I drive without purpose, without a destination.
I can lose myself in this town, in its streets, because I know them all by heart. I open the windows, turn up the radio, turn off my mind, and just drive.
This is my hometown.
There is no street not stained with my youth, my past. The ghost of my younger self lingers around each corner.
I drive by the house I grew up in. The outside looks nothing like the home I knew, but when I close my eyes I'm able to walk through the heavy front door and up the stairs, into my bedroom, which smells like fresh air and perfume and hairspray. My fingertips can mentally trip over things of significance: pictures of friends stuck to the mirror, stacks of tapes and cds next to the radio, the phone on the nightstand with its knotted pink cord that I twist late at night, covers pulled up over my head as I whisper into the receiver while outside the night slips into early morning. I can lie on the bed and see the familiar swirls on the ceiling. I can look out the window, watching, waiting for headlights in the driveway.
But I don't live here anymore. So I turn my car around to go.
At the corner of my street stands a girl I know to be 17. It's early morning and she's waiting for the bus. It's April, but it's cold. She's not wearing a hat or gloves or even socks, because she's too cool for that. She hasn't bothered to zip her coat. She's got her walkman and it's playing November Rain on repeat. She's thin and pale and doesn't sleep much anymore. She's taken to burning bridges; she's about to implode.
But she doesn't know that yet. She only knows that the bus is late.
I want to scream at her to zip up her damn coat. I want to pull her into my warm car and tell her to stay home from school today. But I can see the bus coming up over the hill and I know she needs to get on it.
So I leave her there.
I drive up the main street in town, past the high school. Just up the road is the library, where, if I were to go in, the librarian would greet me by name. She would smile at my sons. But she would not see what I see, a girl out front with long hair wearing a flannel shirt. She's slipping her hand into that of the boy sitting next to her. It's fall; the day is cold and brisk and gray. But she is smiling, singing Van Morrison for him. He's looking at her and she feels warm. These two are sure of everything. They are still in love.
It's a good place to leave them.
The road continues through the center of town. I'm stopped at the light outside of a bridal shop. A young woman comes floating out of the shop, gown in hand, breathlessly gushing to the saleswoman about her impending honeymoon. She cradles that dress like a baby as she guides it into the back of her car. She's rushing, busy hanging up her veil on a small black hook in the back seat before flying off to tie up a thousand lose ends. She is 26 and high on the excitement of everything that's about to unfold. As I watch her I try to remember what mattered to her then, what she thought was important before her sons were born.
Because, for the life of me, I can't remember.
She's in her car now, and she's driving away from me. I'd like to tell her to slow down, to not giggle nervously through her first dance with her husband, chattering away a moment she'll never get back. I'd like to tell her that the day is going to go too fast, but even if I could say these things, she would not listen.
Just as I'm sure, somewhere, there is an older version of me driving these streets, with the windows down and the radio on. She's watching me at 36 stride into a local bar, meeting friends for beer and trivia. Maybe she's yelling to me to be careful. Maybe she's whispering to hold on to anything I can while it's still there to be held.
But it doesn't matter, because I've already passed her, taken my seat at the table, and ordered a drink.
I cannot hear her.
And so she shakes her head and leaves me there, crossing over the town line as she goes home.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Denial: A Baby Story
The bathroom was small and I was pretty sure I was never leaving it.
The woman on the other side of the door knocked.
"Are you okay? Don't have the baby in there!" she chirped.
FUCKING BITCH, I thought to myself, why THE HELL does she KEEP SAYING THAT?
"I'll be right out," I finally managed to say, although I was certain by then that it was a lie. Leaving the bathroom was going to involve pulling up my pants AND washing my hands. I couldn't remember how to do either. I could only lean against the wall, close my eyes, and give myself over to the pain.
Clearly, I was very sick.
Which is why I was at the hospital. I was definitely NOT there to have my baby.
Even if it was February 14th.
My due date.
I had been to the Labor and Delivery floor once before, 3 months earlier, with regular contractions that landed me on bed rest. Months went by and the baby stayed put. At my 38 week appointment, my doctor told me, "You've already done the work of early labor; you can't dilate much further without being in active labor. I'll probably be seeing you within 48 hours."
The next week, she told me the same thing.
At my final appointment, I told her I thought she had my dates wrong and that this boy was probably going to be born sometime in June; he'd be the first baby born at 56 weeks gestation. We scheduled an induction for the following week.
I went home to eat as many Reese's Peanut Butter Cups as possible while I could still blame it on the baby.
So when I found myself waddling up to the woman at the desk outside of the Labor and Delivery floor, I tried to explain my situation to her. No, no, I wasn't there to have my baby. I was there because I had come down with a terrible stomach bug and I was concerned about the baby. I was there to make sure he was okay.
She asked me for my insurance card.
I asked her where the bathroom was.
"Try to breathe through it," was her super-helpful suggestion.
"It's not a contraction," I insisted, breathing deeply and leaning forward in my chair to rest my head on her desk.
"Mmmm-hmmm," she replied, her nails tap-tapping on her keyboard.
"Where is the bathroom?" I asked her again when the pain had eased.
She looked at my husband. "And are you the primary insurance holder?"
BITCHBITCHBITCH, ohmygod, bathroombathroombathroomBITCHISGOINGTOBESOSORRYbathroombathroombathroom.
I stood up. I was an adult. I could find my own damn bathroom. She could keep her PRECIOUS, TOP-SECRET, CLASSIFIED BATHROOM INFORMATION, I didn't need her. If I had to, I would make the 30 minute drive home to use the bathroom. At least there I knew where they were.
"Wait," she called after me as I walked away, "we're not done here!"
And so it was that I found myself in the tiny bathroom, uncertain of how to get myself out and wanting to punch The Bitch in the face as she parked herself outside of the door and waited, pen and form in hand.
She knocked again. "Do you need me to get a nurse?"
FUUUUUCCCCKKKK. I needed her to GO. THE. FUCK. AWAY.
Now, in my memory, what I said was, "No, thank you."
However.
My husband tells me I said no such thing.
In fact, according to him, there were no actual words, just some moaning, groaning, and assorted other noises that I SWORE I was never going to make, back when I naively thought that I would be in a state of mind to control such a thing.
But then, an angel appeared.
She was a nurse. While I had finally found a moment of clarity in which to coordinate the pulling-up of the pants, it didn't last long enough for me figure out the hand washing. My nurse, however, was an EXPERT hand washer.
I decided I loved her.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, The Bitch shoved a form in my face. I scribbled my name and bit my tongue to keep from telling her what she could do with her form and her bathroom and her insistence that I was in labor when I was so obviously ill.
I was immediately hooked up to a monitor to see if I was contracting.
"No, no, it's a stomach bug," I told anyone who would listen.
The monitors, however, told a different story. The contractions were piggy-backing; two 90-second surges in a row with a minute of relief before the next set of two began.
Next, they examined me.
"Well," said my new BFF, the nurse. "Your stomach bug has you at 8, almost 9 centimeters. Did you WANT an unmedicated birth?"
Holy shit, I thought.
The Bitch was right.
I am totally having a baby.
I asked for an epidural.
And while I waited for that, I asked for a Tylenol.
I pushed for three hours as Saturday night rolled into Sunday morning.
As I held my 8 lb 13 oz newborn, my nurse hugged me.
"Not a bad way to get rid of a stomach bug," she said.
Indeed.
The woman on the other side of the door knocked.
"Are you okay? Don't have the baby in there!" she chirped.
FUCKING BITCH, I thought to myself, why THE HELL does she KEEP SAYING THAT?
"I'll be right out," I finally managed to say, although I was certain by then that it was a lie. Leaving the bathroom was going to involve pulling up my pants AND washing my hands. I couldn't remember how to do either. I could only lean against the wall, close my eyes, and give myself over to the pain.
Clearly, I was very sick.
Which is why I was at the hospital. I was definitely NOT there to have my baby.
Even if it was February 14th.
My due date.
I had been to the Labor and Delivery floor once before, 3 months earlier, with regular contractions that landed me on bed rest. Months went by and the baby stayed put. At my 38 week appointment, my doctor told me, "You've already done the work of early labor; you can't dilate much further without being in active labor. I'll probably be seeing you within 48 hours."
The next week, she told me the same thing.
At my final appointment, I told her I thought she had my dates wrong and that this boy was probably going to be born sometime in June; he'd be the first baby born at 56 weeks gestation. We scheduled an induction for the following week.
I went home to eat as many Reese's Peanut Butter Cups as possible while I could still blame it on the baby.
So when I found myself waddling up to the woman at the desk outside of the Labor and Delivery floor, I tried to explain my situation to her. No, no, I wasn't there to have my baby. I was there because I had come down with a terrible stomach bug and I was concerned about the baby. I was there to make sure he was okay.
She asked me for my insurance card.
I asked her where the bathroom was.
"Try to breathe through it," was her super-helpful suggestion.
"It's not a contraction," I insisted, breathing deeply and leaning forward in my chair to rest my head on her desk.
"Mmmm-hmmm," she replied, her nails tap-tapping on her keyboard.
"Where is the bathroom?" I asked her again when the pain had eased.
She looked at my husband. "And are you the primary insurance holder?"
BITCHBITCHBITCH, ohmygod, bathroombathroombathroomBITCHISGOINGTOBESOSORRYbathroombathroombathroom.
I stood up. I was an adult. I could find my own damn bathroom. She could keep her PRECIOUS, TOP-SECRET, CLASSIFIED BATHROOM INFORMATION, I didn't need her. If I had to, I would make the 30 minute drive home to use the bathroom. At least there I knew where they were.
"Wait," she called after me as I walked away, "we're not done here!"
And so it was that I found myself in the tiny bathroom, uncertain of how to get myself out and wanting to punch The Bitch in the face as she parked herself outside of the door and waited, pen and form in hand.
She knocked again. "Do you need me to get a nurse?"
FUUUUUCCCCKKKK. I needed her to GO. THE. FUCK. AWAY.
Now, in my memory, what I said was, "No, thank you."
However.
My husband tells me I said no such thing.
In fact, according to him, there were no actual words, just some moaning, groaning, and assorted other noises that I SWORE I was never going to make, back when I naively thought that I would be in a state of mind to control such a thing.
But then, an angel appeared.
She was a nurse. While I had finally found a moment of clarity in which to coordinate the pulling-up of the pants, it didn't last long enough for me figure out the hand washing. My nurse, however, was an EXPERT hand washer.
I decided I loved her.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, The Bitch shoved a form in my face. I scribbled my name and bit my tongue to keep from telling her what she could do with her form and her bathroom and her insistence that I was in labor when I was so obviously ill.
I was immediately hooked up to a monitor to see if I was contracting.
"No, no, it's a stomach bug," I told anyone who would listen.
The monitors, however, told a different story. The contractions were piggy-backing; two 90-second surges in a row with a minute of relief before the next set of two began.
Next, they examined me.
"Well," said my new BFF, the nurse. "Your stomach bug has you at 8, almost 9 centimeters. Did you WANT an unmedicated birth?"
Holy shit, I thought.
The Bitch was right.
I am totally having a baby.
I asked for an epidural.
And while I waited for that, I asked for a Tylenol.
I pushed for three hours as Saturday night rolled into Sunday morning.
As I held my 8 lb 13 oz newborn, my nurse hugged me.
"Not a bad way to get rid of a stomach bug," she said.
Indeed.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Five Reasons to Stop Hating on the Snow (No, really.)
Log in to your Facebook or Twitter account and you'll see that people are talking about one thing: snow.
Also, Egypt.
But mostly snow.
And people are pissed.
But snow's getting an unfair rap. Everyone loves it at Christmas, yet by February we're cursing it out and counting down the days until baseball season starts.
The snow's not ALL bad. Here are five reasons I've found to stop hatin':
5) INCREASED SECURITY With two feet of snow on the ground and another foot expected within the next 24 hours, there is no way in hell that Bad Guys can even GET to my house to steal my stuff. Have you tried walking in thigh-high snow? Even if they could get in, my ice-coated front steps and skating rink of a driveway would keep them from getting away with the loot. I can't even coordinate carrying my son's backpack and the mail without landing flat on my ass. Good luck trying to haul away my TV, Bad Guys!
(Author's Note: This is in no way meant to be seen as a dare, Bad Guys.)
4) CANCELLING MY GYM MEMBERSHIP Why would I keep paying my monthly gym membership when I'm getting a free workout at home? In fact, since the snow started falling (wait, that implies that there was once a time when the snow did not fall; that can't be right...) I've been getting far more exercise than usual. Everyone knows that shovelling counts as both cardio AND weight-training. My upper body is JACKED. Just the look I was going for. Bring on the tank tops, bitches. I'm ready.
3) NOW I HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT WITH THE CREEPY GUY UP THE STREET So there's this guy. Who lives up the street. And he's kind of creepy. My youngest son and I pass him every day on our walk to pick up my first grader from school. He sits on a chair on his front stoop and pets his really ginormous dog. Each day he waves at us and each day we wave back while I silently pray that his dog won't jump the fence and eat my five year old. Now, we have something to talk about. We roll our eyes and say, "Can you believe this?" Or we laugh and say, "Why do we live here again?" This perk is not limited to Creepy Guys Up The Street; it gives you an opening to make small talk with your mailman, the cashier at the grocery store, or the moms at preschool pickup. Everyone's up for snow talk; it's the Great Unifier.
2) HONING MY SUPER MARIO BROTHERS SKILLS Santa brought us a Wii for Christmas, but the rule is that it's for weekends and No School days only. Needless to say, it's been getting lots of extra use this winter. As such, I can almost beat my seven year old at Super Mario Brothers. Almost. Four or five more snow days and I will totally dominate the next coin battle.
1) FREE BIRTH CONTROL Somewhere in the far, far recesses of my memory, there exists a time and place where being snowbound was something to be excited about. It meant loading up the cabinets with junk food, making a beer run, renting a stack of movies (omg, remember video stores?), and shacking up with your favorite person for the duration of the storm. What else is there to do when you're stuck inside for 48 hours straight? Now, however, a 'long duration snow event' is more than just a polite way of saying 'a really awesome sleepover that falls in the middle of your work week'. Now it means that your kids will never go to school again; they will forever be home (yelling, fighting, and polishing off the Oreos you wanted to eat while watching the red carpet re-cap of the latest awards show and yelling at Claire Danes to EAT A FRICKIN' SANDWICH ALREADY!). Nothing promotes abstinence like a string of snow days. And not only do you NOT need a prescription for it, but you don't even need to hide the box under a copy of In Style magazine at the check-out.
So, while I don't necessarily WELCOME the snow, I'm ready to deal with it with my new-found optimism.
Now, if only I can convince my husband to pick up Oreos on his way home...
Also, Egypt.
But mostly snow.
And people are pissed.
But snow's getting an unfair rap. Everyone loves it at Christmas, yet by February we're cursing it out and counting down the days until baseball season starts.
The snow's not ALL bad. Here are five reasons I've found to stop hatin':
5) INCREASED SECURITY With two feet of snow on the ground and another foot expected within the next 24 hours, there is no way in hell that Bad Guys can even GET to my house to steal my stuff. Have you tried walking in thigh-high snow? Even if they could get in, my ice-coated front steps and skating rink of a driveway would keep them from getting away with the loot. I can't even coordinate carrying my son's backpack and the mail without landing flat on my ass. Good luck trying to haul away my TV, Bad Guys!
(Author's Note: This is in no way meant to be seen as a dare, Bad Guys.)
4) CANCELLING MY GYM MEMBERSHIP Why would I keep paying my monthly gym membership when I'm getting a free workout at home? In fact, since the snow started falling (wait, that implies that there was once a time when the snow did not fall; that can't be right...) I've been getting far more exercise than usual. Everyone knows that shovelling counts as both cardio AND weight-training. My upper body is JACKED. Just the look I was going for. Bring on the tank tops, bitches. I'm ready.
3) NOW I HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT WITH THE CREEPY GUY UP THE STREET So there's this guy. Who lives up the street. And he's kind of creepy. My youngest son and I pass him every day on our walk to pick up my first grader from school. He sits on a chair on his front stoop and pets his really ginormous dog. Each day he waves at us and each day we wave back while I silently pray that his dog won't jump the fence and eat my five year old. Now, we have something to talk about. We roll our eyes and say, "Can you believe this?" Or we laugh and say, "Why do we live here again?" This perk is not limited to Creepy Guys Up The Street; it gives you an opening to make small talk with your mailman, the cashier at the grocery store, or the moms at preschool pickup. Everyone's up for snow talk; it's the Great Unifier.
2) HONING MY SUPER MARIO BROTHERS SKILLS Santa brought us a Wii for Christmas, but the rule is that it's for weekends and No School days only. Needless to say, it's been getting lots of extra use this winter. As such, I can almost beat my seven year old at Super Mario Brothers. Almost. Four or five more snow days and I will totally dominate the next coin battle.
1) FREE BIRTH CONTROL Somewhere in the far, far recesses of my memory, there exists a time and place where being snowbound was something to be excited about. It meant loading up the cabinets with junk food, making a beer run, renting a stack of movies (omg, remember video stores?), and shacking up with your favorite person for the duration of the storm. What else is there to do when you're stuck inside for 48 hours straight? Now, however, a 'long duration snow event' is more than just a polite way of saying 'a really awesome sleepover that falls in the middle of your work week'. Now it means that your kids will never go to school again; they will forever be home (yelling, fighting, and polishing off the Oreos you wanted to eat while watching the red carpet re-cap of the latest awards show and yelling at Claire Danes to EAT A FRICKIN' SANDWICH ALREADY!). Nothing promotes abstinence like a string of snow days. And not only do you NOT need a prescription for it, but you don't even need to hide the box under a copy of In Style magazine at the check-out.
So, while I don't necessarily WELCOME the snow, I'm ready to deal with it with my new-found optimism.
Now, if only I can convince my husband to pick up Oreos on his way home...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Someday, this will be gone.
They tell you that it will be hard. They tell you that you will be tired in ways you've not yet known. They tell you that you will forever doubt your capacity to love enough, your capacity to give enough, your capacity to BE enough.
And it's all true.
What they don't do is look at you and smile and remind you, softly, that you are about to fall in love again.
It hit me harder the second time around. Maybe it was because I had spent my pregnancy focusing on sleepless nights and breastfeeding issues and the fact that my 19 month old had no idea that his world was about to be turned upside down.
The doctor said, "Reach down and grab your baby."
And so I did.
He was mine immediately; gone was the trepidation and uncertainty that came with the first. I was already a mother.
I was already his mother.
He was far from an easy baby, with his reflux and milk protein allergy and colic. I would pace the floor with him as he cried, his little body balled up tightly, like a fist, on my chest. I would cry along with him, rubbing his back and shaking my head, lamenting to my husband, "I don't know what to do for him."
And then he would do something wonderful; he would smile. Or wrap a fat, dimpled hand around my finger and pull it towards his little gummy mouth. And I would fall harder.
With all of this falling in love came the startling realization that there were a thousand tiny things my first had done that I swore I would never forget. But I had forgotten them. His babyhood had slipped through my fingers far too quickly as I spent my days looking ever forward, anticipating each new milestone, each accomplishment that brought him just a little more independence, made my life just a little bit easier.
The second time around, I knew better. He was still waking in the night as that fall turned into winter. I would gather him up from his crib, with his round diapered bottom, his soft footie pajamas, his busy little legs. As I sat rocking him in the warm glow of the nightlight, breathing him in, his sweet fuzzy head so soft against my cheek, one thought lay heavy on my shoulders, wrapping itself around me.
Someday, this will be gone.
And so it is.
Five times now we've sung Happy Birthday, blown out the candles, opened the presents. Five times now I've smiled through the day, only to find myself with an ache in my chest that night. He'll go to kindergarten next year; this breaks my heart in a hundred different ways. I straddle two worlds, one in which I'm looking ahead to the freedom that will come with having two children in school all day, the time to focus on a career I want so badly. The other is one in which I'm forever reaching backwards, trying desperately to hold on to all that has come before.
He comes to me with a book in his hand and climbs onto my lap.
"Mama, will you read this to me?"
It's a book I've read dozens of times, a book so boring that I cringe at each page, with it's description of hydraulic pumps, chassis, and cabs. There is a cup of coffee growing cold on the kitchen counter. There are unanswered e-mails in my inbox.
Yes, sweet boy, I will read to you.
Because I know.
Someday, this will be gone.
And it's all true.
What they don't do is look at you and smile and remind you, softly, that you are about to fall in love again.
It hit me harder the second time around. Maybe it was because I had spent my pregnancy focusing on sleepless nights and breastfeeding issues and the fact that my 19 month old had no idea that his world was about to be turned upside down.
The doctor said, "Reach down and grab your baby."
And so I did.
He was mine immediately; gone was the trepidation and uncertainty that came with the first. I was already a mother.
I was already his mother.
He was far from an easy baby, with his reflux and milk protein allergy and colic. I would pace the floor with him as he cried, his little body balled up tightly, like a fist, on my chest. I would cry along with him, rubbing his back and shaking my head, lamenting to my husband, "I don't know what to do for him."
And then he would do something wonderful; he would smile. Or wrap a fat, dimpled hand around my finger and pull it towards his little gummy mouth. And I would fall harder.
With all of this falling in love came the startling realization that there were a thousand tiny things my first had done that I swore I would never forget. But I had forgotten them. His babyhood had slipped through my fingers far too quickly as I spent my days looking ever forward, anticipating each new milestone, each accomplishment that brought him just a little more independence, made my life just a little bit easier.
The second time around, I knew better. He was still waking in the night as that fall turned into winter. I would gather him up from his crib, with his round diapered bottom, his soft footie pajamas, his busy little legs. As I sat rocking him in the warm glow of the nightlight, breathing him in, his sweet fuzzy head so soft against my cheek, one thought lay heavy on my shoulders, wrapping itself around me.
Someday, this will be gone.
And so it is.
Five times now we've sung Happy Birthday, blown out the candles, opened the presents. Five times now I've smiled through the day, only to find myself with an ache in my chest that night. He'll go to kindergarten next year; this breaks my heart in a hundred different ways. I straddle two worlds, one in which I'm looking ahead to the freedom that will come with having two children in school all day, the time to focus on a career I want so badly. The other is one in which I'm forever reaching backwards, trying desperately to hold on to all that has come before.
He comes to me with a book in his hand and climbs onto my lap.
"Mama, will you read this to me?"
It's a book I've read dozens of times, a book so boring that I cringe at each page, with it's description of hydraulic pumps, chassis, and cabs. There is a cup of coffee growing cold on the kitchen counter. There are unanswered e-mails in my inbox.
Yes, sweet boy, I will read to you.
Because I know.
Someday, this will be gone.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Age of Aquarius
Taped to the wall next to my desk is a horoscope I cut out of the newspaper last summer for inspiration.
It says: AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): You have so many good ideas and, if you implement the ones you think you'd enjoy doing most, you will be in a much better position financially and emotionally. There is money to be made.
Come to find out, IT'S ALL A LIE.
Thanks a lot, SUN.
YOU TOO, EARTH.
In fact, I'm pissed at the whole frickin' UNIVERSE, with it's EVOLUTION and CHANGE.
It's bad enough that I memorized 'My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets' in the 5th grade only to grow up and have Pluto be stripped of it's title of planet. What the hell did Pluto ever do to anyone? Did it send texts of its junk to other planets? Not once. Was it indicted on charges of embezzling from one of Neptune's moons? Nope. Was it caught in a seedy hotel room with Uranus, snorting coke off of Jupiter's rings? Not how Pluto rolls.
However, the heinously unjust treatment of Pluto was minor (like a dwarf-planet, yo) compared to this.
THIS is MY SIGN.
I like being an Aquarius. Aquarians are considered to be creative, witty, intellectual, original, and independent. All good.
Um, also, they may be a bit stubborn.
Now I'm told I'm a Capricorn. Capricorns are supposed to be disciplined (I'm carrying 20 lbs of baby weight; my baby is FIVE, do I SOUND DISCIPLINED?), ambitious (have I mentioned the novel I've been working on for the last 5 years? See also 'disciplined'.), organized (you DO NOT want to see my closet, something might bite you. I'm not even kidding.), and mature.
Mature. You know the 'beans, beans good for your heart' song? I taught it to my sons last week. Because I'm really so very mature.
Therefore, true to my Aquarian nature, I am metaphorically sticking my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes, and yelling, "LALALALALALA*ICAN'THEARYOU*LALALALALALA" to the astrology world.
Because I'm an Aquarian through-and-through. And if there were any doubt, I ask you this:
Would a Capricorn notice that you only need to change one letter to turn 'mature' into 'manure'?
Didn't think so.
It says: AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): You have so many good ideas and, if you implement the ones you think you'd enjoy doing most, you will be in a much better position financially and emotionally. There is money to be made.
Come to find out, IT'S ALL A LIE.
Thanks a lot, SUN.
YOU TOO, EARTH.
In fact, I'm pissed at the whole frickin' UNIVERSE, with it's EVOLUTION and CHANGE.
It's bad enough that I memorized 'My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets' in the 5th grade only to grow up and have Pluto be stripped of it's title of planet. What the hell did Pluto ever do to anyone? Did it send texts of its junk to other planets? Not once. Was it indicted on charges of embezzling from one of Neptune's moons? Nope. Was it caught in a seedy hotel room with Uranus, snorting coke off of Jupiter's rings? Not how Pluto rolls.
However, the heinously unjust treatment of Pluto was minor (like a dwarf-planet, yo) compared to this.
THIS is MY SIGN.
I like being an Aquarius. Aquarians are considered to be creative, witty, intellectual, original, and independent. All good.
Um, also, they may be a bit stubborn.
Now I'm told I'm a Capricorn. Capricorns are supposed to be disciplined (I'm carrying 20 lbs of baby weight; my baby is FIVE, do I SOUND DISCIPLINED?), ambitious (have I mentioned the novel I've been working on for the last 5 years? See also 'disciplined'.), organized (you DO NOT want to see my closet, something might bite you. I'm not even kidding.), and mature.
Mature. You know the 'beans, beans good for your heart' song? I taught it to my sons last week. Because I'm really so very mature.
Therefore, true to my Aquarian nature, I am metaphorically sticking my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes, and yelling, "LALALALALALA*ICAN'THEARYOU*LALALALALALA" to the astrology world.
Because I'm an Aquarian through-and-through. And if there were any doubt, I ask you this:
Would a Capricorn notice that you only need to change one letter to turn 'mature' into 'manure'?
Didn't think so.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Dear Santa:
Dear Santa,
Hi there. How are things up at the North Pole? I hope unemployment is down at the Claus Compound and, as such, that this Christmas finds you handing your elves fewer pink slips than last. I imagine it's hard to find work as an elf; those Keebler guys have the cookie market cornered and now, with the popularity of the Elf on a Shelf, there's competition from the doll industry. Tough times.
Before I get to what I want for Christmas, I would like to point out that I have been really good this year. Seriously, I don't know if you've noticed, but today is December 20th and my Christmas cards have been mailed, my wrapping is done, and my tree HASN'T EVEN FALLEN DOWN ONCE.
Well, not yet anyway.
I get my teeth cleaned every six months, get felt up by the OBGYN once a year, and use a moisturizer with SPF 15. EVERY DAY.
Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to direct your attention to the following: my driving record (clean), my voting record (active), and my criminal record (non-existent).
Not bad, right?
So I think you'll be happy to know that I only want one thing for Christmas this year.
A wife.
Hear me out on this one, S.C. This isn't some kind of polygamous fantasy, I don't want a Barb or a Margene, and GOD KNOWS I don't need a Nikki. Besides, I took a quiz in last month's Glamour and it turns out my face is WAY too round to pull off the French-braid-with-the-Bump-Itz-pouf.
Nor is this some kinky sex thing. Although, really Santa, let's get honest for a second here, even if it WAS, you're not really in a position to judge. You spend a good deal of time with small children in your lap while the world turns a blind eye to that whole he-sees-you-when-you're-sleeping-he-knows-when-you're-awake-he-knows-if-you've-been-bad-or-good thing. If you think about it, you're sort of like the MacDaddy of Creepers. And we all know it's just you and Mrs. Claus and all those elves isolated up there in the North Pole, where it stays cold and dark for like DAYS on end. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just saying. People talk. Not me. But people.
Also, The Wife is also not a replacement for The Husband. I would very much like to keep him.
Really, The Wife is just there so that, in my absence, things will get done the way I do them rather than in some other husband-like way which invariably leaves me with more work than I started with. For example, if I go out on a Thursday night, Wife would be here to keep everyone in line. The dishes would be done, bedtime would start and finish on time, the downstairs would be picked up, and no one would have walked around the house eating something seriously crumb-producing, like pretzel rods or crackers, without a bowl or plate or napkin or FOR GOD'S SAKE, SOMETHING! to catch ALL OF THOSE CRUMBS.
Wife will not put up a philosophical argument about the suitability of ice-cream, candy, or potato chips at 8 a.m. She will always have tissues, she'll be aware of the clock so as to avoid giving the boys donuts for a snack 45 minutes before dinner is ready, and she will always know the location of each child's hat, gloves, and shoes.
Now, if she could also clean the bathroom and do laundry , that would be SO awesome, but I realize I'm probably pushing my luck.
Oh, one more thing. I sort of need her to be on the less-attractive side. Unfortunate facial hair, adult-onset acne, goiters: all welcome here.
Because, like I said, I'd like to keep The Husband.
So that's it, Santa. One wife. I'm sure you can fit her in the sleigh.
She'll be the one sitting next to you controlling the radio and telling you YOU NEED TO SLOW DOWN!
Thanks a lot, Santa.
Love, Jenn
Hi there. How are things up at the North Pole? I hope unemployment is down at the Claus Compound and, as such, that this Christmas finds you handing your elves fewer pink slips than last. I imagine it's hard to find work as an elf; those Keebler guys have the cookie market cornered and now, with the popularity of the Elf on a Shelf, there's competition from the doll industry. Tough times.
Before I get to what I want for Christmas, I would like to point out that I have been really good this year. Seriously, I don't know if you've noticed, but today is December 20th and my Christmas cards have been mailed, my wrapping is done, and my tree HASN'T EVEN FALLEN DOWN ONCE.
Well, not yet anyway.
I get my teeth cleaned every six months, get felt up by the OBGYN once a year, and use a moisturizer with SPF 15. EVERY DAY.
Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to direct your attention to the following: my driving record (clean), my voting record (active), and my criminal record (non-existent).
Not bad, right?
So I think you'll be happy to know that I only want one thing for Christmas this year.
A wife.
Hear me out on this one, S.C. This isn't some kind of polygamous fantasy, I don't want a Barb or a Margene, and GOD KNOWS I don't need a Nikki. Besides, I took a quiz in last month's Glamour and it turns out my face is WAY too round to pull off the French-braid-with-the-Bump-Itz-pouf.
Nor is this some kinky sex thing. Although, really Santa, let's get honest for a second here, even if it WAS, you're not really in a position to judge. You spend a good deal of time with small children in your lap while the world turns a blind eye to that whole he-sees-you-when-you're-sleeping-he-knows-when-you're-awake-he-knows-if-you've-been-bad-or-good thing. If you think about it, you're sort of like the MacDaddy of Creepers. And we all know it's just you and Mrs. Claus and all those elves isolated up there in the North Pole, where it stays cold and dark for like DAYS on end. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just saying. People talk. Not me. But people.
Also, The Wife is also not a replacement for The Husband. I would very much like to keep him.
Really, The Wife is just there so that, in my absence, things will get done the way I do them rather than in some other husband-like way which invariably leaves me with more work than I started with. For example, if I go out on a Thursday night, Wife would be here to keep everyone in line. The dishes would be done, bedtime would start and finish on time, the downstairs would be picked up, and no one would have walked around the house eating something seriously crumb-producing, like pretzel rods or crackers, without a bowl or plate or napkin or FOR GOD'S SAKE, SOMETHING! to catch ALL OF THOSE CRUMBS.
Wife will not put up a philosophical argument about the suitability of ice-cream, candy, or potato chips at 8 a.m. She will always have tissues, she'll be aware of the clock so as to avoid giving the boys donuts for a snack 45 minutes before dinner is ready, and she will always know the location of each child's hat, gloves, and shoes.
Now, if she could also clean the bathroom and do laundry , that would be SO awesome, but I realize I'm probably pushing my luck.
Oh, one more thing. I sort of need her to be on the less-attractive side. Unfortunate facial hair, adult-onset acne, goiters: all welcome here.
Because, like I said, I'd like to keep The Husband.
So that's it, Santa. One wife. I'm sure you can fit her in the sleigh.
She'll be the one sitting next to you controlling the radio and telling you YOU NEED TO SLOW DOWN!
Thanks a lot, Santa.
Love, Jenn
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Are you there, Oprah? It's me, Jenn.
I'm not really a big Oprah fan. But a few weeks ago I was home sick in bed and happened to catch her Favorite Things episode. In case you don't worship at the Altar of Oprah, this is the episode where she gives away all kinds of really expensive stuff: cashmere sweaters, diamond earrings, trips, fancy chocolates that cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
You know, all the essentials for the holiday season.
Oh yeah, and the audience pretty much goes apeshit crazy.
Like, with all forms of crying and screaming and jumping and 'Oh my God'-ing for the camera.
Just in case you haven't yet been beaten over the head with the message that Oprah is a kind and benevolent god, the show's producers cut to these audience freak-outs repeatedly to make sure you REALLY get it:
Hey! You there, at home in your yoga pants that you don't wear out of the house because of the unfortunate seam up the front that makes it look like you have camel toe, even though you totally DO NOT, are you getting just how generous and awesome Oprah is? Because I don't think you are. See that lady in the second row, the one with the applique reindeer on her sweater and JC Penney elastic high-waisted pants who has just fallen to her knees in praise, THAT lady just scored a pair of $375 skinny jeans from Jay-Z's new clothing line. She is seriously psyched and her life is 125% BETTER now because Oprah has touched it. Avert your eyes when Oprah appears before you!
So there I was, in bed burning not just with a strep-throat-induced fever, but also with a raging contempt for Oprah.
What-the-eff-ever, Oprah! With all your fancy crap that regular people can't go out and buy! A $300 cashmere sweater would be on my favorite things list too if I didn't know that I could get like 25 pairs of pants at Target for that much money! Oh my God, I need a Fribble!
There was, however, a time when I didn't feel quite so negatively toward Oprah and her favorite things.
Of course, I was pregnant then.
And, as such, under the influence of some SERIOUS hormones.
Also, I was on bed rest. Which meant that, besides the mail delivery, Oprah had become the high point of my day.
Oh, and did I mention that the audience was filled with teachers?
Wanna guess what I had been doing for work up until the night I went to the hospital for contractions at 26 weeks?
That's right, I was a teacher.
It was like the Perfect Storm of hormonal breakdowns.
There I was, all round and pregnant and happy, with a nice big cup of hot chocolate, ready to sit and enjoy Oprah's Favorite Things episode.
Within the first minute and a half of the show, I was crying.
Oh my God, look at all of those women. They are just SO HAPPY! They are literally jumping for joy and hugging total strangers in their happy little bubble of delirium. This is the most beautiful thing I ever seen in my whole life. I love Oprah and I love all of those happy women.
And then Oprah started the giving-away part of the show. She held up some random item, made sure to let everyone know how much it was worth, and then told the audience, "You're all getting one!" The women then jumped and cheered and screamed. And cried.
And each time they cried, I cried.
Oh my God, Oprah is the nicest person ever; look how happy everyone is that they just got a $500 waffle maker. They all love waffles so much, they are SO happy for waffles, and I am SO happy for them that they can make waffles for their families now. What did they even DO before they had a waffle maker? How did they get their waffles? They didn't, not until Oprah came along and blessed them with their new incredible waffle makers. I love Oprah and waffles and waffle-maker-factory workers and this is the best show ever, I feel myself changing because of this show; I am so totally changed now and I want to give everyone I know a waffle maker RIGHT NOW and then I want to eat a really ridiculous amount of waffles.
This is not even an exaggeration. My friend Erin can attest to all of this, because I e-mailed her repeatedly during the episode to share my joy.
I cried through the entire hour-long show.
It was weeks before I could even TALK about the episode without choking up.
That is, until the day early in January when the recycling truck took away our Christmas tree. I stood in my window and cried; it was a good Christmas tree and I had loved it, even if Santa hadn't left any of Oprah's Favorite Things under it.
And so I honored it.
By eating a really ridiculous amount of waffles.
You know, all the essentials for the holiday season.
Oh yeah, and the audience pretty much goes apeshit crazy.
Like, with all forms of crying and screaming and jumping and 'Oh my God'-ing for the camera.
Just in case you haven't yet been beaten over the head with the message that Oprah is a kind and benevolent god, the show's producers cut to these audience freak-outs repeatedly to make sure you REALLY get it:
Hey! You there, at home in your yoga pants that you don't wear out of the house because of the unfortunate seam up the front that makes it look like you have camel toe, even though you totally DO NOT, are you getting just how generous and awesome Oprah is? Because I don't think you are. See that lady in the second row, the one with the applique reindeer on her sweater and JC Penney elastic high-waisted pants who has just fallen to her knees in praise, THAT lady just scored a pair of $375 skinny jeans from Jay-Z's new clothing line. She is seriously psyched and her life is 125% BETTER now because Oprah has touched it. Avert your eyes when Oprah appears before you!
So there I was, in bed burning not just with a strep-throat-induced fever, but also with a raging contempt for Oprah.
What-the-eff-ever, Oprah! With all your fancy crap that regular people can't go out and buy! A $300 cashmere sweater would be on my favorite things list too if I didn't know that I could get like 25 pairs of pants at Target for that much money! Oh my God, I need a Fribble!
There was, however, a time when I didn't feel quite so negatively toward Oprah and her favorite things.
Of course, I was pregnant then.
And, as such, under the influence of some SERIOUS hormones.
Also, I was on bed rest. Which meant that, besides the mail delivery, Oprah had become the high point of my day.
Oh, and did I mention that the audience was filled with teachers?
Wanna guess what I had been doing for work up until the night I went to the hospital for contractions at 26 weeks?
That's right, I was a teacher.
It was like the Perfect Storm of hormonal breakdowns.
There I was, all round and pregnant and happy, with a nice big cup of hot chocolate, ready to sit and enjoy Oprah's Favorite Things episode.
Within the first minute and a half of the show, I was crying.
Oh my God, look at all of those women. They are just SO HAPPY! They are literally jumping for joy and hugging total strangers in their happy little bubble of delirium. This is the most beautiful thing I ever seen in my whole life. I love Oprah and I love all of those happy women.
And then Oprah started the giving-away part of the show. She held up some random item, made sure to let everyone know how much it was worth, and then told the audience, "You're all getting one!" The women then jumped and cheered and screamed. And cried.
And each time they cried, I cried.
Oh my God, Oprah is the nicest person ever; look how happy everyone is that they just got a $500 waffle maker. They all love waffles so much, they are SO happy for waffles, and I am SO happy for them that they can make waffles for their families now. What did they even DO before they had a waffle maker? How did they get their waffles? They didn't, not until Oprah came along and blessed them with their new incredible waffle makers. I love Oprah and waffles and waffle-maker-factory workers and this is the best show ever, I feel myself changing because of this show; I am so totally changed now and I want to give everyone I know a waffle maker RIGHT NOW and then I want to eat a really ridiculous amount of waffles.
This is not even an exaggeration. My friend Erin can attest to all of this, because I e-mailed her repeatedly during the episode to share my joy.
I cried through the entire hour-long show.
It was weeks before I could even TALK about the episode without choking up.
That is, until the day early in January when the recycling truck took away our Christmas tree. I stood in my window and cried; it was a good Christmas tree and I had loved it, even if Santa hadn't left any of Oprah's Favorite Things under it.
And so I honored it.
By eating a really ridiculous amount of waffles.
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