Bear with me. I am bummed out today because...
1. My sister and I talked on the phone on Monday. “Talked” isn’t actually the correct terminology, however. It’s more like, “screamed and cursed and cried for an hour.” Needless to say, I don’t feel better after talking to her. I thought we could clear the air. Silly me. Apparently, every thing I have ever done, said, or not done or said offends her and she is thoroughly sick of me. It was quite a laundry list. Since I don’t want to play the game of “Oh, yeah? Well, you did such-and-such and you said so-and-so,” I am really not sure what to do about this situation. I am exhausted just thinking about it.
2. We're still not done painting, although our dining area is just about done. Praise all that is holy. We keep taking breaks from the painting (like a week at a time), which is only prolonging this absurdly drawn-out process.
3. My DSL is not working (or is working only sporadically). I am writing this in Word with hopes of posting it some day. Sorry! I miss you!
4. I still haven’t received either a credit or a duplicate package from UPS. What the hell??
UPDATE: After 35 minutes on the phone with my ISP, I finally fixed the problem. I’m glad I wasted most of Viva’s nap on this, rather than working on my novel. J*^$ck$%!
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
A Fond (if Temporary) Farewell
Once again, I may be without DSL for a while. We are switching the DSL off on one phone line and installing it on our other phone line. This is one of those things which the phone company would have you believe is no big deal, but in my experience, there is always something that gets f--'d up and I end up cussing and being generally irritated for days at a time while I figure it out.
Things to tide you over while I'm away:
1. Viva has pooped in the tub twice this week. Notice I did not say "in the potty," because that would be wrong, although logical and much-hoped-for. When this happened, she screamed as if she had discovered a giant squid in the water, coming up from the depths to drag her down and drown her. It was fruitless to tell her that it was her poop, that it came out of her body, etc. For days now, she has periodically told the story at random moments: "Ezza wazza in da water, eeza enna I POOP!" She tells it with her eyes really wide, and sometimes with sweeping dramatic gestures, as if she cannot possibly convey to you the horror of what she went through.
b. Sweet Willie and I have begun discussing the possibility of throwing Viva a birthday party this year. If you thought reading about preschools was exhausting and made you want to gouge your eyes out, well, hang on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.
IV(c). Strangely, Sweet Willie and I have also been talking about how little time we have together these days, and how we miss each other, and what can we do about it. Sweet Willie's answer is to wake me up at 5:08 AM with a cup of tea so we can do yoga together before Viva wakes up. This is not as bad as it sounds. And it's also not a euphemism. You pervs!
Okay, I'm disconnecting now. Have a nice year...
Things to tide you over while I'm away:
1. Viva has pooped in the tub twice this week. Notice I did not say "in the potty," because that would be wrong, although logical and much-hoped-for. When this happened, she screamed as if she had discovered a giant squid in the water, coming up from the depths to drag her down and drown her. It was fruitless to tell her that it was her poop, that it came out of her body, etc. For days now, she has periodically told the story at random moments: "Ezza wazza in da water, eeza enna I POOP!" She tells it with her eyes really wide, and sometimes with sweeping dramatic gestures, as if she cannot possibly convey to you the horror of what she went through.
b. Sweet Willie and I have begun discussing the possibility of throwing Viva a birthday party this year. If you thought reading about preschools was exhausting and made you want to gouge your eyes out, well, hang on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.
IV(c). Strangely, Sweet Willie and I have also been talking about how little time we have together these days, and how we miss each other, and what can we do about it. Sweet Willie's answer is to wake me up at 5:08 AM with a cup of tea so we can do yoga together before Viva wakes up. This is not as bad as it sounds. And it's also not a euphemism. You pervs!
Okay, I'm disconnecting now. Have a nice year...
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Woe betide me...and UPS
Before I get into my latest riff on modern life in all its angst and sunshine, I just have to mention that despite years of correction, my grandmother still pronounces UPS as “ups,” rather than U.P.S. And while technically she’s right, since there are no periods to indicate that UPS is an acronym rather than just a regular word, it kind of drives me around the bend. Because I am crazy about stuff like grammar and usage (and many, many other things, but we won’t get into that here). People who know this about me will often deliberately misuse the language just to watch my eyes bug out in spectacular fashion. Sweet William, for example, will say things like “Well, her behavior really runs the gambit” or “Break out that dreaded apparati” with a straight face, just to see how long I can stand it before I correct him.
I never said I didn’t have flaws.
At any rate, I am currently irritated with UPS because I am still working on getting them to credit me for a package – a Christmas gift! – purchased for Sweet William and delivered to the front door of our apartment building on December 10. I never saw this package, nor did anyone sign for it. I know things are busy around the holidays, but why would you leave a package sitting outside an 80-unit, 5-story apartment building on a fairly busy side street in a mixed-use commercial-residential area and expect that the rightful owner would (a) even know it was there and (3) be the person who picked it up and brought it inside? I am more than a little ticked about this, but not as ticked as I would be had it been a very expensive present. It’s a paperback novel, one that I thought my sweetie would enjoy, but certainly not an extravagant gift, and not his only Christmas present from me. But still.
And I can’t go buy a replacement, because it still isn’t clear, despite talking with UPS this morning, whether UPS is ordering a duplicate from the shipper (Barnes & Noble) or whether they are just going to issue me a check. They are still waiting for paperwork from B & N to determine which course they choose. Totally ridic.
And I’ll admit it: I wanted to read the book, too. Dad gum it!
I never said I didn’t have flaws.
At any rate, I am currently irritated with UPS because I am still working on getting them to credit me for a package – a Christmas gift! – purchased for Sweet William and delivered to the front door of our apartment building on December 10. I never saw this package, nor did anyone sign for it. I know things are busy around the holidays, but why would you leave a package sitting outside an 80-unit, 5-story apartment building on a fairly busy side street in a mixed-use commercial-residential area and expect that the rightful owner would (a) even know it was there and (3) be the person who picked it up and brought it inside? I am more than a little ticked about this, but not as ticked as I would be had it been a very expensive present. It’s a paperback novel, one that I thought my sweetie would enjoy, but certainly not an extravagant gift, and not his only Christmas present from me. But still.
And I can’t go buy a replacement, because it still isn’t clear, despite talking with UPS this morning, whether UPS is ordering a duplicate from the shipper (Barnes & Noble) or whether they are just going to issue me a check. They are still waiting for paperwork from B & N to determine which course they choose. Totally ridic.
And I’ll admit it: I wanted to read the book, too. Dad gum it!
Monday, January 10, 2005
I miss you. Do you miss me? Really? That much?
Please note: An alternate title for this entry might be, “Home Improvement Gone Horribly Wrong.” Consequently, there’s a lot of cussing (both real and imagined, but certainly not as much as there was in reality). Please also note that due to our home improvement issues, I am DSL-less and kind of freaked out about it (writing this in Word and hoping to post later).
On New Year’s Eve, having covered everything in plastic and spackled and masked and primed the night before, Sweet William and I rang in the new year by painting our kitchen an outrageous shade of yellow. Contrary to what you might think, we really enjoyed this activity: we got to spend time talking and laughing together, listening to a variety of old CDs as we painted and toasting the new year with a lovely Cabernet when we were done. We were so pleasantly surprised by our positive experience that we enthusiastically agreed to paint the living/dining area the following weekend.
This is where things went bad.
We have a small galley kitchen. The walls are covered mainly by cabinets and large appliances. So the area left for us to paint was relatively small. Painting it was not a huge pain in the ass because it was not a large area. But complete jackasses that we are, this did not occur to us. Did we decide to do something simple for our next project?
If you said yes, you clearly have not been paying attention and you deserve the complimentary smack in the head I’m giving you right now. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, did that hurt? Do you need an ice pack? Why are you crying?)
If you said of course not, congratulations! You have won a year’s supply of toilet paper.
We decided that for our next project, we wanted two different colors of paint. One neutral, and one as an accent color. Because our kitchen has no door and flows directly into the dining area, we needed the colors not to clash with the yellow-gold color we have in there. After much deliberation in the paint store, we arrived at two colors: Sundown and Southwest Clay or some such shit. I can’t remember the exact names, but one was kind of a yellowy neutral and the other one was more of a red-orange.
After three hours of moving furniture, taking pictures off the wall, spackling, taping off and covering everything in plastic, I took the lid off the first paint can and began applying it to the wall. Oh, wait – did I mention that we had to drive down to South Pluto in a rainstorm to drop off Viva at Diva(my sis-in-law)’s? We had arranged to borrow a ladder from Diva’s hubby for the painting. In all the commotion of dropping Viva off, installing her car seat in Diva’s car, and discussing where to get lunch, we forgot about the ladder until we were already back on the freeway.
“Fuck it,” said Sweet William. “I’ll just go to Home Depot and buy one.”
So we went running around to the paint store and Home Depot in the pouring rain, for which you may not have much sympathy except that (a) this is Southern California and no one here can deal with the rain, making every move treacherous and (5) Home Depot is my worst nightmare. It is the eleventh circle of Hell. I don’t know how many circles of Hell there are, but Home Depot deserves its own special circle. With a parking lot.
So we got home after all this running around and we ordered Chinese food which upset my stomach, but I was determined to make a go of this, so after all the above-mentioned preparation, I opened the paint and started slapping it on the wall in my most authentically interior designy manner. And then I stepped back and looked at it. And it was fucking peach.
“I hate it,” I said. “It’s awful. It’s so…peach.”
“No,” said Sweet William. “It is bad. It is not good.”
“Crap,” I said. And then I poured the paint all over the floor and we wrestled in it and laughed and tickled each other and it was like something out of a movie.
Actually, what I think I did was open the other can of paint to see how bad that was going to be. And one of us started painting one of the other walls, I forget who or what. I think the paint fumes just ate up my brain. The other color…
“It looks like tomato soup,” I said.
“Can we live with this?” said Sweet William. He looked pained. I was really becoming dejected. The project had gone sour.
The good news is that we could live with the tomato soup color. The bad news is that we bought only a quart of it, and we ran out of paint after doing a wall and a half. We concurrently ran out of steam and decided to have a beer and go to bed.
The next morning, we had a crummy breakfast at Café 101 and then went our separate ways: I drove back down to South Jupiter to pick up Viva, while Sweet William got the house ready for her arrival. Later, my darling went to Home Depot and selected a neutral color called Swiss Coffee. After Viva went to bed, he primed one of the walls I had painted the day before (we changed our minds mid-painting). His plan was to paint the ceiling tonight, while I painted one of the living room walls.
Now, we actually thought we’d be able to paint the entire living/dining area in one night over this past weekend. Let me tell you, out of the seven walls in that area (it is of course an odd-shaped area, how could it not be?), only one is fully painted. We have surrendered ourselves to this totally and realize we will be painting after Viva goes to bed all week long.
Oh, and let me just add this: Swiss Coffee = white. Not off-white, not beige, not taupe, not anything with even a hint of brown as one might reasonably expect given that coffee is part of the name.
So now we need to find yet another color. Sweet William valiantly painted part of the ceiling tonight in his underwear. Sadly, I did not get a picture.
And the beat goes on…
Friday, January 07, 2005
The Yin, The Yang
Three Reasons Why Yesterday Sucked
1. My brand-new urban hipster hobo bag, purchased because I am utterly sick of carrying around a diaper bag, busted its zipper right after I finished packing it to go to the playground. I have owned this bag less than a week and have used it a total of: twice.
2. After re-packing my old diaper bag, I put Viva in the car to go to said playground since it was actually nice outside. Chilly, but no rain. We got about five blocks from home and she said, "water, water." What she meant was, "Hey, I thought it would be a really cool thing to tip my sippy straw cup upside down into my lap, but now I'm knee-deep in cran-raspberry watery juice(TM) and I'm not digging it so much." Cursed everything, turned around and went back home.
3. My cousin called and asked me a big favor, because it was a big emergency. She wanted me to lend her precisely $580. Since I have great difficulty saying no to people, especially to family members, this request stimulated great anxiety, heartburn and nausea throughout the day. Especially because I initially said yes, and then when I found out what it was for, revoked my offer. Are you ready?
It's for her car note.
Have I mentioned that I drive a 2002 VW Passat? It's a nice car, right? Sweet William drives a 1994 Jeep. We consider the Passat our luxury vehicle. It's the first new car for both of us and it's got the leather seats, the sunroof, the European styling and handling. But we are not wealthy people by any means. Neither of us grew up with money, and anything we have, pretty much, we've bought ourselves (except for our lovely wedding and baby shower gifts, many thanks all around once again).
My cousin, on the other hand, grew up with well-to-do parents who gave her her first car at 16, as soon as she was licensed to drive. (By way of comparison, I bought my first car [used, really used, like already 11 years old] when I was 28.) Whenever I talk to her, she is always either on her way to vacation or a long weekend in Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii, or she has just come back from Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii. She has a full-time job in the entertainment industry, carries designer purses, wears $500 boots, etc. She drives an Audi TT coupe.
My cousin told me she "forgot" to make a payment and that Audi was about to repossess her car*. Sweet William, who would be the one forking over the money since I do not have a paying job (oh, yeah, remember? I'm a stay-at-home mom. I don't have a trust fund. My husband supports the three of us by working hard at his job, coming home for lunch to save money, not buying stuff he doesn't need, and driving a car that is now 11 years old.) -- as I say, Sweet William said, "If she forgot to pay her car note, she could 'forget' to pay my money back. I'm not gonna be chasing her for six months trying to get my money." So there you have it.
* I know two people who have been involved in car repossessions. Both tell me that you need to stop making payments for at least a couple months before the car company will try to repossess your car. One late payment does not mean a big smelly guy named Shmedd shows up with a tow truck and tootles off with your car.
Three Reasons Yesterday Sucked Not So Much
1. I talked to my sister. We didn't talk about the day-after-Christmas blowup (go ahead, laugh at me), but it was comforting to hear her voice and know I can call her when I'm stressed.
2. I talked to Viva about potty training and she is enthusiastically on board. Our conversation ended something like this:
Me: ...so now, when you feel like you have to go pee-pee, all you have to do is tell me, and we'll go straight to the potty and you can sit and go, okay?
Viva: Okay! That is the greatest idea I have ever heard! You are the best mommy ever! How do you come up with this stuff? I am constantly impressed by you and your amazing parenting skills!
Okay, what she actually said was, "Okay! That's great!" and giggled and made circles in the air with her foot. But it was pretty cute, is all I'm saying.
3. I ate microwave popcorn not once, but twice.
1. My brand-new urban hipster hobo bag, purchased because I am utterly sick of carrying around a diaper bag, busted its zipper right after I finished packing it to go to the playground. I have owned this bag less than a week and have used it a total of: twice.
2. After re-packing my old diaper bag, I put Viva in the car to go to said playground since it was actually nice outside. Chilly, but no rain. We got about five blocks from home and she said, "water, water." What she meant was, "Hey, I thought it would be a really cool thing to tip my sippy straw cup upside down into my lap, but now I'm knee-deep in cran-raspberry watery juice(TM) and I'm not digging it so much." Cursed everything, turned around and went back home.
3. My cousin called and asked me a big favor, because it was a big emergency. She wanted me to lend her precisely $580. Since I have great difficulty saying no to people, especially to family members, this request stimulated great anxiety, heartburn and nausea throughout the day. Especially because I initially said yes, and then when I found out what it was for, revoked my offer. Are you ready?
It's for her car note.
Have I mentioned that I drive a 2002 VW Passat? It's a nice car, right? Sweet William drives a 1994 Jeep. We consider the Passat our luxury vehicle. It's the first new car for both of us and it's got the leather seats, the sunroof, the European styling and handling. But we are not wealthy people by any means. Neither of us grew up with money, and anything we have, pretty much, we've bought ourselves (except for our lovely wedding and baby shower gifts, many thanks all around once again).
My cousin, on the other hand, grew up with well-to-do parents who gave her her first car at 16, as soon as she was licensed to drive. (By way of comparison, I bought my first car [used, really used, like already 11 years old] when I was 28.) Whenever I talk to her, she is always either on her way to vacation or a long weekend in Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii, or she has just come back from Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii. She has a full-time job in the entertainment industry, carries designer purses, wears $500 boots, etc. She drives an Audi TT coupe.
My cousin told me she "forgot" to make a payment and that Audi was about to repossess her car*. Sweet William, who would be the one forking over the money since I do not have a paying job (oh, yeah, remember? I'm a stay-at-home mom. I don't have a trust fund. My husband supports the three of us by working hard at his job, coming home for lunch to save money, not buying stuff he doesn't need, and driving a car that is now 11 years old.) -- as I say, Sweet William said, "If she forgot to pay her car note, she could 'forget' to pay my money back. I'm not gonna be chasing her for six months trying to get my money." So there you have it.
* I know two people who have been involved in car repossessions. Both tell me that you need to stop making payments for at least a couple months before the car company will try to repossess your car. One late payment does not mean a big smelly guy named Shmedd shows up with a tow truck and tootles off with your car.
Three Reasons Yesterday Sucked Not So Much
1. I talked to my sister. We didn't talk about the day-after-Christmas blowup (go ahead, laugh at me), but it was comforting to hear her voice and know I can call her when I'm stressed.
2. I talked to Viva about potty training and she is enthusiastically on board. Our conversation ended something like this:
Me: ...so now, when you feel like you have to go pee-pee, all you have to do is tell me, and we'll go straight to the potty and you can sit and go, okay?
Viva: Okay! That is the greatest idea I have ever heard! You are the best mommy ever! How do you come up with this stuff? I am constantly impressed by you and your amazing parenting skills!
Okay, what she actually said was, "Okay! That's great!" and giggled and made circles in the air with her foot. But it was pretty cute, is all I'm saying.
3. I ate microwave popcorn not once, but twice.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Oh, while I'm at it
Here are my goals for 2005 (not, I repeat, NOT RESOLUTIONS):
What can I say, we have to start somewhere.
- Learn Web design (see previous entry for today)
- Improve my overall physical, spiritual, and emotional health
- Have more sex (with my husband, you creeps, so don't send me any lecherous e-mail. I know I am one hot mama with my hair crumpled up into a ponytail, 3.4 zits on my nose, and ultra-sexy dishpan hands. Back off!)
- Start freelancing again. And make money at it. So, like, not in any kind of half-assed way.
- Overcome my newfound addiction to microwave popcorn.
- Quit smoking
- Get some more teeth
- Kick the bottle
What can I say, we have to start somewhere.
Bloggity Blog Blog Blog!
For the past few days, I have been visiting some of the sites listed at The Best Of Blog Awards 2004 (see http://www.blogmechanics.com/bob/) and I have to say, after reading some of these and admiring the designs of the sites, I have concluded that:
1. I need to learn Web design. Like yesterday. I feel like a moron.
2. I need to write more.
3. There are some damn funny people out there. Is all.
1. I need to learn Web design. Like yesterday. I feel like a moron.
2. I need to write more.
3. There are some damn funny people out there. Is all.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Hey Nineteen...
So today I go to Nordstrom's at the Grove to return a horrible red sweater that I bought a few weeks ago. I bought said sweater to wear for our family Christmas portrait.
What's that, you say? You never received a copy of our family Christmas portrait?
Well, sweetie, that's because there is no family Christmas portrait. And there ain't no damn Santa Claus, either!
Getting back to my story: so I went to Nordstrom's, where they are so swanky that they have a pianist tickling the ivories every day as part of their store atmosphere. The nubile young thing in the Horrible Sweater department quickly and efficiently processed my return, and then said, half to me and half to her co-worker, "Oh my God, I can't believe the piano player is playing a Gwen Stefani song!"
Stupid me. I said, "What?"
She said, "That Gwen Stefani song, 'If I Was a Wealthy Girl.'"
I said, "Um, well, you know, it's a remake? The original song is from Fiddler on the Roof?"
"Ohhhhhhhh...."
Oh. My. God.
Hey nineteen, that's 'retha Franklin
She don't remember
The Queen of Soul
Hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old...
She probably doesn't know who Steely Dan is, either.
What's that, you say? You never received a copy of our family Christmas portrait?
Well, sweetie, that's because there is no family Christmas portrait. And there ain't no damn Santa Claus, either!
Getting back to my story: so I went to Nordstrom's, where they are so swanky that they have a pianist tickling the ivories every day as part of their store atmosphere. The nubile young thing in the Horrible Sweater department quickly and efficiently processed my return, and then said, half to me and half to her co-worker, "Oh my God, I can't believe the piano player is playing a Gwen Stefani song!"
Stupid me. I said, "What?"
She said, "That Gwen Stefani song, 'If I Was a Wealthy Girl.'"
I said, "Um, well, you know, it's a remake? The original song is from Fiddler on the Roof?"
"Ohhhhhhhh...."
Oh. My. God.
Hey nineteen, that's 'retha Franklin
She don't remember
The Queen of Soul
Hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old...
She probably doesn't know who Steely Dan is, either.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Is it wrong to eat an entire bag of microwave popcorn in one sitting?
Because I have some popping (I almost wrote "pooping," sheesh) in the microwave right now. I have already told you how much I love having a microwave again, right? This is Whole Foods Whole Kids Organic popcorn, which somehow makes me feel a little better about the prospect of eating an entire bag by myself while my toddler is sleeping and my husband is out having coffee with a friend of ours. We had a lovely late breakfast of steak and bagels and fruit, so I won't be eating lunch, but I needed a crunchy snacky-type item to tide me over until dinner.
I just edited this post because it was originally very long and dealt with bad feelings between me and my sister. Upon reflection and even while I was writing it, I felt it wasn't fair since I haven't discussed this with her yet. She blew up at me the day after Christmas and we have yet to clear the air. But it had a lot to do with why I came out of the Christmas season utterly sick of everyone and needing to stay home for a while.
I have a feeling she wouldn't want the whole mess splayed out across the Internet for all three of my readers to see. So, for those of you that wanted a front-row seat at the Dysfunctional Holiday Rodeo, sorry.
I don't think she reads this, by the way.
More later when I have wittier things to say (perhaps much, much later).
I just edited this post because it was originally very long and dealt with bad feelings between me and my sister. Upon reflection and even while I was writing it, I felt it wasn't fair since I haven't discussed this with her yet. She blew up at me the day after Christmas and we have yet to clear the air. But it had a lot to do with why I came out of the Christmas season utterly sick of everyone and needing to stay home for a while.
I have a feeling she wouldn't want the whole mess splayed out across the Internet for all three of my readers to see. So, for those of you that wanted a front-row seat at the Dysfunctional Holiday Rodeo, sorry.
I don't think she reads this, by the way.
More later when I have wittier things to say (perhaps much, much later).
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Little Miss Congeniality
I think Viva could win this award hands down. I love it that when you ask her if she wants a cracker, she says, "No, thank you," or "Yes, please," and if she wants you to go somewhere with her and you happen to be sitting inconveniently on the floor, she will grab your hand, look winningly into your eyes, and pull you in the direction she wants you to go while saying, "[I] help you?"
I am also flabbergasted at the number of tea parties she has thrown since receiving this from her grandma for Christmas. She is really the hostess with the mostest, running back and forth and asking genteelly, "More tea?" I admit that there is a part of me that is disturbed by this: is it genetic or is it something that I have already taught her by example? Full disclosure here: I love the idea of having people over much much more than I love actually having people over, and any kind of situation where I have to serve food really turns me into a spaz. I am a good cook, or so I'm told, so this is not where my anxiety lies. I just hate feeling responsible for other people having a good time.
Marriage to Sweet William is helping to cure me of this. His response to pretty much any situation involving guilt trips or undue obligation is this: "Are they paying my bills?" And you know, he's right. We are grown folks, are we not? (Well, some of us are.) Hopefully, Viva will (as I have) reject the "please everyone but yourself" mentality that I grew up with and be an assertive little number.
And thus ends my last pop-psych analysis of the year, I swear.
I am also flabbergasted at the number of tea parties she has thrown since receiving this from her grandma for Christmas. She is really the hostess with the mostest, running back and forth and asking genteelly, "More tea?" I admit that there is a part of me that is disturbed by this: is it genetic or is it something that I have already taught her by example? Full disclosure here: I love the idea of having people over much much more than I love actually having people over, and any kind of situation where I have to serve food really turns me into a spaz. I am a good cook, or so I'm told, so this is not where my anxiety lies. I just hate feeling responsible for other people having a good time.
Marriage to Sweet William is helping to cure me of this. His response to pretty much any situation involving guilt trips or undue obligation is this: "Are they paying my bills?" And you know, he's right. We are grown folks, are we not? (Well, some of us are.) Hopefully, Viva will (as I have) reject the "please everyone but yourself" mentality that I grew up with and be an assertive little number.
And thus ends my last pop-psych analysis of the year, I swear.
help
why won't Blogger let me add posts? why???
my frustration with technology has caused me to drop all capital letters off my posts.
my frustration with technology has caused me to drop all capital letters off my posts.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
The Sneer Factor
During the holiday season, I painstakingly assembled, hand-signed and sent out 47 Christmas cards. We have received 23. Clearly, this activity falls under the whole general "love everyone/Christmas spirit/'tis better to give than to receive" banner. I admit to feeling very "bah, humbug" about the whole endeavor, particularly because I Grinchishly set up a system this year to track this, and it only confirmed my suspicions that the Blah Blah family is getting the raw end of the deal.
In fact, I am very "bah, humbug" about my entire Christmas experience this year, except where it really counts: our Christmas morning with Viva was practically Norman Rockwell-esque. Never mind that we stayed up until 12:30 assembling all her toys, wrapping gifts, and stuffing her stocking, and that she woke up at 6:30. We had Christmas music going, great coffee a-brewing, and a little munchkin who was wide-eyed and awestruck about the entire affair. She was thrilled with everything, and we were thrilled with her. It was all very huggy and smoochy and make-me-almost-cryable, to such an extent that it almost made me rethink my boycott of Santa Claus.
Almost.
In fact, I am very "bah, humbug" about my entire Christmas experience this year, except where it really counts: our Christmas morning with Viva was practically Norman Rockwell-esque. Never mind that we stayed up until 12:30 assembling all her toys, wrapping gifts, and stuffing her stocking, and that she woke up at 6:30. We had Christmas music going, great coffee a-brewing, and a little munchkin who was wide-eyed and awestruck about the entire affair. She was thrilled with everything, and we were thrilled with her. It was all very huggy and smoochy and make-me-almost-cryable, to such an extent that it almost made me rethink my boycott of Santa Claus.
Almost.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Reason #4,764 Why I Love My Husband
We went out to dinner at Sonora Cafe for Sweet William's birthday last night. (Yes, his birthday is right before Christmas. Yes, it makes it hard to get people together to celebrate. Yes, he does not usually have a lot of fanfare surrounding his birthday, although to be fair, he wouldn't want that. Yes, I am going to stop this parenthetical conceit right here.) When he ordered their signature pork chop, he was told they had just run out of the pork chops. He then ordered exactly the same thing I did (duck tacos, at his recommendation), and when the food came, periodically ate off my plate.
"How is it that we can be eating the exact same thing and you still have to eat off my plate?" I asked, mildly indignant.
Without missing a beat, he said, "It tastes sweeter off yours."
He is exasperatingly cute.
"How is it that we can be eating the exact same thing and you still have to eat off my plate?" I asked, mildly indignant.
Without missing a beat, he said, "It tastes sweeter off yours."
He is exasperatingly cute.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Female Trouble
So for those of you that have been following this and who even care, I saw my OB-GYN today. Dr. A is the ideal doctor for me. She is always calm, she asks lots of questions and listens carefully to the answers, I never feel she is rushing me, and she has a great sense of humor. I love going to see her.
She is very supportive of my resistance to surgery. While there is little she can do about my fibroids, she has suggested that I try a lower-estrogen birth control pill and use Ibuprofen for the pain (evidently, I can take up to three Advil at a sitting, if need be – see what handy knowledge she dispenses?). The lower estrogen will probably not shrink the fibroids but may stop them from growing larger. She also suggested acupuncture, saying that it has helped some of her patients. She wants to see me in three months to see how things go with this course of treatment.
This is all well and good, but the beauty of our whole encounter is that when doctors measure your fibroids, they like to describe them as the size of food. My largest fibroid measures 5 cm across. “That’s about the size of a large plum,” Dr. A said, showing me with a tape measure.
“How’s your fruit salad?” my friend M likes to say. He knows I have several fibroids of various sizes.
Now, have you ever seen the book “Once Upon a Potty”? It is a modern classic, of which there are two versions: one for boys and one for girls. I can’t speak to the boy version, but in the one we own, cute little girl Prudence receives a potty from her grandmother. At first she doesn’t know what it is, so there is this sequence:
“Was it a hat? No, it wasn’t a hat.” (next page)
“Was it a milk bowl for the cat? No, it wasn’t a milk bowl for the cat.” (next page)
“Was it a flowerpot? No, it wasn’t a flowerpot.” (next page)
“Was it a birdbath? No, it wasn’t a birdbath.” (next page)
Finally: “It was a potty, for making poo-poo and pee-pee into, instead of a diaper.”
You see the sorts of excruciating experiences you have to live through, over and over again, when you become a parent? Anyway, since that is my current frame of reference, I find myself thinking of different kinds of fruit, like so:
“Was it a plum? No, it wasn’t a plum.” (next page)
“Was it a tangerine? No, it wasn’t a tangerine.” (next page)
“Was it a kiwi fruit? No, it wasn’t a kiwi fruit.” (next page)
Finally: “It was a fibroid, for poking your tummy out and making sex really uncomfortable in certain positions.”
Whee, thanks, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.
(By the way, the fibroids have nothing to do with the blood in my urine, just as I suspected.)
She is very supportive of my resistance to surgery. While there is little she can do about my fibroids, she has suggested that I try a lower-estrogen birth control pill and use Ibuprofen for the pain (evidently, I can take up to three Advil at a sitting, if need be – see what handy knowledge she dispenses?). The lower estrogen will probably not shrink the fibroids but may stop them from growing larger. She also suggested acupuncture, saying that it has helped some of her patients. She wants to see me in three months to see how things go with this course of treatment.
This is all well and good, but the beauty of our whole encounter is that when doctors measure your fibroids, they like to describe them as the size of food. My largest fibroid measures 5 cm across. “That’s about the size of a large plum,” Dr. A said, showing me with a tape measure.
“How’s your fruit salad?” my friend M likes to say. He knows I have several fibroids of various sizes.
Now, have you ever seen the book “Once Upon a Potty”? It is a modern classic, of which there are two versions: one for boys and one for girls. I can’t speak to the boy version, but in the one we own, cute little girl Prudence receives a potty from her grandmother. At first she doesn’t know what it is, so there is this sequence:
“Was it a hat? No, it wasn’t a hat.” (next page)
“Was it a milk bowl for the cat? No, it wasn’t a milk bowl for the cat.” (next page)
“Was it a flowerpot? No, it wasn’t a flowerpot.” (next page)
“Was it a birdbath? No, it wasn’t a birdbath.” (next page)
Finally: “It was a potty, for making poo-poo and pee-pee into, instead of a diaper.”
You see the sorts of excruciating experiences you have to live through, over and over again, when you become a parent? Anyway, since that is my current frame of reference, I find myself thinking of different kinds of fruit, like so:
“Was it a plum? No, it wasn’t a plum.” (next page)
“Was it a tangerine? No, it wasn’t a tangerine.” (next page)
“Was it a kiwi fruit? No, it wasn’t a kiwi fruit.” (next page)
Finally: “It was a fibroid, for poking your tummy out and making sex really uncomfortable in certain positions.”
Whee, thanks, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.
(By the way, the fibroids have nothing to do with the blood in my urine, just as I suspected.)
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Tra la la
Today, I found myself really irritated that I am not done with my Christmas shopping yet. Then I looked at the calendar and realized: we are only in our first full week of December. It’s still early. Give yourself a break, nutjob.
Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy and peace and all that. Deep breath!
As the year draws to a close, I have been making loose plans for the coming year. I say loose because things never work out exactly as we plan them, and yet I feel the need for some kind of structure, no doubt to allow myself the illusion that I am in some small way the master or mistress of my own fate. Well, for one thing, chirren, I am considering moving this blog* – perhaps to Blogspot**, which is a more logical place for it to be, and I think will be less of a hassle to maintain. Not sure yet what I am going to do about all the lovely photos I will want to post in the coming year, howsomever. Do I have to maintain two Websites, then? One more open to the public, and the other (with identifying photos) for friends and fam? Sounds like kind of a drag.
As for my other plans for the coming year, they are loosely this: enjoy the remainder of my time at home; get my multitude of health issues under control; enroll Viva in not-so-expensive summer school and then outrageously expensive regular preschool; begin working in some capacity to pay for said summer school and preschool. The question is: what to do?
Apparently, there is no easy answer to this. I know, I know, you think: how can this be? I have done my damnedest, looking it up all kinds of ways on the Internet, and it appears that there is no clear next step on my career path (if you can even call it that). So what I am saying to you, in plain English, is this: I need to figure it out for myself. Crap.
* Which I did, on Dec. 22nd. Get me, I'm some kind of 21st century gal.
** Hello and welcome to it. Now I'm archiving all my old blogs from the previous site. I know, it doesn't get more exciting than this!
Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy and peace and all that. Deep breath!
As the year draws to a close, I have been making loose plans for the coming year. I say loose because things never work out exactly as we plan them, and yet I feel the need for some kind of structure, no doubt to allow myself the illusion that I am in some small way the master or mistress of my own fate. Well, for one thing, chirren, I am considering moving this blog* – perhaps to Blogspot**, which is a more logical place for it to be, and I think will be less of a hassle to maintain. Not sure yet what I am going to do about all the lovely photos I will want to post in the coming year, howsomever. Do I have to maintain two Websites, then? One more open to the public, and the other (with identifying photos) for friends and fam? Sounds like kind of a drag.
As for my other plans for the coming year, they are loosely this: enjoy the remainder of my time at home; get my multitude of health issues under control; enroll Viva in not-so-expensive summer school and then outrageously expensive regular preschool; begin working in some capacity to pay for said summer school and preschool. The question is: what to do?
Apparently, there is no easy answer to this. I know, I know, you think: how can this be? I have done my damnedest, looking it up all kinds of ways on the Internet, and it appears that there is no clear next step on my career path (if you can even call it that). So what I am saying to you, in plain English, is this: I need to figure it out for myself. Crap.
* Which I did, on Dec. 22nd. Get me, I'm some kind of 21st century gal.
** Hello and welcome to it. Now I'm archiving all my old blogs from the previous site. I know, it doesn't get more exciting than this!
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Bono Paints My Kitchen
Since Sweet William has time off from work between Christmas and New Year’s, we are going to paint our kitchen. Now, while I was on bedrest during my pregnancy, and then while breastfeeding pretty much constantly for the first few months of Viva’s life, I became addicted to home design shows. I watched While You Were Out, and Trading Spaces (which won't hyperlink, don't ask me why), and Surprise by Design religiously. Months and months of watching designers re-do people’s homes in imaginative, horrible, and sometimes gorgeous ways.
Do you think I retained even one thing from any of that? The answer would be: of course not.
I can’t decide on a color. I have pretty much everything else I need but the paint – which is kind of the whole purpose of this project. I am making things more difficult by trying to find non-toxic paint without any off-gassing/VOCs (thanks to dwell magazine [Oct/Nov ’04] for making an already thorny decision more complicated).
I am going to rip and burn CDs right now while searching websites for design ideas. Repeat after me: “Uno! Dos! Tres! Catorce!” (What the flip is Bono talking about? Does anyone know?) Edit: why yes, here are some theories. Thanks, freaky Internet geeks!
Do you think I retained even one thing from any of that? The answer would be: of course not.
I can’t decide on a color. I have pretty much everything else I need but the paint – which is kind of the whole purpose of this project. I am making things more difficult by trying to find non-toxic paint without any off-gassing/VOCs (thanks to dwell magazine [Oct/Nov ’04] for making an already thorny decision more complicated).
I am going to rip and burn CDs right now while searching websites for design ideas. Repeat after me: “Uno! Dos! Tres! Catorce!” (What the flip is Bono talking about? Does anyone know?) Edit: why yes, here are some theories. Thanks, freaky Internet geeks!
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Of Christmas and Crunk
Viva hates Christmas. Well, let me qualify that statement and say that Viva hates Christmas decorations. She hates the lights, and she hates the ornaments. She hates the furry boots we got her to wear for her Christmas portrait. She hates the slippers she picked out as one of her Christmas presents during a trip to Old Navy with Auntie Diva. She shakes her head violently and backs away when we turn the Christmas lights on, making little whimpering noises. I don’t understand it. Sweet William says maybe she’s reacting against the commercialization of Christmas. If so, all I have to say is, I’m with you, sister! Too bad she didn’t make this opinion known before we bought all her Christmas loot.
We haven’t even gotten a tree yet. Is 20 months too young to fake a heart attack? I guess we’ll see, although I know her daddy will be mighty irritated if he goes to the expense and hassle of getting a tree and she screams bloody murder at the sight of it. I’m hoping it won’t be the same experience as with the slippers: she allegedly loved them at the store and hugged them to her chest, but refused to put them on once they were paid for.
Viva does like: A Charlie Brown Christmas and gingerbread. That’s about it.
On a completely unrelated topic: I am thoroughly enjoying the resurrection of KDAY-FM in Los Angeles. Old school, new school (well, you know I prefer the music from back in the day, but that is because I am old as the hizzills). What could be wrong with that?
Speaking of age and trends passing you by, this past weekend, Sweet William and I were driving up La Brea, just north of the 10 freeway, when we saw a billboard advertising Crunk Juice. “What the hell is that?” said my honey. We burst out laughing, but he seriously did not know what crunk was. I barely knew what it was – I said it’s Southern ghetto hip-hop, which wasn’t completely off-base, but wasn’t completely accurate either. What is crunk? Read here on this apparently not-so-new phenomenon.
Crunk. Word to your mother.
We haven’t even gotten a tree yet. Is 20 months too young to fake a heart attack? I guess we’ll see, although I know her daddy will be mighty irritated if he goes to the expense and hassle of getting a tree and she screams bloody murder at the sight of it. I’m hoping it won’t be the same experience as with the slippers: she allegedly loved them at the store and hugged them to her chest, but refused to put them on once they were paid for.
Viva does like: A Charlie Brown Christmas and gingerbread. That’s about it.
On a completely unrelated topic: I am thoroughly enjoying the resurrection of KDAY-FM in Los Angeles. Old school, new school (well, you know I prefer the music from back in the day, but that is because I am old as the hizzills). What could be wrong with that?
Speaking of age and trends passing you by, this past weekend, Sweet William and I were driving up La Brea, just north of the 10 freeway, when we saw a billboard advertising Crunk Juice. “What the hell is that?” said my honey. We burst out laughing, but he seriously did not know what crunk was. I barely knew what it was – I said it’s Southern ghetto hip-hop, which wasn’t completely off-base, but wasn’t completely accurate either. What is crunk? Read here on this apparently not-so-new phenomenon.
Crunk. Word to your mother.
Monday, December 06, 2004
I am not a Luddite
I am just behind the times. Until a couple of months ago, we had a microwave that was manufactured in 1988. It came with the apartment. It was good at reheating things, but that was about it. It was also missing all its knobs – yes, it had knobs, not buttons, that’s how old it was – and in order to use it, you had to pull out a pair of pliers and twist it to the approximate setting you wanted. So charmingly ghetto!
In September, Sweet William went to Wal-Mart while we were visiting family (we don’t have a Wal-Mart near us, which seems impossible these days, but I am here to tell you it does happen, and by the way, I am aware that you can buy microwaves at other places but this is just how it happened, so there you are) and purchased a new microwave. I mention this because I have just rediscovered the joys of microwave popcorn, on which I am now happily crunching away. And now I can buy and freeze things and defrost and cook them when it’s 6:03 pm and I realize there is nothing to eat in the fridge. It’s a win-win situation, and I know, you couldn’t be happier, right?
Well, hang on to your hats, because just this past week, I was at Target, and I saw this. It followed me home, and the Blah Blah family has since thoroughly enjoyed perfectly toasted bagels, English muffins, and French toaster sticks. Now we have gone totally appliance happy and my Sweet William is saying we should replace our stove (which also came with the apartment). His rationale, which is not bad, is that we should buy major appliances now and take them with us once the bottom falls out of the real estate market and we can actually afford a house. Hey, do I hear snickering there in the back? It could happen. Don't tinkle on my parade of delusion...
In other news, still don’t know what’s going on with my health. Am considering radically changing diet after the holidays in perhaps misguided belief that this may be a factor; have been reading a lot on the Internet about the links between sugar/dairy/caffeine/meat and fibroids. Wondering: if I can’t consume any of these things, what the hell kind of life is that? Further bulletins as events warrant.
In September, Sweet William went to Wal-Mart while we were visiting family (we don’t have a Wal-Mart near us, which seems impossible these days, but I am here to tell you it does happen, and by the way, I am aware that you can buy microwaves at other places but this is just how it happened, so there you are) and purchased a new microwave. I mention this because I have just rediscovered the joys of microwave popcorn, on which I am now happily crunching away. And now I can buy and freeze things and defrost and cook them when it’s 6:03 pm and I realize there is nothing to eat in the fridge. It’s a win-win situation, and I know, you couldn’t be happier, right?
Well, hang on to your hats, because just this past week, I was at Target, and I saw this. It followed me home, and the Blah Blah family has since thoroughly enjoyed perfectly toasted bagels, English muffins, and French toaster sticks. Now we have gone totally appliance happy and my Sweet William is saying we should replace our stove (which also came with the apartment). His rationale, which is not bad, is that we should buy major appliances now and take them with us once the bottom falls out of the real estate market and we can actually afford a house. Hey, do I hear snickering there in the back? It could happen. Don't tinkle on my parade of delusion...
In other news, still don’t know what’s going on with my health. Am considering radically changing diet after the holidays in perhaps misguided belief that this may be a factor; have been reading a lot on the Internet about the links between sugar/dairy/caffeine/meat and fibroids. Wondering: if I can’t consume any of these things, what the hell kind of life is that? Further bulletins as events warrant.
Friday, December 03, 2004
I...Fall...To Pieces...
Who sings that? Patsy Cline? (Why, yes -- here's a sound clip.)
So the mysterious health thing continues, with the added annoyance of a common cold, the most bothersome symptom of which is a sore throat which I have now had for a week. Oh, and the coughing, which wakes me up in the middle of the night.
So the CT urogram showed that nothing is wrong with my urinary tract, but that I have multiple uterine fibroids (which I knew already). Although the scan says nothing is wrong, I still have blood in my urine, and palpation of my abdomen by my urologist, Dr. G, indicates tenderness in both ovaries. An internal exam revealed urethral stenosis, presumably brought on by the trauma of delivering Viva. Dr. G wants me to come in for a probe of my bladder in two weeks. Um, yuck. Sounds delightful. The troubling thing is that it appears I may have two problems converging at the same time: the bladder thing and the fibroids.
Generally not too happy about any of this. Sorry I can’t be all sweetness and light.
I feel like an old woman. And guess what? I have finally caved in to advertising and my own observations of what I see in the mirror, and I’m using night cream. Night cream!
I also recently discovered that I have dishpan hands. What the hell is happening?
So the mysterious health thing continues, with the added annoyance of a common cold, the most bothersome symptom of which is a sore throat which I have now had for a week. Oh, and the coughing, which wakes me up in the middle of the night.
So the CT urogram showed that nothing is wrong with my urinary tract, but that I have multiple uterine fibroids (which I knew already). Although the scan says nothing is wrong, I still have blood in my urine, and palpation of my abdomen by my urologist, Dr. G, indicates tenderness in both ovaries. An internal exam revealed urethral stenosis, presumably brought on by the trauma of delivering Viva. Dr. G wants me to come in for a probe of my bladder in two weeks. Um, yuck. Sounds delightful. The troubling thing is that it appears I may have two problems converging at the same time: the bladder thing and the fibroids.
Generally not too happy about any of this. Sorry I can’t be all sweetness and light.
I feel like an old woman. And guess what? I have finally caved in to advertising and my own observations of what I see in the mirror, and I’m using night cream. Night cream!
I also recently discovered that I have dishpan hands. What the hell is happening?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Sloth and Lethargy and Torpor, Oh My!
Okay, so I mentioned I would be taking a short break from the blog so I might get some exercise in every day during the few chunks of free time that I have while Viva is napping. Let me tell you how many times I have exercised since I wrote that: twice.
The problem is that I have a mysterious health issue that is kicking my not-very-large ass. I have blood in my urine. The doctor thought it might be a simple urinary tract infection. It wasn’t. I’ve been prescribed three different courses of antibiotics, two of which made me sick with crushing headaches. I have developed pain in my urethra – not a good sign, and an indication that the course of treatment was not working. Now I have to go in and have a dingy-dang scan of my urinary tract next week, and then see a urologist after that. I asked my primary care physician yesterday what could be causing the blood in my urine, and she said “Well, it could be a number of things – a tumor, kidney stone, we just don’t know. So we’ll get you the CT urogram and find out.”
Hold the phone. WHAT?!
You don’t want to say tumor to me. Last time I heard that, I had to have surgery and it was not a trip to Disneyland, let me tell you. I don’t want to go through another cancer scare, especially when two close family members have passed away of cancer in the last year. I just so much did not want to hear that. So today, I Googled “CT urogram” and this is what I found out: you don’t want to have kidney stones. And you sure as hell don’t want bladder cancer. Just to see the word “chemotherapy” made me click the window closed. Realistically speaking, it seems more likely that I have a kidney stone (or stones), which does suck, but given the alternative, I’d feel like an ass for complaining about it.
Nonetheless, I still feel crummy.
Hey, on a lighter note, my photos should be ready today, so after Viva “Sleeping Cutie” wakes up, maybe we’ll stroll on over there and pick them up. And then maybe I can scan them and post them later. I’m not making any promises, though.
The problem is that I have a mysterious health issue that is kicking my not-very-large ass. I have blood in my urine. The doctor thought it might be a simple urinary tract infection. It wasn’t. I’ve been prescribed three different courses of antibiotics, two of which made me sick with crushing headaches. I have developed pain in my urethra – not a good sign, and an indication that the course of treatment was not working. Now I have to go in and have a dingy-dang scan of my urinary tract next week, and then see a urologist after that. I asked my primary care physician yesterday what could be causing the blood in my urine, and she said “Well, it could be a number of things – a tumor, kidney stone, we just don’t know. So we’ll get you the CT urogram and find out.”
Hold the phone. WHAT?!
You don’t want to say tumor to me. Last time I heard that, I had to have surgery and it was not a trip to Disneyland, let me tell you. I don’t want to go through another cancer scare, especially when two close family members have passed away of cancer in the last year. I just so much did not want to hear that. So today, I Googled “CT urogram” and this is what I found out: you don’t want to have kidney stones. And you sure as hell don’t want bladder cancer. Just to see the word “chemotherapy” made me click the window closed. Realistically speaking, it seems more likely that I have a kidney stone (or stones), which does suck, but given the alternative, I’d feel like an ass for complaining about it.
Nonetheless, I still feel crummy.
Hey, on a lighter note, my photos should be ready today, so after Viva “Sleeping Cutie” wakes up, maybe we’ll stroll on over there and pick them up. And then maybe I can scan them and post them later. I’m not making any promises, though.
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