The Double Standard

Why is it ok for guys to talk about gross things but they wig when chicks do? That said, if any guys are reading this STOP READING NOW.

So the Today Sponge is back on the market and I loved it in my early 20s so I bought some. I had the opportunity to use one last night (yay me!) and after the nasty is performed you're supposed to leave it in for several hours to be certain all stragglers are dead. This morning I woke up and had 2 cups of coffee, and then eventually the coffee did its job. I went into the bathroom and sat down and unfortunately had my wee'un in the room with me. I have no choice these days. So I'm sitting there, going about my bidness, and know what? After childbirth things really DO change in the Netherlands. The sponge shot out of me and bounced off the toilet rim and then bounced off the bathtub and landed next to my daughter on the floor. I had to lunge for it, ass in the wind, before the kid could grab it and start teething on it. Nowhere in the instructions is it mentioned that this form of birthcontrol can be applied as a projectile weapon.

Also, I'm back on psych meds. I'm on an Anatypical Antipsychotic called Risperdal. In the VERY long list of possible side effects it mentions that it can increase the levels of Prolactin in the blood. Prolactin is the hormone that causes women to lactate. My ever loving husband declared that I'd better not lactate on him, so I keep running around the house squeezing my girls at him making "Skishskishskish" sounds. He finds this disgusting, but it makes me laugh, and hey, that's all that matters at this point.

It's Springtime

When young birds' fancies turn to thoughts of ass-whomping.

Earlier I went on the back deck to smoke and saw three male cardinals engaged in a turf war. It went on for quite some time, and took up most of our back yard. Eventually they flew off in pursuit of each other into the next yard. I thought the excitement was over. Until I saw two male sparrows tumble out of a tree engaged in actual fisticuffs. They landed in a leaf pile, and were pecking and screeching and squeaking like crazy. Feathers were actually flying. I hopped off the deck, walked over, leaned over them and yelled, "HEY!!!!!!!" and they flew to corners.

It was an odd morning.



Wrong Sparrow. Too Bad.....

Thanks a lot, Meth Heads

It's March in North Carolina. Specifically, it's Pollen Time in North Carolina. When I moved here 12 years ago it totally fucked me up. I was a mess for years. 3 or 4 of them. Eventually, I got used to it. Luckily, I had tested as NOT being allergic to pine, because this is pine:



That's the accumulation since yesterday afternoon. However, I really haven't had too much trouble in years. Until today. My face feels like it's about to split open, letting loose that annoying bowler wearing mucus dude from the commercials. My teeth hurt, the pressure is so bad. All I could think was, crap. Do NOT let me get a sinus infection. So off to Kmart I went to buy Claritin-D. Yep, that's right, the only thing left that still contains actual Sudafed. This meant that not only did I have to present my driver's license, but I also had to sign my life away. For sinus meds. As I was signing I said, "This is so retarded." and the lady at the counter said, "yes it is." I said, "the new stuff doesn't work," and she said, "It sucks."

So thanks to a handful of morons, innocent, law abiding people have to record exactly what meds they're buying and when.

Fuckwads.

Shut up You Stupid Twat

Can I use the T word here? I guess we'll find out.

So I was eating a yogurty bar thing and all of a sudden my brain formed the phrase, "Shut up You Stupid Twat." This naturally led me to wonder what kind of a day my best friend is having at work. I got the feeling that since I wasn't engaging in any type of discourse with anyone that she might have been dealing with her moronic co-worker and her internal venom was so overwhelming that it traveled 9 miles down Six Forks Rd and whomped me in the head. THIS led me to decide that each and every one of us should be granted one Shut up You Stupid Twat per year. With this (and you'd have to make sure you used it wisely) all of us would be exempt from any repercussions from using the phrase when dealing with the truly lame. So, best friend is listening once again to complaining, bottom feeding co-worker and can take no more and lets loose. Since she's using the freebie, and would present a card at time of utterance, Bottom Feeder is obliged to look contrite and say, "Okay," and leave. Let's face it, how many of us wouldn't love this?

So after my yogurty bar thing I went outside to smoke and saw a Jeep Wrangler drive past. It's being engaged in the service of the post office, which is a bummer, because while I watched it go by I decided that if I had super powers I'd have launched myself the 200 feet and pulled the driver out and stolen the Jeep for said best friend. I mean, why would anyone press a Jeep into civil service? It's unseemly. Unfortunately because it had sticky letters on it that said, "U.S. MAIL" I would have committed a felony and ended up doing hard time.

So, since I can't steal her a Jeep to make her day better I will take this moment to utter the phrase she so badly wants to use on the Bottom Feeder. "Shut up You Stupid Twat."

Here's my card.

How to lose an argument with your husband

Snark at him, "Yeah? Well I'm not privy to what makes your mind work."

Apparently "privy" isn't used that often these days.

Today was NOT the day

Dear Suave-

Fuck off. That's right, fuck off. You know your new commercial about the percentage of women who "let themselves go" after becoming mothers? It sucks. Do you know why it sucks? It's because you seem to think that a bottle of shampoo that costs a couple of bucks will suddenly turn a haggard and harried 8 month pregnant mother with two children already into a frigging supermodel. Do you know what will turn a mom without a full time childcare staff into a supermodel? Nothing. That's right, not one fucking thing. Know what might get her close? Rozerem. But Rozerem chooses to show chess playing beavers in their ads. I have a bottle of your shampoo in my shower. Know what? I haven't used it in three days. That's right, three fucking days. My pits are growing enough hair to get me into a Phish concert for a flash of the titties and a beer. Here's an idea, maybe I should use that miracle shampoo in my pits. The closest I've gotten to a shower was last night when it was raining and I had to take the dogs out and I had a split second of considering taking the shampoo outside with me.
And since my child is screaming her head off again today, it looks like we'll be approaching day 4 without a shower. So you can bite me.

Proof That Canada Hates Us...

I've managed to keep my child away from PBS because of an overwhelming Barney anxiety that I developed in the 90s when my cousin's son was a toddler and the only way we could get him to eat his salad was to tell him the purple cabbage was Barney and the lettuce was Baby Bop.

So we watch the Disney Channel. Her favorites are The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Little Einsteins. Little Einsteins isn't too offensive. They find themselves in great peril every episode, but through teamwork and a fairly high tech rocket ship for pre-schoolers to pilot, everything always works out well. I'm disturbed that I know all the words to the theme song, but the show keeps Livvie happy, so that's great. (As a matter of fact, as I type this a giant flower just ejected a harpsichord out of itself, so maybe it's more disturbing than originally thought...) However, the Disney Channel is also home to The Doodlebops, which is where Canada comes in. For every Michael J Fox they send us they also dump someone like Priceline's Whore, William Shatner. They've inflicted my home with the Doodlebops. I don't think I've ever encountered a more annoying half hour of television. Here they are in their costumes: I used to be able to change the channel and Livvie never even noticed. However, one day I couldn't get to the remote in time and the kid was fascinated. They're now a daily staple, and I'm even more disturbed to find that I know the lyrics to their songs too. I know when to holler, "Don't pull the rope!" to Moe, the yellow Doodlebop, and I know that he's always hiding at the start of every episode. So. At least it isn't Teletubbies, right?

In retrospect, I have to admit that I had some odd choices of favorite shows as a kid. Absolute favorite of all time was Da Man, Ultraman. I religiously watched every episode. As a four year old my very first crush of all time was on Shin Hayata, the dude who turned into Ultraman. To this day I have a deep love for sexy Asian men, and I think it's Hayata's fault. Bastard. I also loved The Space Giants (are you sensing a theme here?) and watched every episode of this until it got canceled too. So I sit here and wonder if 'tis better to love singing popsicle colored doofuses or giant rubber monsters. And why did it take me 36 years to realize that Japan clearly hates us more than Canada?

Babies Are Not Bling

Ok, it's been enough months now that I think I can get off my ass and start doing this again. Usually the reason I stop writing is because life gives me something metaphorically shiny that distracts me, and in this case the shiny object is my daughter. Which brings me to the title of this entry.



Know what pisses me off? Movie stars (or anyone) having babies and treating them as accessories. My latest pizz is the Jolie-Pitts, because GOD KNOWS they needed another frigging kid to tote around when their own child is only almost a year old. I know they have the money. That's what pisses me off. Having scads of children (or worse, just one) because you have the money for a frigging nanny. An ex-boss of mine got her comeuppance when she squirted out twin daughters with a nanny waiting in the wings, and one child had a birth defect that required she take time off from work anyway to trot said infant to NYC because by all that's holy we certainly don't have any good doctors in the City of Medicine that's located in the adjoining county.

I secretly suspect that the only reason women aren't purchasing oversized diaper bags and toting their infants around in them like chihuahuas is because of that pesky bit where infants can't support their own heads. I also suspect that someone is attempting to invent a harness for the interior of diaper bags which will allow the above to actually happen.

In fact, the reason I resisted "wearing" my daughter while out in public for so long was because I had seen so many granola-bar women doing this and my first thought was always of Ms Hilton and her ratdog. It pains me to say that Livvie loves being worn when we're out shopping, but that was before she discovered the joy of the shopping cart seat.

As far as accessorizing, the fact that I suck at being a girl was driven home this afternoon when I put actual clothing on Livvie. It's an outfit that Rich's mom sent her, and I figured she should wear it at least once. It's black velvet pants and a red peplum shirt with a scotty dog on it. It has black velvet cuffs and collar. And I was wearing....Levi's, a faded brown t-shirt, and 3 year old Tevas. And I left my child barefoot. Screw you, Church Ladies. And you know the type I mean. Nasty old biddies can't mind their own beeswax.....

What a sap...

So yesterday I was out on the deck filling litter boxes and I looked over into the next door neighbor's driveway and saw a small kitten very close to the road. Cars were whizzing past like crazy. I panicked, because the baby was asleep in the house, and I had no idea how I was going to manage this one. I stared a few moments and then ran inside. I grabbed the baby and put her in the bedroom, praying she wouldn't wake up and start screaming. I crated the dogs, and then grabbed every cat I could find and then put them in the back bedroom. I then put on shoes and ran next door, only to be ready and willing to rescue a large pine cone.

That pine cone could have been in serious danger you know.

I think I should start wearing my glasses regularly.

And another piece of my past bites the dust

http://www.courierpostonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20061010/BUSINESS/610100333

I started working at Tower Records in 1990, and worked there until 1992. I helped build this store before it opened. We put racks together, stocked all of the shelves, and told a lady to go away when she walked into the middle of the construction and asked if we sold batteries. Um, hello, do you or do you not hear hammering and see sawdust?

This was the store that said, on all of its printed invoices, that we were open 368 days a year. We always wondered where the other 3 days were. We could account for leap years, but what about the other 2 days?

This was the store where, one night in late December at 11:45pm, a woman approached me and asked me if we would have extended holiday hours. I asked her since we were open until midnight every day anyway, what the fuck did she want?

One day in mid-summer the management team (of which I was a member) bought a bunch of water pistols at Kiddie City next door and ran around the back employee area squirting the daylights out of each other. I thought I would be smart and run into a closet to hide. My general manager locked me in.

We had a kid named Omar Hassan who worked in the classical department, and he was going to school to become an engineer. He brought falafel with him for dinner one night, his mom packed his dinners for him, and I walked in to find him eating a small container of plain yogurt with a spoon. He was making faces, and he told me that for some reason his mom had sent yogurt for dinner. I told him the yogurt was supposed to go on the falafel. He was amazingly embarrassed. I adored Omar. I'll never forget how he had no idea how to use a manual can opener, and how he was so ticklish that you could stand in another room and make tickle motions at the window and he would collapse into giggles.

And this is where my friend Mike, bass player extraordinaire and ex-love of my life, has worked for over 15 years, and I wonder what the hell he'll do now.

A Dingo Ate My Rice Sock

Well, Ginny ate the rice anyway.
I made a rice sock for Livvie's belly today. She's had tummy issues for the past couple of days, and other than the glycerin suppositories, which I'll get to in a minute, all I could think of was to make her a rice sock. I decided to do this in the living room, since that's where the baby was. I naturally got rice all over the floor. And Ginny, who will eat Anything That Is Not Celery, snarfed up every grain she could find. Still is, because I'm too freaking tired to haul out the Dyson.

Back to the suppositories. Yay, right? Poor Livvie was constipated. Constipated infants are NOT happy, and hence NO ONE is happy. I sent my sweet, wonderful husband to the drug store where he purchased infant sized suppositories. He brought them home, and I proceeded to do the hardest thing I've ever done, which was deliberately make my daughter uncomfortable. Granted, the result was wonderful, she's happy, we're happy, everything is quiet now, but for about 3 minutes there I felt like Mengele.

The Master Manipulator has arrived...

And boy does she kick ass.

Last night Livvie refused to go to sleep. She fussed and threw tantrums and worked it for all she was worth.
At one point the three of us were on the bed, I had Livvie sitting up on my lap, and she drew in some air and screamed. Then she stopped, opened her eyes, looked at Rich, looked at me, saw that neither of us were jumping up to call the president, and screamed again.

I told her that Jimmy Carter is not on speed dial.

She drew another big breath and then....fell asleep.

This is all so odd.

I have a question

If Intelligent Design is actually true, and I'm not saying it is (and it isn't), wouldn't the asteroid that supposedly hit the Yucatan 65 million years ago and wiped out almost everyone be considered the biggest act of animal cruelty in history?

I mean, HOW can anyone in their right mind find a god that would do something like that to "make room" for the next go-round worthwhile?

I can see God spinning the universe and then just sitting back to see what happens. I can also see him drinking too much coffee one morning and spending an inordinate amount of time in the cosmic lavatory only to wash his hands and walk out to see a giant fireball where Mexico was, and thinking, "Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have taken the paper in there with me."

But I just can't see this being incinerating and scalding millions of animals to death. Unless he's a psychopath. And I'm not even going to go there.

40 + 1

In the doctor lingo, that's how pregnant I am. Forty weeks and one day. Based on my last menstrual period. This morning, however, I realized what I had known from the get-go. My due date is tomorrow based on my ovulation date. It also corresponds quite well to the full moon and we just happen to be having a lunar eclipse today.

When I realized this I completely and utterly relaxed. I can't explain it. Maybe it's because rather than giving myself up to the medical wonks this allowed me to acknowledge nature.

We'll see what happens now.

39 weeks and 4 days

And I'm wondering when, if ever, this kid will come out. Yeah, maybe the previous post asking her to wait was a bit stupid.

I jump up and down in front of Rich occasionally just to hear him freak and yell, "STOP THAT!!!" You get your kicks where you can.

Last night I discovered a mini-Marathon of Law and Order SVU. It's the only one of them that Rich will watch. He's not a fan of the others. I don't think he realizes that I have the hots for Stabler. What chick doesn't? He's an actual MAN. And although he has odd features, they really work for him. I was up past 1am since I was sick anyway, and I kept myself entertained by staring at those shoulders for hours. Again, get your kicks where you can.

Oddly, Close Encounters is on SciFi right now, and I also have a huge crush on Richard Dreyfuss. Always have. And he's the Anti-Stabler. This is, I think, why men have no idea what women want.

Dear Yankees-

No offense intended, but I am never moving "home."

I was 20 years old when I had my first boiled peanut. I was on a camping trip in Cherokee, NC with my roommate Mary, and we found a roadside boiled peanut stand in the Reservation. I bought a bag. Mary and I sat on the hood of my car and ate the whole bag, tossing shells in front of us on the ground. We immediately bought another bag "To Go."

Every day for the rest of the trip we would get another bag and demolish it within minutes. Then we went home to NJ, where there are no boiled peanuts, and if we mentioned them we would get disgusted looks.

I moved down here when I was 24, and when I was 25 my ex-husband and I drove into Eastern NC where I saw a sign on the side of the highway that said, "BOILED PEANUTS." I slapped him to get him to stop the car, and we ran in. They were sold in tiny bags, so I bought three. The lady in the stand said I must be from down here, because no one from "up north" would even touch them. I told her I was from NJ. I think her mind was blown to bits.

I went on a mission to find out how to do this at home. I discovered that it's actually very simple. Buy a ton of raw peanuts. Throw them into a giant kettle with about a half a canister of salt, and then boil the fuck out of them for hours. When they finally sink, turn off the heat and let them sit for a bit. Keep tasting them to see if they're salty/mushy enough. Drain, and store in the fridge.

This worked well until I moved into an apartment on my own where the kitchen was tiny and had no air movement. I went on a boiling spree one night, and walked into the kitchen to find the ceiling raining salty brown water from the condensation that had developed. I learned to put a box fan in the room when craving.

In emergencies I would buy canned. Yes. They sell canned boiled peanuts down here. They're pretty good, but they don't have the same smoky aroma coming from the shell that fresh ones do. This brings us to today.

This morning I suddenly jumped off the sofa, grabbed my keys, and drove about 100 yards to the Exxon station down the road with a ten dollar bill. I KNEW I had seen canned boiled peanuts there, and I was right. Horrifyingly, every can said, "Cajun Style." Huh?? I picked up a can. Put it back down. Picked it up again and said, "Fuck it," and walked up to the counter where the clerk, bless her heart, said not one word about someone purchasing one can of boiled peanuts at 9:30am.

I brought them home, drained them, and dumped them in a bowl. They were COVERED in wet, crushed red pepper. Here goes. CRACK. Munch. CRACK MUNCH CRACK MUNCH CRACK MUNCH. I had red salty water running down my arms and pooling in front of me. My fingertips were getting numb from a combination of brine and splitting shells. I finished the entire can in less than 10 minutes.

Satisfaction. It's a wonderful thing. And I'm never moving back home. I think I'll have my leftover Brunswick Stew for lunch.

http://whatscookingamerica.net/History/BoiledPeanutsHistory.htm

Make Your Own Kind of Music...

Rich is On Call this week for work. He has to carry a little gadget on his keychain that generates a series of numbers on it that are a kind of password/code.

Every morning when he gets up he has to read the numbers and punch them into a field on his computer.

So I couldn't take it anymore this morning, and when I walked into the kitchen I said, "Good morning Desmond. Hatch not blowing up today?"

He didn't find it as amusing as I did.

Socks

Yep. Socks.

A few months ago I read in one of The Books about how it's necessary to pack socks for the baby to go home in when you pack for the hospital.

I love socks. In my match.com listing, one of the main items that attracted Rich's attention was where you're supposed to list your favorite things and I listed Socks first. He loves socks too. He can go through 2-3 pair a day, and one night I counted over 100 pair of his clean socks that I was folding. To me nothing feels better than clean socks on clean feet. Summer annoys me because I wear No Socks.

So. Zoom to the past few weeks. Ever hear of nesting? I'm not nesting. RICH is nesting. He's tearing parts of the house apart, cleaning them out, bleaching, scrubbing, vacuuming, building. Me? I'm panicking over socks. Last Monday when it was discovered that I had begun dilating I told Rich it was ok because I should probably receive some socks at my work baby shower that night. Not ONE pair of socks. Ok, no big deal. There's time to buy socks. Yesterday I touched my Target gift cards repeatedly throughout the day as if they were talismans. Socks could be acquired with those.

This morning I had leakage that concerned me and caused the doc to tell me to come in for an exam. Let's check to see if the water has broken! Sure! WAIT!!!! I don't have the socks!! Would it be ok to send Rich to Target with me in the hospital? Honey, buy a six pack of socks? No. No fucking way. I get home from the doc, no water breaking, everything fine other than the same "Well, let's hope for a few weeks more but probably not..." and I grabbed my Target gift cards and went to buy socks.

It took me FIFTEEN minutes of staring at different socks in the infant sock area to find some I could live with.

Well then

On Tuesday morning I was driving to work, and I passed a very wiry young black man walking down the street.

Wearing a pair of lowriders and a wife beater.

Carrying a purple umbrella over his head to keep the sun off him.

I've been laughing about him ever since. THAT'S a man who has no doubts about his masculinity.

Plus, if you gave him cheek about it he could either beat you with it or stick it through your ribs. He COULD. But I have the feeling he'd just smile and shrug and go about his business.

Dear Baby-

Yesterday you caused quite a sensation. I lost my mucous plug and started having contractions, and at one point they were every ten minutes for a few hours. They did calm down, but I'm still 1cm dilated, and I have some things to tell you.

First of all, I am not done shoving omega-3s down my gullet to make sure you become a Super Genius. I ended up eating salmon salad on a hamburger bun for breakfast this morning Just In Case. I'm eyeing the container of ground flax seed and trying to figure out if I can sneak it into spaghetti sauce without your father realizing it. If you could wait a few more weeks so that I can choke down some more of this stuff that would be great.

Second, your father is a chickenshit. I know, that's mean, but I needed to get that out there. When I was telling him what happened yesterday he practically covered his ears and sang "Lalalalalalalala I'm Not Listening..." It amazes me that a man who would pee with the bathroom door open TWO WEEKS after I started dating him is so grossed out by bodily functions. (To give him credit, I only had to tell him to shut the damn door once.) Also, last night you got the hiccups, and since your head is engaged every time you hiccupped my crotch bounced. I thought it was very funny, but your Dad refused to look to tell me what it looked like. I tell you all of this so that you'll not feel hurt when your dad spends your entire birth behind my head so that he doesn't see you come out. He does love you, but frankly, I prefer that he do this his way and not have to ruin his psyche by never being able to look at you without seeing your head squishing out a hole half your size.

Third, if after this week you despise spinach/artichoke dip and hummus I will totally understand.

Fourth, your room isn't done yet. Hell, your room isn't even a room yet. It's currently a storage depot for bags and boxes full of Your Stuff, and also Daddy's Drum Room. I think we should leave the drums in there for you, but your father is freaked out by the metal bars and such sticking out. I told him there's Very Little Chance that you will bonk your head or put out an eye on them for the first year, as you A) won't be able to walk for almost that long, and B) when you do finally walk you won't be that tall yet. However, your dad wants the rug in there professionally cleaned before you get here, and the drums will have to be broken down. Bummer.

So. If you could manage to hold out for a few more weeks so your slacker parents can get their game on, that would be fantastic. We do love you, and we're anxious to see you, but we both suck.

Thanks babe!!