Oof-oof: 1. An animal of the canine variety. 2. An exclamation indicating a dog's presence in the general vicinity. 3. The correct answer to the question, "Cletus, what does a dog say?"Uh-oh: 1. A declaration, usually meaning "I dropped/lost that block/cheerio/book/toy. Please retrieve it ASAP." 2. Alternately, when used in combination with a discreet crotch-tug, can mean "I just shat myself."More?: 1. Curiously upturned as if a question, this command is a stand-in for the more advanced yet wordy "Give that to me now!" When used twice in a row, it roughly translates into "Did I stutter?" And when used while waving tiny fists in the air, any parties being addressed should note that they are now being gently urged to "GO FIX ME A TURKEY POT PIE, WOMAN!"Meh-moh: 1. A furry red muppet made out of crack cocaine. 2. A tool of The Man, that crafty bastard. 3. In certain baby cultures, a deity.Nana!: 1. A delicious yellow fruit. 2. Breakfast. 3. Lunch. 4. Dinner. 5. Snack. 6. A torture device used to poke out the eyes of oof-oofs.Yay woohoo: Two declarations of great joy, now brought together as one. Paired out of necessity as much as aesthetics, the two components should only be separated if they are being used in a call-and-response format (for example, with Person A's exclamation of "Yay!" being met immediately by Person B's exuberant "Woohoo!"). They are best used together, however, as in: "Cletus let's go the library." "Yay Woohoo!"Night-night: The act of taking one's light-up musical glow-worm doll, dropping it onto the floor, and smothering it with a blanket before walking away. Night-night!Puh puh puh: A request, meaning "pick me UP, large person!"Dow dow dow: A request, meaning "put me DOWN, large person!"Peeeees?: An all-purpose crowd pleaser, used to obtain desired objects or reactions. Most effective when combined with wide, searching eyes and the touch of soft little fingers. For instance, saying "peeeees?" while holding out the Tivo remote will more often than not result in instant access to Meh-moh.
Does anyone else out there watch a LOT of Sesame Street? Does anyone else use the musical guest as some kind of barometer to predict the ultimate outcome of your day? Like, if REM is on the show singing "Furry Happy Monsters" it's going to be an awesome afternoon, and if the Dixie Chicks are on singing "There's No Letter Better Than B" things are probably going to be ok, and if Alicia Keys is on singing "I Just Keep on Dancing" while she physically assaults Elmo, the day's definitely going in the shitter? Anyone?Has anyone else been watching the Sarah Silverman/Matt Damon video and its Ben Affleck follow-up over and over again like a freak?Do any other new[ish] mothers out there watch Lost? Do you enjoy pretty much everything about the show except for the fact that baby Aaron, who was allegedly born about 4 weeks ago, looks approximately 11 months old, never cries, never eats (and yet is fattened up like a hog for slaughter), never poops, makes perfect eye contact, sleeps peacefully through the night, and basically spends all day laughing and cooing and building towers out of imaginary Legos? Oh, and also the fact that Aaron's mother Claire is obviously breastfeeding him (because what else would he be eating - twigs?) despite her ridiculously tiny, non-saggy boobs?Are there any other 31-year-old feminists who tivo both America's Next Top Model AND Rock of Love with Bret Michaels 2? And who watch them while thinking up all the snarky comments they would share with their favorite Television Without Pity recappers if said recappers were their BFFs and came over every week to watch tv and eat Doritos, which said recappers TOTALLY SHOULD DO?Does anyone else hate the Jeopardy teen tournament?Does anyone else feel guilty about how much they hate the NPR fundraising drive? I mean, of course I want them to raise money, and I'm a member and I renew annually and I... I just want to listen to Morning Edition, you know?Do any of the rest of you rule your family's Netflix queue like a crazed dictator, ignoring your husband's pleas for movies in favor of your third batch of 90210 episodes? Because what movie could be better than that time Brenda and Donna go to Paris for the summer and Brenda pretends to be French so she can woo the tourist from Wisconsin when the whole time Dylan and Kelly are totally getting together behind her back and Brandon is dating a 40-year-old racist and David is launching his Casio keyboard career with Steve Sanders as his manager and Andrea is reaching out to poor deaf kids on the beach?
I've never been one to obsess over my appearance, but I'm worried I've let myself go. It's like, my clothes don't really fit anymore? I'm wearing lots of bulky sweaters? My hair is too long and it's got a gray patch right up front? My skin is dry and chapped and my hands are perpetually dirty? You know?I'm trying to get this shit under control. Tomorrow Jen and I are going to go shopping. This morning I used a cleanser on my face and then moisturized. I'm sure those are things that are supposed to be a part of my daily routine, but they're not, so whatever. I also rubbed cream onto my gross, cracked feet. Next I will schedule a hair appointment. I'm not sure that I am prepared to address the gray patch. I'm worried about succumbing to a lifetime of hair-dye. But I can at least get a trim. The little tasks associated with pulling yourself together don't really amount to all that much; it just seems like it when you're facing another day with a screeching one-year-old and a dog that pees on the couch.Last night the husband and I watched "Sicko" on DVD and now I am all about moving to Norway. Why do you think it is that so many Americans are opposed on principle to universal health care? It is all about right-wing propaganda? Or is it that whole weird "Not with MY tax dollars!" thing we're rocking over here? It's like all the people who spend half their lives surfing porn and checking out back-issues of Playboy from the public library, but then refuse to pay a extra dime each month in taxes so the library can build a bigger building to house all the smut.It's Saturday, and I've got a wide-open weekend ahead of me. This morning we took Cletus the Former Fetus to the zoo. They have free admission on the weekends during the butt-cold months of winter, so we went and saw the polar bears and the gorillas and played in the indoor "family zoo" where Cletus could pet a cat and some kind of fat ugly beetle. Then we munched some $17 snack bar french fries for lunch before Cletus insisted upon walking herself back to the car -- she would not under any circumstances tolerate being carried -- and, naturally, ended up faceplanting into a half-frozen puddle.On the way home, we practiced our animal sounds. "Cletus," I asked her, "what does a dog say?" "Oof-oof," came the child's triumphant reply. "How about a cow?" "BOOOOOOO!" "And what does a sheep say, Cletus?" "Baaaaa." I swear, it was like having a conversation with a real-live person strapped into a mini-seat in the back of my car. How did that happen, exactly?
So. The past couple of months have been busy ones here in the house of Anything Said. I've told you all about the poop issues (still ongoing, unfortunately), the precarious advanced mobility issues (somewhat stabilized), and my job interview from hell (the bitches ultimately hired an internal candidate, which they were obviously going to do all along). But what I haven't shared too much about was the husband's Big Job-Search-a-Palooza.When we moved to Chicago for the husband's post-doc, our initial plan was to stay here for around four years or so, at which point he would begin looking for faculty jobs at colleges in our various and sundry Dream Locations (Vermont, Minneapolis, Vermonty Minneapolis, and maybe the Swiss Alps). Then we actually settled in, got smacked in the face by constant traffic and urban sprawl, established ridiculous commutes (we both drive an hour in opposite directions to get to our jobs), had a baby, and lost our minds just a little bit. Then the lab where my husband works kindasorta fell apart. Some stuff went down, people started abandoning ship -- now he goes to work everyday and it's basically him, a receptionist, and a plant. We decided it might be a good idea to think about leaving a year earlier than we had planned. So back in September, the husband started applying for jobs. January was a whirlwind of traveling and interviewing. He was wined and dined and questioned, had to give presentations and meet with students and Deans, overextended himself to the point where he came home from one interview and collapsed on the couch with a 103 temperature. But at the end of it all... drumroll please... he up and got himself hired. Vermonty Minneapolis was not to be, but the husband got offered a tenure-track faculty position at a liberal arts college just a couple of hours away from where we live now. He officially accepted the job yesterday. We're moving in the fall.Two weekends ago, the husband and I drove to the college town I will now call Future Home so that I could check it out for myself. I needed to determine the likelihood that its smallness would cause me to slit my wrists. And I have to say that I came away with a mostly favorable impression. Not wrist-slitting material at all. We're talking pill-popping at most.Here are the basic deets on the sitch:Item 1: Future Home is a small town. Pros: Goodbye to hideous traffic. Goodbye to never seeing my husband. Goodbye to astronomical pricetags for gas, groceries, and housing. Goodbye to city stresses. Goodbye to synthetic green spaces you have to drive thirty minutes to get to before paying ten dollars to park. Goodbye to constant noise and smelly air. Goodbye to enforced anonymity. Cons: Goodbye to city luxuries. Goodbye to Trader Joe's, Craigs List, independent movies, sushi, and Thai food. Goodbye to public transportation.Item 2: Future home is a college town. Pros: It is mostly liberal-minded, with arts and cultural events sponsored by the college that we can attend. It has pint-sized hippies and a pint-sized-hippie-run natural foods store. It has non-white people, something you can't take for granted in a small midwestern town. (When he came home from his interview there, the husband tried to sell me on the place by saying "One of the professors is a BLACK LESBIAN!!") Cons: It will make me come face-to-face with the reality that I am no longer nineteen years old.Item 3: It may take me quite awhile to find a job in or around Future Home. There are libraries, obviously, including the one at the college, but open positions can be few and far between. Pros: I can finally live that life I've leisure I've been seeking. I can write more. Maybe I will discover a new calling in life. Maybe I will cook more. Maybe I will start my own dog-walking business. Cons: Without gainful employment to occupy my time, I might rise up and kill you all.Item 4: The husband's job a really good job. Pros: The husband will have nice, smart, mostly young colleagues. The college has a pretty campus and smart students. The husband will get to run his own lab in a low-pressure setting (not like at a big research university). The school will pay for our move. We get to have health insurance like normal people again. I get to take classes and use the college gym for free. Cons: None, except he won't get to bitch and moan about how much his job sucks anymore.It feels really, really good to have this settled. Exciting, even. Now we just have to figure out what to do about the three-month gap between the end of our current lease and the start-date of the husband's job (and more importantly, the start of his paycheck-getting). And we have to, oh, buy our first house. And start stockpiling IKEA merchandise while we're still within driving distance. You know. The little stuff.
Mark it on your calendars. Today, for the first time in about two months, the husband and Cletus and I are spending the entire day together.
Sometimes we "joke" that Cletus isn't even aware of having parents who know one another, who exist in the same time and place. So seldom are we all in the same room, awake, together.
Today she gets us both.
I think she likes it.
Today marked the occasion of a volunteer project that I organized for my local moms' group. About one quarter of the people who RSVP'd for the event actually showed up. Now I am certainly no saint when it comes to shimmying my way out of obligations I'm not really feeling, but when I sign my own ass up for a charity function (for which the recipient organization is counting on my presence, no less) I generally make a habit of appearing. BUT THAT'S JUST ME. Anyway...The shebang came and went, I stayed a little long to eat lunch and converse, and before I knew it Cletus the Former Fetus and I were right smack in the middle of what is normally Cletus' nap time, with no crib in sight. Any parent of a toddler or, really, any person who's ever met a toddler knows that this is asking for a shitstorm. Cletus delivered, rocking out with the most ridiculous and elaborate and dramatic temper tantrum I have ever had the joy of supervising. For just shy of ten minutes the child thrashed about wildly, screaming at the top of her lungs, rolling and pounding on the floor, hitting and scratching me as I tried to bundle her into hat and coat and mittens. It was crazy. Of the two other moms who were left in the room, one busied herself cleaning up after lunch while the other one simply sat and tried not to stare.Then came the awesome part: Once I got Cletus into her winterwear, I plucked a pacifier from the diaper bag and popped it into her mouth. Cletus rocks a Nuk when she sleeps and when she's hysterical -- the rest of the time she's usually busy shoving kleenex or blocks or quarters into her maw and as such the pacifier is rendered unnecessary. When the aforementioned mom #2 (the sitting and staring one, not the cleaning one) saw me grab one from my bag, however, she was apparently not amused. She came over to us and said the following: "[Insert Yuppy Child's Name Here] gave up the pacifier in August. Now sometimes she asks me for it, but I tell her 'what are you, still a little baby?'" Note: Yuppy Child is the same age as Cletus.I was all, um, what? As per usual, I had no appropriate comeback at the ready so I simply bid a quick farewell and was on my way. But the instant I hit the interstate I had an achingly clear vision in which I pulled a giant mom-sized pacifier from the pocket of my jeans, stuck it in my mouth, and said "we just feel better when we're sucking something hard."
So on top of the Situation With All The Poo (which, incidentally, four days on the no-milk no-soy diet has yet to improve), Cletus the Former Fetus has also come down with some kind of flesh-eating virus that has led to days and nights full of coughing and snotting and wheezing. That's what I get for calling work on Wednesday morning to lie that I couldn't come in because Cletus was sick, when really I just didn't want to drive in the snow: the kid actually up and got sick. Uncool. We've been keeping her locked up inside since Thursday, which is really all for the best given that it is minus 900 degrees outside.Today I was supposed to be rocking my friend Samantha's baby shower, but that ungrateful little boy-to-be of hers has decided that he's over this whole womb nonsense and is trying to make his appearance about 9 weeks too early. The first of many rebellions to come, I'm sure. Samantha is on bedrest in the hopes of keeping the wee one locked in for as long as possible. Please send all your best baby-cookin' vibes her way.Also in babymaking news, Laura and Shannon had their baby last week. It's a girl! That is one house full of ladies.I just ate a revolting lunch pieced together from the scraps of my mother's and sister's weekend visit. It involved leftover Dominos pizza and cheese curls. It didn't even feel good going in. I've got to stop eating my feelings.Last night the husband and I were driving home on the highway after taking care of some biznass. It was dark and the roads were quiet and I was playing DJ with the ipod, choosing only the silliest and most entertaining songs to help keep us awake. We jammed to Peaches' "Fuck the Pain Away," Bon Jovi's "Runaway," Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name of," Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney doing "The Girl is Mine." Doing this sort of thing always reminds me how lucky I am to have found the one man on earth who laughs at the same stuff as I do. And who is willing to be Ozzy to my Lita on "Close my Eyes Forever" to boot.Except that we disagree on one important point: which is more awesome, Mr. Roboto or Come Sail Away? You be the judge.
Yesterday I drove an hour out of town to take Cletus the Former Fetus to see a gastrointestinal specialist. The child, she has poop issues. I haven't written too much about it here because, really, I was saving it for a special treat, but basically it goes something like this: my daughter poops 4-6 times a day, the poop is disgusting, the poop smells like death. Each of our 75 daily diaper changes makes the child scream and cry. I have been searching for months for a pediatrician who would take this matter seriously and not just say bullshit like "this too shall pass" or "babies poop a lot" or "buy generic diapers; they're cheaper." Finally in January I found a doctor who was all "Um, most babies don't have poop like that. Want to see a specialist?" After I finished making out with him, I took the referral and was on my way.So at the specialist's office, Cletus exercised impeccable judgment and timing by delivering not one but two death-smelling poops, one for the nurse and another for the doctor. The doctor sniffed the air, took a gander at the finished product, whipped out a pad of paper and ordered up about 50 lab tests. Then I told her about our family's insurance situation (namely, a deductible so high that it essentially renders us uninsured). She suggested that before we spend our life's savings on bloodwork, we should first try a two-week trial of a dairy-free soy-free diet. Like, a for-real one: no traces of dairy, no traces of soy, no casein, no whey, no TVP, no anything.People. Do you have any idea how many food products contain soy? Try all of them.So for the next two weeks, Cletus the Former Fetus will be subsisting on pasta, rice, meat, veggies, and fruit. I will have to break her of her all-consuming goldfish cracker addiction. No more yogurt and buttered toast for breakfast. No more Annie's mac n' cheese and veggie burgers for dinner. When she sees me open up the fridge and shouts out a joyous "CHEESE! CHEESE!" I will have to break it to her gently: no Cletus, no more cheese; your poop smells like death.And if the diet doesn't do the trick, it's to the lab we go. What a pain in the ass. Literally.
I understand that this is a somewhat unpopular stance to take, but here it is: I would totally and without a second thought place a vote for a presidential candidate based primarily on the fact that she's a woman. I mean, I wouldn't do anything crazy like switch parties or vote for a loony-tune like Elizabeth Dole or anything, but if I'm faced with a choice between a female candidate who is intelligent and committed and who takes a reasonable approach toward the issues that matter to me, and a male candidate with similar qualifications, I'll vote for the woman every time. Or, you know, the one time when I'm given such an opportunity. Like now.Look -- for every one person like me who goes to the polls and votes for Clinton because she's a woman, there are about a zillion who go to the polls and don't vote for her for the exact same reason. They may rock their stance old-school and say it out loud, telling people they would never vote for a woman president, or that our country isn't "ready" for a woman president, or that they have nightmares every night about vaginas in the Oval Office. Or they may keep it hidden, aware that they should maybe be more comfortable with the idea of a female Commander in Chief but really, honestly, they're not there yet. Either way, they're doing the same thing I am. Am I supposed to just take the moral higher ground and wait around patiently until all the bozos in the world get their shit together enough to be "ready"? The other day I read a great essay by Katha Pollitt, published in the book Thirty Ways of Looking at Hillary: Reflections by Women Writers. If you are at all interested in this kind of thing, you should check the book out; it's not pro- or anti-Hillary, just a bunch of women poking and prodding the issue. Anyway, this particular essay touched on a point that I think about a lot, which is how personal this election is for me -- really, how personal the anti-Clinton rhetoric is for me. People have called Clinton every name in the book: from the extremes of slut, whore, and Satan to the more everyday misogyny of cold fish, robot, balls-buster, ugly, and bitch. I listen to it all the time, and I can't stop the barbs from rolling around in my head in all kinds of gross, targeted ways. When I hear a male friend say that he could never vote for Clinton because she's "just so cold" and he can't stand to listen to her speak, I hear him say to me "you're cold, and I like you better when you listen instead of talking." When I hear Iowans who are interviewed on their way out of a Clinton appearance say that they were looking for more emotion out of her presentation, I hear them say to me "unless you're crying or squealing, your ideas have no importance." When newspaper columnists malign her success as being "calculated," I hear them say to me "Aim lower; abandon your ambitions." When I hear jackass pundits on talk shows spend an entire ten-minute segment word-vomiting elaborate critiques of her outfits and haircut, I hear them say to me "Your worth is determined by your appearance. You are ugly." Women with voices and goals, whether Clinton is your candidate of choice or not, make no mistake: when they talk shit about Hillary, they're talking shit about all of us. Pollitt puts it like this: "If all the castrating bitches voted for Satan's daughter, the ambitious lesbian root, we might actually move the feminist revolution out of the parking lot where it has been sitting, low on gas and with major transmission problems, for the last decade and a half." I say rock on. I like Obama a lot. If he's chosen as the Democratic candidate, I'll be proud to vote for him on election day. I understand that lots of people choose to support candidates other than Clinton for a variety of perfectly valid, issue-specific, well thought out reasons. And I know that for people of color (especially women of color) this election brings issues to the table that I can't even begin to understand. All I can do is what makes sense to me. And what makes sense to me is to vote for the candidate who's been taking the "Bitch" bullet on my, and Cletus', behalf for some 30-odd years now. And then to avoid all television, newspapers, and talk radio for the next nine months or so. Because obviously, I have some projection issues.
I did not put her here:
Nor did I turn on the television. I left the room for a moment, returning to find my child perched atop the couch watching Rock of Love with Bret Michaels.
I have taught her all I can.
It has been snowing for 24 hours now, and a crazy rage is coursing through my veins. Everything is white and wet and cold. I had plans today, but now all plans are off. Yesterday it took me two hours to drive home from work, 30 minutes of which were spent making the approximately three-mile trek from Cletus' daycare to my house. The whole time I was in my car, I listened to the Chicago Public Radio people listing astronomical local travel times. I thought about all of the people in all of the cars all over Chicago, just sitting there: not moving, not going anywhere, not enjoying themselves, not doing the things that they love, not seeing the people they love, just sitting in their vehicles, ruining the environment, completely forgetting that this is not the way to live. Why can't I find a job closer to my house? I have skills and talents and will drink a beer with you after work; why won't you hire me? Why hasn't anyone salted or plowed my alley? Why didn't my Entertainment Weekly come in the mail today? Why have I reached the end of this bag of potato chips? Why is it so cold? Where is the sun?I would give just about anything for an early taste of spring.
