Archive for the ‘daily BS’ Category
Tuesday, December 13th, 2011
I turned 30 last week. Exactly a week ago, to be… exact. I don’t think it was a big deal. I don’t know if I was ever the type to think 30 was a big deal. Maybe if I was the kind of person who expected to be married with a baby by the time I was 30 and I also wasn’t married with a baby, 30 would have felt like something. But I am married with a baby, and I am also not that kind of person. So. Nothing, really.
While I never really had any specific goals that I wanted to accomplish before I turned 30 (the failure to accomplish certain goals is what I assume makes 30 feel like a THING for some people), I guess when I was younger I always assumed things about 30, in the same way that younger people assume things about older people. I don’t know if I can really put my finger on anything specific, but when I was in college, or just out of college – I was still living in my college apartment, and I dated this guy – I’ve talked about him, he had a really square head. Square Head Kyle. And he was a bit older than me – as close to 30 as I still was to 20, I think. And while I didn’t bow down before him, all wide-eyed at his wisdom and experience, I kind of just assumed things. Like when he bought a car, I was like, yeah, that makes sense. He’s a grown up. He can buy a car.
But then you get to be 25 or 26 or 27 and you buy a car or you do whatever it is that made sense, and it’s like yanking back the curtain. The whole getting older experience is like reliving that scene from the Wizard of Oz, year after year. “HEY, IT’S JUST SOME SCHMUCK BACK HERE.” And then you, too, are that schmuck.
I’m not a big believer in bucket lists. I mean, no offense meant if that’s your thing, but I can’t get my mind to that place where they make any kind of sense. Maybe I’m not a goal-oriented person. Maybe I want to see what comes in life on its own. Maybe I think the recent Internetization of the concept of a “life list” by certain sectors has made the whole thing seem like kind of a ridiculous and exaggerated joke of itself. Maybe it’s pretty likely to be that last one.
Regardless, I have expectations of 30. Expectations I had long before I was 30, and expectations I developed as 30 approached. Not that I assumed that when I woke up 30, these things would happen or be. Just things that I expect that, along the way TO 30, a person will know or do or gather in some way. There are things that I feel that the schmuck behind the 30 curtain should have to offer as a person. And I will tell you about them.
A person who is 30 should be able to put a meal on the table. I’m not saying anything about affording a meal or providing for a family. And I’m not saying that every 30 year old should be able to cook. I’m saying if you’ve made it all the way to 30, you should be capable of throwing down dinner without talking into a speaker. Maybe you can cook. Maybe you’re more like me and rely heavily on frozen Stouffer’s and steam in the bag vegetables. Maybe you know a really good catering place and are exceptional at placing food artfully on plates. I don’t know and I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care how OFTEN you do it. But when the situation arises, a 30 year old should be able to pull some edible shit together.
A person who is 30 should know that there are truly very few things in life that they HAVE to do. You don’t have to get the puff in your eyeballs when you go to the eye doctor if you don’t want to. You don’t have to wear make up if it’s not your thing. You don’t have to date anyone or get married or have kids. You don’t have to buy a house if you like renting. You don’t have to like everyone. You don’t have to accept every invitation that comes your way. You don’t have to be solely responsible for the happiness of anyone else. That last one is what will make you have a lot of regrets, I think.
A person who is 30 should be over getting affronted at Happy Holidays/Merry Christmas/What the shit ever. I don’t care if you don’t celebrate Christmas or you don’t have any holidays in this “season” or if you’re the asshole everyone secretly hates, the one who always wants to “helpfully” inform you of why what you just said or did is offensive to someone, somewhere, in some obscure way. Do you plan to exist throughout December? You do? WELL, I AM WISHING FOR YOU THAT YOU ENJOY IT. Grow up. Seriously. I’m hoping that you’re freaking merry on December 25, whatever the hell you decide to do with yourself that day. No one stabbed you in the eyeball. They wished you well. Walk on and forget about it. Dick.
A person who is 30 should be VERY AWARE of how small a part of his general surroundings he is. That means knowing that the world is not revolving around you at any given moment. You shouldn’t still be placing yourself at the center of the universe in all ways. Like when you block the whole grocery store aisle with your cart. Or when you encroach upon the time of others without even thinking about it. When you expect to move to the front of the line/get extra days off/leave early/get free stuff because you have a child. I don’t know. This covers a lot. A person who is 30 should probably have figured out how to move around in the world without trying to force it to move around her.
A person who is 30 should be able to buy/make/offer a thoughtful gift, even with only a little bit or none money. Of course it is easy and often the best idea to grab a Starbucks gift card for the office holiday gift swap, or to buy local store gift cards for teachers, or that kind of stuff. But for people you know, you should know by now how to do a little research, ask a few pointed questions, and take some time out of your busy life to THINK about it instead of running through the aisles of Target and grabbing whatever looks good at the last second. It’s not always possible, of course, but you should know how. Like a book on a favored topic, or an offer of free babysitting, or something they mentioned one time that you remember that you know they won’t even remember that you remember. You can do that by now.
A person who is 30 should be able to tolerate inconvenience but also advocate for herself. If something doesn’t go your way, it always sucks, but by 30, you shouldn’t be that guy anymore. The one shrieking at a poor underling with no power, making everyone in the place uncomfortable. No one likes that guy. I know there are still a lot of That Guy over 30, but I think by 30 he should at least know he’s being a total knob. But at the same time, you shouldn’t still be bending over and taking it when someone or some company or whatever does wrong by you. That’s kind of weenie, and no one is going to jump up and do it for you. You should be able to make your case yourself and ask for resolution. In whatever situation – business, personal, whatever. You shouldn’t be a dick or a weenie. Ha. Two penis references.
I guess there’s probably a lot more stuff that I would expect the schmuck behind the curtain to know by now, but I can’t go on forever (I probably could, you know me). What do you think?
Posted in daily BS | 39 Comments »
Monday, December 5th, 2011
I HAVE TWO THINGS ABOUT WHICH I WOULD LIKE TO BITCH TODAY.
*****
Have you seen that commercial where the lady is unloading her groceries and the husband is all, ew, gross, fiber! Yuck! Blagh! Everyone hates fiber! It is universally known that fiber tastes like tree trunks and scrotum and conveniently ignores that fiber can be found in all kinds of delicious foods and then used in even more numerous delicious recipes! BLAH! FIBER! TREE SCROTUM!
And the lady is like, doodly doo, whatever, as she unwraps and starts to eat a Fiber One bar.
AND THE HUSBAND JUMPS INTO HIS ARGUMENT WINNING POINT! He’s all, how dare you preach to me the benefits of a douglas fir tainted with TAINT, while you stand there and eat a CANDY BAR!
And then in my mind there’s the big outrage that I reserve only for television commercials, improperly placed apostrophes, and people who cut in line like you aren’t even going to notice they cut in line.
IN WHAT WORLD is a Fiber One bar – or ANY granola-based bar-shaped food – even REMOTELY comparable to a CANDY BAR? In no world, that’s what world.
I’m not going to go so far as to say a Fiber One bar tastes like a festive mix of bark and ball sack, but I will say this: I got a good deal on Fiber One bars a week or so ago – they were $2.50 a box and there was a military store coupon for $3 off 3 boxes. So I had a BUNCH OF THEM. So I consider myself kind of an authority. One, CANDY BARS have a lot more CANDY. Two, I was eating the chocolate one (“chocolate”) and you know what the main flavor profile I noticed was? CELERY. It tasted like CELERY.
I’m not even saying celery is a bad thing. I enjoy celery. I ate more of those Fiber One bars, even. I’m not complaining about the BAR ITSELF. I’m just saying, who do you think you are fooling, Fiber One? YOU ARE NOT A CANDY BAR. No one would EVER mistake a Fiber One bar for a CANDY BAR. Not even a foolish television husband, who then eats one, blissfully unaware that he is HAVING FIBER, because it doesn’t taste like wood and nuts.
I don’t know. The whole commercial makes me so mad.
*****
I was reading this book lately, and I hated it, for about 800 different reasons. But I’m only talking about one reason today. Actually, it’s not even a reason I hated the book. It’s something the book reminded me of. The whole book was pretty terrible and this thing falls under that general terrible umbrella, but it’s not something I’d add to the list of specific ways this book made me wish that you could drown a book.
There was one part of this book that talks about a woman who didn’t groom her area, and wore a bikini, letting all of the area hair-ea poke out and about. I believe this was referred to – if not in the book, then at least in other places – as a “70s-style bush.” Which made me insane. Insane.
SEE, in calling it a “70s-style bush,” one is implying that different eras have had different kind of area hair-ea styles. That just like you can peg combat boots and a flannel around the waist as a 90s style, so too can you spot a vaguely grungy, somewhat angsty bush and know instantly that it’s been styled up in a nod to My So Called Life.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO MORE POINTS.
1. Bush is just crude. I mean, there are way more impolite words to use for the area hair-ea, I suppose, but bush. I will stop using it for the rest of this post.
2. To be able to call it “70s-style” indicates that you have seen ENOUGH lady styles to know how to categorize a lady’s downstairs choices. Do ladies who choose to wax walk into their waxer in the same terrified way I approach a new hair stylist? Are they too running the risk of walking out with the pubic hair version of The Rachel?
3. To criticize or even point out or EVEN SUGGEST THE POSSIBLE PRESENCE of a “70s-style” in the pants, you are making an assumption, an assumption that has started to drive me past the brink of okayness with people who make such an assumption.
See, these days, there seems to be an assumption, or an understoodness, that the area hair-ea will be tended to in some way. Look, I am not coming out in favor of or against a raging wilderness. I’m just saying that I think the general assumption – IF IN FACT THERE MUST BE AN ASSUMPTION – should be ones geared more toward a natural state of things.
Lady magazines, such as COSMO, as well as OTHER LADIES, seem to imply that the choice to not tend to the lady garden is now not the norm. That you are supposed to. That you are expected to. That you are somehow obligated to shave, trim, pluck, wax, or otherwise shape the area hair-ea into some kind of pleasing form. It is now the assumption that any lady walking around has FULFILLED HER LADY RESPONSIBILITY and HANDLED the situation.
Worse is when a LADY MAGAZINE OR OTHER LADY implies that you should be doing this or that or ANYTHING in your personal wine cellar because it is EXPECTED by the man in your life. Look, as far as I am concerned, when it comes to underpants parts, a man can expect in one hand and go handle his own penis in the other because male expectations have little to do with how I tend to the sculpture garden. A man may request. A man may have a preference. A man may not EXPECT anything of personal lady grooming.
I am just driven INSANE by this assumption of what goes on inside the underpants of a “normal” lady. You can’t assume what’s in my underpants. You have no idea. And right now you’re thinking, “Well, TJ, I think I can make at least ONE assumption about what you’ve got in there,” BUT NO. YOU CAN’T. I HAD A C-SECTION. IT COULD BE A LANDSCAPE OF SURPRISES AND VOLCANOES FOR ALL YOU KNOW.
My point is – my points ARE – that NO ONE believes that a granola bar, fiber-fortified or not, is a candy bar and ALSO that I OBJECT to the general culture of UNDERPANTS ASSUMPTIONS AND EXPECTATIONS.
Posted in daily BS | 48 Comments »
Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011
This is the first year that I’ve had a blog, I think, that I haven’t even attempted NaBloPoMo. It is more NaBloDon’t-Po-No-Mo’ for me, I think. I don’t know. I don’t have any excuses and I’m not going to apologize, I just haven’t really made it around these parts too often in the last few weeks. There’s tons to read this month, though. I’ve noticed that a lot of newer bloggers are really putting a lot of effort into NaBloPoMo, while some older bloggers are doing it but REALLY phoning it in.
I’m just saying. I’ve NOTICED.
*****
The power is going to be off for a significant amount of time on Wednesday. That’s pretty much no big for me, except for the fact that neither of our laptops is holding a charge for any length of time, so laptoppery is pretty much out of the question. Penny’s basically battery powered, so I don’t have to worry about her, so I spent a little while the other night loading my Kindle up with all sorts of books. One book wouldn’t be enough, because I like to start several before I decide which one will have my attention for the duration, and then repeat for the next book.
Anyway, I sat on my Kindle.
(“This is why I buy extended warranties. Because of your butt.” — Phil)
There’s a new one coming on Wednesday, so it’s really not totally traumatic, except for the fact that WHAT WILL I DO ON WEDNESDAY? With no power? And a baby?
Phil said, “Well, you could take her to the library.”
AHAHAAA HAHAAAA — wait, you don’t follow me on Twitter, do you? So you don’t know why that’s hilarious? And that the base library is my absolute nemesis forever and ever?
Well, trust me. It is. Up that place’s.
And then I realized I wouldn’t have my Kindle for bed time, which is tragic. Because I’ve been taking a medication that makes me not sleep. At all. And I need something to do while I just lay there, forever.
Phil said, “Well, you could read an actual BOOK.”
“NO. ALL OUR BOOKS ARE STUPID. I READ THEM ALL. I HATE PAPER.”
So you know what I did? I didn’t take my medication last night. And I fell ASLEEP! I was sleeping like I’d been doing it my whole life. It was incredible.
Penny got a shot yesterday, so the incredibleness lasted about 24 minutes. Those things will fuck a baby up, seriously.
This whole section had no real point. I broke my Kindle with my butt.
*****
PICKLE BREAK.
*****
You know, I’m not really scared about putting pictures of Penny on the Internet. I know people can see her. I also take her places, and plenty of people see her there.
I know the fears people have. That a certain kind of person will see the pictures and think thoughts about them. Or save them to a hard drive to think thoughts about them at will. And I don’t like that idea. I don’t like it at all. But the thing is, I don’t feel like I can stop that from happening in life in general.
I have to tell you, all the craziest people I have met? I met them in REAL LIFE. I can keep pictures of Penny off the Internet, but what am I supposed to do in the mall? At a playground? Places where these certain kinds of people may actually GO. They might BE there. To look. And to save those pictures in their minds.
I don’t know. I could be totally naive, but I don’t feel like pictures of Penny online put Penny at anymore physical risk than she is in real life. And I don’t feel that someone looking at her pictures and thinking thoughts is any more likely to happen due to someone coming across my website than it is due to me taking her places where children go, and where people who like children may also go.
This is a weird topic to talk about. It’s okay if you disagree with me.
I DO have a fear about Penny’s pictures online, though. I don’t know if this happens as often as it used to – and oh lawd, back in the early days of blogs, it happened ALL THE TIME – but I am afraid of pictures of Penny being used for deception.
You know, where someone stumbles across a cache of pictures of the same baby and makes a fake blog – always a sob story. Cancer, some rare disease, anything. Or even maybe just a fake life. Whatever. But they portray someone else’s baby as their own.
THAT is my concern with posting Penny on the Internet. That someone will steal her pictures and claim her as her own. Does that actually hurt me in any way? No. But if you’ve been blogging forever, you’ve been burned by one of these people, and you know how it feels. I would hate to have Penny any part of that.
I only post pictures of Penny on THIS blog. I have NO other blogs (aside from Penny’s Tumblr). If you see Penny somewhere else, PENNY HAS BEEN NABBED BY AN INTERNET BABY NABBER. In a non-physical way, because, come on. Try to nab my baby from me in person. Just try it. I will come at you like a fucking spider monkey.
If you ever see my baby ANYWHERE, anywhere at ALL, and you are concerned that it wasn’t me who posted her picture, PLEASE let me know. Even if you’re just not sure. Let me know. I went through a lot of shit for this baby and I won’t have someone else claiming my efforts.
“It’s understandable, of course. I am one fine-ass baby.”
*****
Hey, I don’t really know what kind of toys and stuff to get Penny for Christmas. What do you get an 8 month old for Christmas?
Don’t give me that, “Oh, don’t get her anything, she won’t remember!” or “Just wrap up some of her current toys, she won’t know the difference!” Save that shit for your second, less awesome, less loved children.
Right now, she’s really into stuff like Steve Canada – things that crinkle and what not. But she’s sitting a bit now, and I expect that to improve, so I figure she needs some toys for babies who can sit upright. I have no idea. Are the age ranges on toys generally pretty accurate? Because if so, the toys for Penny’s age look pretty dull. I mean, my baby isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’d like to give her a little credit. Or at least a little incentive to hone her edge a bit. Because, come on. Peek-a-boo, Penny. This is basic stuff.
We aren’t going apeshit, we do intend to keep things small this year, because you’re right, jerks, she won’t remember. But we will. But I’d like to know what went over well with your kids in the 6-12 month range. Like her jumperoo – she goes apeshit for that thing. I’d like a couple ideas that inspire apeshittery in babies. Every parent wants to be a Christmas hero, right?
Seriously, what do you get babies for Christmas? I already have pajamas for her, and a wooden worm. What are your babies and former babies into?
*****
Normally, I’d write another thousand words here, but have I told you that Penny, the incredible non-napping baby, is on a NAP SCHEDULE? Six months, you guys. It pretty much rules.
Posted in daily BS, Penny | 77 Comments »
Wednesday, November 16th, 2011
My main takeaway from The Blathering: if you want to see all of your friends, invite them over.
Posted in daily BS | 51 Comments »
Monday, November 7th, 2011
Whenever I spot a coin on the ground – a nickel or a dime, maybe – and I find myself not BOTHERING to bend down and pick it up, I immediately chastise myself with some ferocity.
“LAURA INGALLS WILDER WOULD BE APPALLED.”
That’s what I tell myself, quite sternly. Can you imagine what she’d think, seeing me too LAZY to bend down to pick up a nickel? One time, she took a nickel to buy a whole new blade for her pa’s plow. A WHOLE NEW BLADE. For a NICKEL. And she had to guard the nickel with her LIFE the whole way to the store because it was a WHOLE NICKEL. And here I am, just leaving one on the ground.
I kind of think about Laura Ingalls Wilder a lot more than I assume is normal. Like when I’m driving somewhere, I wonder how I would explain to her that I am going to the store and back and I will be home within 30 minutes. Or that we’re driving to see Phil’s grandmother for Thanksgiving, about a berjillion miles, and it’s only going to take four hours.
She rode a WAGON to get places, people. With OXEN. If she rode in her wagon for four hours, and suddenly realized she forgot something at the house, she could just hop out because they’d probably STILL BE IN THE YARD. And if they got in their wagon and went a berjillion miles, like as far as it is from here to the Thanksgiving casino (we stay in a casino for Thanksgiving, thus the Thanksgiving casino – keep up with me here, people), she wouldn’t ever go home. She’d just unpack. Because a berjillion miles away IS home for her. Might as well START OVER, because the oxen are DEAD.
And you know how for some reason it’s become kitschy and cute to be into pirates or robots or ninjas or zombies? What would Laura Ingalls Wilder think, you guys? “Oh, I’m going to buy this blank piece of paper and frame it and hang it up because it’s got a caption about there being a ninja you can’t see! Oh, ho ho! That’s right in my wheelhouse of things that interest and appeal to me!”
WELL, one time? Laura Ingalls Wilder – she was just Laura Ingalls at the time – went to a birthday party in town, and you know what they served there? ORANGES. It was, like, the third orange of her LIFE, probably. So we’re all, “tee hee! Pirates! Bacon! Zombies!” and she’d be all, “Uh, I’m feeling a little scurvish, so I’ll just have a FRUIT, thanks.”
And don’t even get me started on the robots – Laura Ingalls Wilder would not GET YOU. You know Cap Garland, right? One day, you were struck by wondering what the hell ever happened to Cap Garland and you Googled it, right? Everyone’s done that. Well, CAP GARLAND WAS KILLED BY A ROBOT. Look it up.
Internet, ALMANZO DIDN’T EVEN GIVE HER A DIAMOND. And Kim Kardashian is getting divorced after 72 days. WHAT WOULD LAURA INGALLS WILDER EVEN SAY?
I’m not kidding, though. I mentally weigh in with Laura Ingalls Wilder’s opinion on my day to day life on the regular. I don’t know why. I just do.
The same is true for Frank Gilbreth. Do you know Frank Gilbreth? Have you read Cheaper by the Dozen or Belles on Their Toes? You should. The DAD in those books – well, book, because he dies – sorry, spoiler alert a couple of words back there – was Frank Gilbreth. And he was an efficiency expert. You know, he went into factories and stuff to show how time and energy and movements were being wasted, and came up with a set of concepts for each step of the process of completing a STEP. If that makes sense. Which it doesn’t, which is why you should READ THE BOOKS, I can’t do everything for you here.
So, throughout the course of my day, I’ll be doing something – unloading the grocery cart at the self-scan checkout, for example – and I’ll realize how FURIOUSLY AGGRAVATED Frank Gilbreth would get at the way I am proceeding with the task – bending into the cart, grabbing a single item, scanning it, placing it in a bag, repeating. Now, I don’t know WHAT the more efficient way to do that would be, but FRANK GILBRETH would know, and he would be hopping up and down with rage at my ineptitude, which would not be a wise idea for someone with a bad heart – oh, spoiler alert, he has a heart attack.
I have read the Little House books and I have read the Gilbreth books both several – lots of severals – times. If you can’t tell. Enough times that I find myself GENUINELY CONCERNED, OFTEN, about how Mrs. Wilder and Mr. Gilbreth would feel about what I do and the way I do things.
But seriously, you guys. Do you have ANY IDEA what Laura Ingalls Wilder could have done with a DIME at Olsen’s store? You think about that the next time you are too lazy to bend down.
Posted in daily BS | 65 Comments »
Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011
Failing NaBloPoMo on the first day really takes the pressure off for the rest of the month.
*****
LET ME JUST GET THIS OUT OF THE WAY.
Penny was a duck/chicken (chucken?) for Halloween.
Do you love it? I love it. I love it so much that when we have her 6 month portraits taken this weekend, instead of being suckered into the “Holiday” backdrop they are pushing on me so hard, Penny is being a duck-chicken. A dicken. A 6 month old dicken.
*****
I haven’t done Penny’s 6 month post yet, but here’s a brief synopsis: she yells, she’s pleasantly fat, she can roll back to belly and shriek mightily once she arrives there.
She has a test at Phoenix Children’s Hospital tomorrow, one we fully expect to come up negative, but we like making her miserable, so we’re doing it anyway. You should just have us arrested. We’re terrible parents.
Don’t worry about Penny, though. She’s never had good parents, so she doesn’t know any better.
*****
You know, I haven’t been around here too much lately, and you know what it is? I’m enjoying spending time with my kid, which tells me that I’m finally starting to arrive in the time I’ve been looking forward to.
Noemi talked about this the other day, and I feel the same way – ending breastfeeding has really improved my relationship with Penny. Ending it was the right choice for us for a lot of reasons, and while I definitely don’t speak for everyone, it has really turned out to be extremely beneficial in a lot of different ways. The main one being, of course, that I actually ENJOY PENNY a hell of a lot more than I did previously.
With no struggling to feed her, no watching the clock for the pumping schedule, no washing pump parts, no waking up in the night to deal with any feeding-related activities — well, you know, it’s just better. Phil splits the feedings with me. I can leave the house without Penny and not worry about rushing back. I can leave the house WITH Penny and not wrestle with feeding her in public – like Noemi, nursing was never graceful or easy, positioning-the-baby-wise for me.
So, while I do believe that breast milk is certainly the best choice for a baby if it is available, not breastfeeding has been just about the best thing to happen to me since this damn wiener child was born.
*****
A few days ago, Phil accidentally left the lid of the washer up with our bedsheets sitting inside soaking in fabric softener. He asked me if soaking too long in the fabric softener would ruin the sheets, but I wasn’t sure – mainly because in my entire life I’ve caught the rinse cycle in time to add fabric softener about four times, so I don’t have too much experience in the field of softening.
He put the sheets on the bed and made up the bed for the one time it gets made each week and I didn’t noticed anything until the next day, when the blankets were pleasantly running amok and askew, as is my preferred state of the bed. On my side, right about there my butt usually is, the fitted sheet had a different texture than the rest of the surface. On closer inspection, it was full of tears, kind of like a run in pantyhose.
“So, it looks like the fabric softener did ruin the sheets. It really seems to have damaged the more worn spots – I’m pretty sure we’ll have to throw these out.”
“Oh, that’s where your butt goes. Your butt must have put extra wear on the sheets.”
“No way! My butt didn’t — wait, can that happen?”
(You’ll understand that here, of course, I had a moment of insecurity – see: double pear, Two Butt – and, okay, I had a bit of a gassy pregnancy, but not any more gassy than – okay, maybe SLIGHTLY more gassy than the average person, but could that really RUIN the SHEETS?)
“Yep. Your butt put a weak spot in the sheets.”
“WAIT a second. If you flip the sheet around, this spot is where your disgusting, scaly MONSTER FEET would be.”
“Oh. Huh. You’re right.”
“Ha!”
“But your butt finished them off.”
*****
I’m planning something and it’s kept me pretty busy lately, and I expect it to keep me busy for a while longer yet. I’m pretty excited about it, but as with everything I do and cook, there is still the possibility that it will all blow up in my face or otherwise go terribly wrong, so I’m not quite ready to share all the details here yet. If it appears that all is going to go well with my small test group, I will, of course, let the rest of you know about it. Once danger of explosion has passed.
I hope it works out, though. It’s one of those things that I talked about the last time I got around to writing something here. One of those things that you think is something that only other people do, but it suddenly dawns on you that you could do it to, if you wanted to. So, aside from the silly stuff like getting married and having a baby, this is inarguably one of the “biggest” things I have ever done. And if it goes wrong, it will be the biggest thing I’ve ever fucked up. And if it goes right, I AM A HERO.
Well, not a hero. More likely briefly, but SIGNIFICANTLY AND SINCERELY celebrated. Which is probably as close to hero as I will ever get, unless someone who weighs very little needs to be awkwardly rescued from an extremely and freakishly slow burning building and there’s really just no one else at all around who can handle it.
Posted in daily BS, Penny, TJ + Phil | 29 Comments »
Thursday, October 27th, 2011
So, I’ve launched a plot, and I’ve been hatching schemes and other Scooby Doo-esque terms for making plans. I have to keep reminding myself, though, that this is something I can do. Not in the sense that it’s something I’m capable of doing, but more like something I’m allowed to do. Okay, and also a little bit reminding myself – or pep talking myself – that I’m capable.
You know the first time you realize you can do something that previously seemed like it was reserved for other people? Older people, or more adulty people, or just some other kind of people. Like when I bought a car on my own for the first time. It kind of blew my mind that I could walk into a dealership, pick a car, arrange the insurance and the financing and all of that, and drive away in a car. I knew that PLENTY of people bought cars, all the time. But it seemed like something other people did, not something I could do. Both in the sense of something I was ABLE to do and something I was ALLOWED to do. Some people let me walk into their place and drive away in a car. BLEW MY MIND.
So I’ve hatched this plot, because there was something I wanted and out of nowhere, it dawned on me that rather than wait around for one of the specifically ALLOWED people to arrange for this thing I wanted, I could just do it myself. And while I’m [pretty] sure I can pull it off, the fact that I can just DO IT is blowing my mind.
You know that feeling? Am I making sense? It’s like an assumption you have subconsciously, that you don’t really think about, that doing certain things is for OTHER PEOPLE.
OH, like taking a vacation. I’ve never taken a vacation that wasn’t with my parents OR wasn’t specifically to visit family. But Phil and I, someday, could decide to pack up our baby and go some place. ANY place. With no other family there, if we wanted. A non-family, non-visiting vacation. We could just DO that. Go to ANY PLACE. That’s ALLOWED.
But you have to know this feeling, right? I think it’s mostly attached to doing things that we probably consider to be “adult” things to do, for whatever reason, and I’m sure everyone has different things that they consider to be “adult” things. But my plot, it’s not even a specifically adulty thing to do. It’s just a thing that, for some reason, I kind of deep-in-my-mindly assumed was for specific, somehow designated people to handle. And I just suddenly realized that those people had the same, “Hey, I want this, I’m DOING IT” moment that I had a couple of days ago.
Aside from the big stuff – buying a house, bringing home a baby from the hospital, getting married – what kinds of things do you kind of subconsciously put in the “other people, not me” category?
*****
So, this happens now, FINALLY:
Honestly, I told Noemi a while ago that while the first weeks of babyhood seriously blow, blow to the point that you eventually start to insist that it absolutely CANNOT BE DONE and a MISTAKE HAS BEEN MADE, everything starts to slowly chug uphill, rollercoaster-style, once you see the first smile. Truly, it’s just steady improvement from that moment on.
So I have to say, I’m expecting NAPS and I’m expecting less VOMIT and I’m expecting less PUNCHING ME AWAKE now that we’ve got laughing on the regular.
*****
Me: So this cat lives at our house.
Phil: No, he’s not our cat.
Me: Yeah, he doesn’t live IN our house – he lives AT our house.
Phil: He doesn’t live here. He lives under your car.
Me: And you feed him.
Phil: Well, yeah. Not expensive food, though. I buy him the cheap stuff.
Me: And you make sure he has water.
Phil: It’s hot out there.
Me: I saw him sitting on the table out there, on the blankets, yesterday.
Phil: Yeah, I put them there for him.
Me: That cat lives at our house.
*****
If ever a moment of my life should have been video taped, it was just a couple of minutes ago. The dogs were all riled up, horsing around with each other, and the more they wrestle, the more wound up they get. Calming them is a huge pain in the butt. Sheldon leaps around like a deer, bounding around the house, and has NEVER had ANY concept of where any part of his body is in space at any given moment.
So a lot of times, I just pull Penny up onto the couch in my arms and let them wrestle around. I have to hold onto her tightly, because our couch is terrible and even with me and Penny on it, their insane self-flinging bumps the couch and sends it scooting across the living room.
Right when I thought they had settled down – they were somewhere behind me, at least, I don’t know where – I put Penny in a seat and leaned back to stretch, because this baby is turning into a LOAD.
I leaned back over the arm of the couch, kind of into a corner between the couch and the love seat where we have a small end table, arms up above my head, arching my back and getting WAY out there – you know, the kind of stretch where if you don’t stop, you KNOW you’re going to cramp up your entire back, but you don’t stop anyway because it’s too good of a stretch?
Anyway, yeah, I was doing that.
WHEN OUT OF NOWHERE – okay, not accurate – WHEN OUT OF FROM BEHIND THE COUCH, Sheldon, who was not as calmed as I assumed, BIT MY BUN.
Not my BUNS. They were and remain to this moment planted on the couch.
My BUN. In my HAIR.
And my NEVER NAPPING BABY had fallen asleep.
So I am trapped in a stretch, arched over the arm of my couch, and SHELDON HAS ME BY THE HAIR.
I started SCREAM-hissing, “Sheldon! Drop! Sheldon! Drop! SHEEE-HEEEELLL-DON! LET ME GO!”
Anyway, spoiler alert, he let me go.
Posted in Brinkley + Sheldon, daily BS, Penny | 51 Comments »
