch [emphasis on the bitch] about it."
Then I smiled and stomped away while a few other parents gaped.
Back at the blanket, the MG asked what we were talking about and I gave a noncommittal response about the weather. I let her go back in the water where she made a number of other friends and they played about a year's worth of Marco Polo.
After we packed up our stuff, I took her for pizza at Mike's in Davis Square where we people watched and played with Zygote. And yes, she did annoy me with about 60 billion questions and stories. She's allowed.
Post 2: Documentation
Of the many weird things about being pregnant and having an infant, one of the strangest things is the realization that, at one point in time, my parents were equally as enamored with me. I'm the oldest and they were married for about four years before I was born so they must have had the same 'what the hell are we doing? how is this going to change our lives?' conversations, and then subsequent 'hey, this is going okay. we should do this again' conversations.
We talk about these things now because I'm curious, but I didn't really know anything before about my parents' lives as young people deciding to have kids and struggling to figure out what to do with those kids once they had them. It seems like, in my mind, we have always been the family we are now -- all five of us. Although one of my earliest memories if of my brother being born. I remember that I had a book called, "The New Baby" and after he was born, my dad took me to the Livingston Mall to get my ears pierced, my present since presumably, my brother was their present. Then we went to the hospital. This was before "rooming in" and "family time," so he was still in the nursery and the nurses gave me a stool to stand on to look through the glass. I don't remember anything else, but I do remember that stool and peering through the window. Sadly, I don't have any recollection at all of my sister being born, but to be fair, we all sneezed and my mom was pregnant again. Also, I was six so forgive my less-than-astute powers of observation. I did find, though, documentation of my sister's birth when I was digging around some paperwork at my parents' house. On that weird light green paper with the dotted lines across the middle to make sure you're printing your letters correctly, it said, "My mom had another baby. Her name is Becky. She has brown hair. We like her."
The other weird thing I've discovered is that not everybody goes through life looking at people and events like they are characters and plot developments in their own personal novel. Some people are fine with things just happening, and they don't feel the need to document everything so that they won't forget it. I am not one of these people. I have kept a journal since I was ten years old. I like to remember the specifics of what I was doing, what I was wearing, baseball scores, the weather, etc. and sometimes the important stuff of what's going on in my mind and who I've loving/hating at the time. When I die, my children will have pages and pages of documentation confirming their suspicions that their mother was a self-involved headcase with a lot of teenage angst long after the teenage years. And that also, she had no idea what the hell she was doing.
I don't know if that makes me happy or sad, but I like that, in between the whiny 'what should I do with my life' ramblings, Zygote will find long detailed explanations of lazy, summer days just watching her smile and giggle, how I could happily spend hours walking her around town and chattering about where we're going, hoping that she might get it, and how I have such hope for her.
I don't know why I assume that Zygote and I will not be close later on. Who knows? Maybe we will manage to successfully navigate the middle school/high school years without her feeling totally alienated, but not in a creepy 'my mom is my best friend/my children are my LIFE' sort of way. I hope so. But if not, I have the documentation to prove that at one point in time, all we needed to make each other happy, was each other.
And, that I am crazy. But of course, as a teenager, she will already know that.
We talk about these things now because I'm curious, but I didn't really know anything before about my parents' lives as young people deciding to have kids and struggling to figure out what to do with those kids once they had them. It seems like, in my mind, we have always been the family we are now -- all five of us. Although one of my earliest memories if of my brother being born. I remember that I had a book called, "The New Baby" and after he was born, my dad took me to the Livingston Mall to get my ears pierced, my present since presumably, my brother was their present. Then we went to the hospital. This was before "rooming in" and "family time," so he was still in the nursery and the nurses gave me a stool to stand on to look through the glass. I don't remember anything else, but I do remember that stool and peering through the window. Sadly, I don't have any recollection at all of my sister being born, but to be fair, we all sneezed and my mom was pregnant again. Also, I was six so forgive my less-than-astute powers of observation. I did find, though, documentation of my sister's birth when I was digging around some paperwork at my parents' house. On that weird light green paper with the dotted lines across the middle to make sure you're printing your letters correctly, it said, "My mom had another baby. Her name is Becky. She has brown hair. We like her."
The other weird thing I've discovered is that not everybody goes through life looking at people and events like they are characters and plot developments in their own personal novel. Some people are fine with things just happening, and they don't feel the need to document everything so that they won't forget it. I am not one of these people. I have kept a journal since I was ten years old. I like to remember the specifics of what I was doing, what I was wearing, baseball scores, the weather, etc. and sometimes the important stuff of what's going on in my mind and who I've loving/hating at the time. When I die, my children will have pages and pages of documentation confirming their suspicions that their mother was a self-involved headcase with a lot of teenage angst long after the teenage years. And that also, she had no idea what the hell she was doing.
I don't know if that makes me happy or sad, but I like that, in between the whiny 'what should I do with my life' ramblings, Zygote will find long detailed explanations of lazy, summer days just watching her smile and giggle, how I could happily spend hours walking her around town and chattering about where we're going, hoping that she might get it, and how I have such hope for her.
I don't know why I assume that Zygote and I will not be close later on. Who knows? Maybe we will manage to successfully navigate the middle school/high school years without her feeling totally alienated, but not in a creepy 'my mom is my best friend/my children are my LIFE' sort of way. I hope so. But if not, I have the documentation to prove that at one point in time, all we needed to make each other happy, was each other.
And, that I am crazy. But of course, as a teenager, she will already know that.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Project: 30 in 38
I go back to work in 38 days. Soon, I will find words to express the dread and sometimes excitement (adult conversation ALL DAY) that I feel about this. Right now, I'm a little bit sad because I'm finally starting to get the hang of things, have a routine, and enjoying my time with Zygote...and the end looms.
Like most things post-Zygote, the reality of my maternity leave didn't quite match up to the summer I had envisioned in my head. I had chattered endlessly to YG about "The Summer of JM" and how I was not only going to write and read every day and make a ton of new mommy friends, I was also going to figure out what exactly I was going to do with the rest of my life, develop a plan and be well into plan execution mode (to use a little corporate speak) before I headed back to work. YG indulged me. This is his second kid so he either knew better than to frighten me ahead of time, or he actually believed that I might be able to pull this off. He knows how I am when somebody tells me that I can't do something. I do it anyway. With gusto. No matter how stupid or ill-informed it is. I ignored all of my friends who told me that "maternity leave does not equal vacation" and went ahead with envisioning The Wonderful Summer of JM.
It's now 11:08 a.m. and I am sitting here in my pajamas with morning breath, an unmade bed and finally, a napping kid. This is not out of the ordinary. However, I have my second load of laundry in the washer, am ready to empty the dishwasher, wasted time on Facebook, and possibly, if luck holds out, I can take a shower. I'm feeling pretty good. And that, folks, is the reality of The Summer of JM. Don't get me wrong -- I've had a lot of free time. I did read some good books and I got back to running and I joined a moms' group to meet some new people, but I WILDLY underestimated how much time I would be spending being Zygote's mom.
I'm now at the point where I really like being Zygote's mom, but with the return to office life coming soon, I want to try and tackle some other items on my list. Last night when I was waxing neurotic to YG about all of this stuff, I said that I needed a Project. I haven't taken a writing class in a while and when I don't have deadlines, I tend to forget about writing. I was whining about how I didn't know what I want to be when I grow up and how it's unlikely that I will figure that one out in next 38 days, and when I caught a breath, I continued to whine about how I can't even figure out what to write about and how I can't even get my poorly-maintained blog updated. Whine, whine, whine. Angst, angst, angst.
The end result of this conversation was the decision to try and write 30 pieces/posts/whatever you want to call them in the next 38 days. I don't know if YG suggested this just to shut me up -- it was after 11 p.m. when most normal people would like to go to bed, but also when my neuroses seem to kick in high gear -- or if he knew I would immediately like the competition aspect. But, I like the idea. And given that my only other projects at the moment seem to be deciding what rerun of America's Next Top Model I'm going to watch while nursing Zygote, let's just consider this Item #1.
Like most things post-Zygote, the reality of my maternity leave didn't quite match up to the summer I had envisioned in my head. I had chattered endlessly to YG about "The Summer of JM" and how I was not only going to write and read every day and make a ton of new mommy friends, I was also going to figure out what exactly I was going to do with the rest of my life, develop a plan and be well into plan execution mode (to use a little corporate speak) before I headed back to work. YG indulged me. This is his second kid so he either knew better than to frighten me ahead of time, or he actually believed that I might be able to pull this off. He knows how I am when somebody tells me that I can't do something. I do it anyway. With gusto. No matter how stupid or ill-informed it is. I ignored all of my friends who told me that "maternity leave does not equal vacation" and went ahead with envisioning The Wonderful Summer of JM.
It's now 11:08 a.m. and I am sitting here in my pajamas with morning breath, an unmade bed and finally, a napping kid. This is not out of the ordinary. However, I have my second load of laundry in the washer, am ready to empty the dishwasher, wasted time on Facebook, and possibly, if luck holds out, I can take a shower. I'm feeling pretty good. And that, folks, is the reality of The Summer of JM. Don't get me wrong -- I've had a lot of free time. I did read some good books and I got back to running and I joined a moms' group to meet some new people, but I WILDLY underestimated how much time I would be spending being Zygote's mom.
I'm now at the point where I really like being Zygote's mom, but with the return to office life coming soon, I want to try and tackle some other items on my list. Last night when I was waxing neurotic to YG about all of this stuff, I said that I needed a Project. I haven't taken a writing class in a while and when I don't have deadlines, I tend to forget about writing. I was whining about how I didn't know what I want to be when I grow up and how it's unlikely that I will figure that one out in next 38 days, and when I caught a breath, I continued to whine about how I can't even figure out what to write about and how I can't even get my poorly-maintained blog updated. Whine, whine, whine. Angst, angst, angst.
The end result of this conversation was the decision to try and write 30 pieces/posts/whatever you want to call them in the next 38 days. I don't know if YG suggested this just to shut me up -- it was after 11 p.m. when most normal people would like to go to bed, but also when my neuroses seem to kick in high gear -- or if he knew I would immediately like the competition aspect. But, I like the idea. And given that my only other projects at the moment seem to be deciding what rerun of America's Next Top Model I'm going to watch while nursing Zygote, let's just consider this Item #1.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Fuck You, PETA
Really?
That's low. And it doesn't make any sense. Surely veganism doesn't always equal thin. And I thought PETA was all about saving the animals, not a diet campaign.
According to their own press release, "“Trying to hide your thunder thighs and balloon belly is no day at the beach,” says PETA Executive Vice President Tracy Reiman. “PETA has a free ‘Vegetarian Starter Kit’ for people who want to lose pounds while eating as much as they like."
And I thought the sea kittens campaign was bad.
That's low. And it doesn't make any sense. Surely veganism doesn't always equal thin. And I thought PETA was all about saving the animals, not a diet campaign.
According to their own press release, "“Trying to hide your thunder thighs and balloon belly is no day at the beach,” says PETA Executive Vice President Tracy Reiman. “PETA has a free ‘Vegetarian Starter Kit’ for people who want to lose pounds while eating as much as they like."
And I thought the sea kittens campaign was bad.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
All That Parental Bliss
is sometimes negated when you have to use cutting shears to remove your child's shit-filled onesie.
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