Sorry I haven't called, but I was busy buying a house, getting hit by a semi on the toll road, and humiliating myself at the doctor's office. You understand how these things go.
Re: the house. Last Thursday the husband and I spent all day looking at properties in New College Town Home. We saw many that were perfectly fine, and one with which we fell instantly, hopelessly in love. After learning that another prospective buyer had just put in an offer on the house (bitches), we engaged in a wee little bidding war and ultimately, by 5:00 PM the next day, reigned triumphant. We now have ten business days to get this bad boy inspected. It's a gorgeous old Victorian that is likely to break our hearts. I'll share more details once I'm more confident that this thing is actually going to happen (read: when a team of professionals assures me that the house is not about to crumble and/or poison my family with radon and asbestos).
Re: getting hit by a semi. Sadly, I can't share all the details of this story yet either, because the ASSHOLE WHO RAMMED INTO THE SIDE OF MY CAR WITH HIS SEMI AS I WAS DRIVING ALONG MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS has yet to accept fault for the accident he clearly caused. So, you know, the "investigation" is still ongoing (and by that, of course, I mean that every other day an insurance agent wipes his nose with the crash report). But I can tell you that I am fine, the car is messed up but drivable for the time being, and the whole experience -- albeit moderately nightmarish -- could have been a whole lot worse. As it turned out, it took about 40 minutes and two 911 calls for the police to show up on the scene, about 30 seconds from that point for the semi driver to make up a story to feed the cops (the husband said later: "what could he possibly have to say for himself? That he was in your blind spot? HE'S DRIVING A SEMI!!"), and about 30 more minutes of me hysterically weeping in my battered car before I was sent on my merry way.
Re: the doctor's office. Now here's a tale I'm free to tell. On Wednesday afternoon I popped in to see a doctor about some lingering back pain I'd been having since the crash. It was nothing major -- in fact, it's basically gone now -- but most people I talked to encouraged me to get it checked out, if for no other reason than to have it documented for the aforementioned "investigation." So I did.
The doc I was scheduled to see was new to the practice and I had never met her before. When she walked into the room, she seemed warm and friendly and looked to be about 5 or so months pregnant. She asked me for the deets on my sitch, banged on my back a bit, and pronounced my muscles strained. Somehow we got to talking, I think I mentioned something about being grateful that my daughter hasn't been in the car at the time of the accident, she asked me how old my daughter was, I told her, and then I looked that kind, lovely, complete and total stranger in the eye and asked her: "So when are you due?"
Oh Melinda. Oh Melinda, Melinda, Melinda.
There are situations in which such a question can be excused. Real old people, for example. Real old people sometimes lose their grip on social niceties, lose track of the subtleties -- they kind of get a free pass, you know? Same for little kids. They see a nice lady with a big belly and they think "baby!", they may shout "baby!", it's ok, they're allowed. Grown women, though? Grown mothers, who still occasionally break out their maternity pants eighteen months after labor and delivery?
So basically, I pointed at the nice doctor and shouted "baby!" And she was quiet, looked down, smiled a little half-smile, and said "Hmm, actually, I'm about five weeks post."
Instantly I hid my head in my hands and was all "OhmygodIamsosorry, I am so embarrassed, You look great, Please beat me with your clipboard I deserve to feel pain," basically making everything worse with each word as she just sat there and watched the freak-lady implode. Then she told me to take some Ibuprofen, gave me a nice little goodbye pat on the shoulder, and left me alone to shudder in horror over all the ways that interaction could have gone even worse (recent miscarriage! her baby was stolen by baby-thieves! there was never a baby; she's just full of cheeseburgers and self-loathing!).
Friends, take heed and learn from my mistakes: unless she hands you an ultrasound printout and asks you to admire the healthy thriving fetus currently growing in her unquestionably pregnant belly, let not the words "baby" and "due" pass from your foolish, wildly flapping lips. That is all.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
My so-called week
It's been an odd week over here at Casa Cletus. The home daycare onto which we pawn off our child is closed for a week and a half for "spring break" (aka the Mexican vacation that my paycheck helps to fund). Our work schedules are all jacked up as a result. Cletus and I were home together Thursday, Friday, and most of Wednesday.
Thursday was all about the beautiful weather. We met another mom-and-baby pair for a pancake breakfast, where the mamas talked politics and the little girls played with mardi gras beads and salt shakers and forks. Then Cletus and I went to the park. Cletus chased squirrels, treeing them like a hound dog, and ran after birds. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her new way of expressing joy. The elderly couple chilling on the park bench did not approve. They left, all scowly. Whatevs, Grandma. My girl's gonna scream if the spirit moves her. Later, after her afternoon nap, we went outside again for a walk with the dog. Cletus danced and screeched in the backyard while Frodo the Pug feasted on a banquet of rabbit turds that had been kept fresh and tasty all winter under a blanket of snow and ice.
Back inside, I went all Suzie Homemaker and started up with the cooking and the cleaning. Specifically, I swept the floors and did a mountain of dishes, and I baked maple oat bread and whole wheat chocolate chip cookies (recipes from this lovely site). I rocked the cookies with vegan chocolate chips so that She Of The Poop-Related Diet Issues could enjoy them as well, and they turned out moist and delicious and I felt fulfilled and passably domestic. Then I put the baby to bed and made myself some Thai fried rice and watched what felt like a full 24 hours of college basketball on TV. The husband and I are keeping up our bold new tradition of throwing money into the thankless pit that is Madness' annual March Madness pool. (Meaning: we suck and I'm bitter.) Goddamn Fighting Irish.
Friday the weather was white and cold and disgusting and we stayed inside and sulked. Generally we keep the television off while Cletus is awake, but after the fabulous weather of the day before I was feeling sorry for myself and thus: movies! And I'm not talking about just one. I watched Enchanted, which seemed cute and humorous although I will admit I was distracted by some genius displays of block-stacking and coffee-table-climbing from the Former Fetus. I watched Things We Lost in the Fire which was meh. During naptime I watched Atonement. The book was better -- the film gives it to you in a sippy cup while the text lets you drink it out of a big-girl glass. And then I started to watch August Rush (I know, but Felicity's in it!), but it sucked so hard that I turned if off after about thirty minutes.
That night the husband and I scrolled through real estate listings online and made a list of houses to look at when we meet with a realtor in New College Town Home on Thursday. Shopping! For the most obscenely expensive thing we've ever bought! Cletus the Former Fetus is going to that hot vacation spot known as Grandma's House in Amish Country while we contemplate ways to blow our savings.
Yesterday I worked nine hours while the husband stayed home with the girl. It was an exhausting day but, as I often do when I come in on a Saturday and no one else is around, I got tons of stuff done. I was cataloging books, a mind-numbing task even for crazies who take an interest in it (I do not; I'm just filling in). The good thing about it, though, is that when you're productive at it you leave a mound of very tangible completed product in your wake, making you look like a Valuable Asset even though your soul has died.
And then I came home and the husband made me buffalo turkey burgers with blue cheese sauce and oven home fries and spinach salad, and we watched No Country For Old Men and together proclaimed it overhyped.
The End.
Thursday was all about the beautiful weather. We met another mom-and-baby pair for a pancake breakfast, where the mamas talked politics and the little girls played with mardi gras beads and salt shakers and forks. Then Cletus and I went to the park. Cletus chased squirrels, treeing them like a hound dog, and ran after birds. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her new way of expressing joy. The elderly couple chilling on the park bench did not approve. They left, all scowly. Whatevs, Grandma. My girl's gonna scream if the spirit moves her. Later, after her afternoon nap, we went outside again for a walk with the dog. Cletus danced and screeched in the backyard while Frodo the Pug feasted on a banquet of rabbit turds that had been kept fresh and tasty all winter under a blanket of snow and ice.
Back inside, I went all Suzie Homemaker and started up with the cooking and the cleaning. Specifically, I swept the floors and did a mountain of dishes, and I baked maple oat bread and whole wheat chocolate chip cookies (recipes from this lovely site). I rocked the cookies with vegan chocolate chips so that She Of The Poop-Related Diet Issues could enjoy them as well, and they turned out moist and delicious and I felt fulfilled and passably domestic. Then I put the baby to bed and made myself some Thai fried rice and watched what felt like a full 24 hours of college basketball on TV. The husband and I are keeping up our bold new tradition of throwing money into the thankless pit that is Madness' annual March Madness pool. (Meaning: we suck and I'm bitter.) Goddamn Fighting Irish.
Friday the weather was white and cold and disgusting and we stayed inside and sulked. Generally we keep the television off while Cletus is awake, but after the fabulous weather of the day before I was feeling sorry for myself and thus: movies! And I'm not talking about just one. I watched Enchanted, which seemed cute and humorous although I will admit I was distracted by some genius displays of block-stacking and coffee-table-climbing from the Former Fetus. I watched Things We Lost in the Fire which was meh. During naptime I watched Atonement. The book was better -- the film gives it to you in a sippy cup while the text lets you drink it out of a big-girl glass. And then I started to watch August Rush (I know, but Felicity's in it!), but it sucked so hard that I turned if off after about thirty minutes.
That night the husband and I scrolled through real estate listings online and made a list of houses to look at when we meet with a realtor in New College Town Home on Thursday. Shopping! For the most obscenely expensive thing we've ever bought! Cletus the Former Fetus is going to that hot vacation spot known as Grandma's House in Amish Country while we contemplate ways to blow our savings.
Yesterday I worked nine hours while the husband stayed home with the girl. It was an exhausting day but, as I often do when I come in on a Saturday and no one else is around, I got tons of stuff done. I was cataloging books, a mind-numbing task even for crazies who take an interest in it (I do not; I'm just filling in). The good thing about it, though, is that when you're productive at it you leave a mound of very tangible completed product in your wake, making you look like a Valuable Asset even though your soul has died.
And then I came home and the husband made me buffalo turkey burgers with blue cheese sauce and oven home fries and spinach salad, and we watched No Country For Old Men and together proclaimed it overhyped.
The End.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Post script
And by the way, it has not gone unnoticed that my posts as of late have followed a distinct pattern, a la "Issue Of The Day is crazy! Don't you wish everyone had the same clarity of vision about said issue as I? ". I'm working on it. The drugs should help.
He's got a ticket to ride
This morning I heard some crazy crack-smokin on the radio. First off, it's currently 41 degrees and sunny outside but the radio DJ was spewing off about "winter storm warning" this and "5 to 7 inches" that. Today is the first day of Spring. I'm pretending he was talking about buttercream frosting.
Then after the forecast the DJ started talking about Dr. Laura. Apparently Crazy McLadyhater thinks that women should be held responsible for their husbands' cheating ways. According to her, if a woman doesn't go out of her way to "to make [her husband] feel like a man, to make him feel like a success, to make him feel like her hero [italics mine]" that husband has no option but to rock it Spitzer-style. Because clearly most couples have a discreet idolatry clause included in the fine print of their wedding licenses. Personally, I wouldn't dream of getting married without first vowing to love, honor, and worship my husband like a towering god.
But whatever, we all know that Dr. Laura is batshit. Except here's the thing: all the people calling in to the radio station to respond? Totally agreed with the good doctor! Caller after caller was all "if my husband isn't getting what he needs from me, I fully expect him to go get it somewhere else." Like, for real? What ever happened to give and take? To "for better and for worse"? I mean, I'm all for trying to make my husband happy -- and expecting the same in return, obviously -- but if I thought it was ok for him to have a girlfriend other than me I wouldn't have, oh I don't know, GOTTEN MARRIED TO HIM. Who are these women that don't have the confidence to expect their spouses to work through relationship problems with them? Who are these dudes that need external forces to make them "feel like men" (and can someone explain to me what it means to Feel Like a Man? Does it have something to do with hiking your pants up before you sit down in a chair?)? And who is Dr. Laura to feed on all this crap?
I don't know, I guess what I'm feeling is this: if you're a guy who likes the ladies, why not just enjoy their company as an unmarried man? Unless you're enjoying one of those mutually agreed-upon "open marriages," in which case I say to you: "Although I do not understand your ways, I support and applaud your Interesting Alternative Lifestyle, and could you please invite me to one of your parties some day so I can be all awkward over in the corner with the hummus and pita tray?"
Then after the forecast the DJ started talking about Dr. Laura. Apparently Crazy McLadyhater thinks that women should be held responsible for their husbands' cheating ways. According to her, if a woman doesn't go out of her way to "to make [her husband] feel like a man, to make him feel like a success, to make him feel like her hero [italics mine]" that husband has no option but to rock it Spitzer-style. Because clearly most couples have a discreet idolatry clause included in the fine print of their wedding licenses. Personally, I wouldn't dream of getting married without first vowing to love, honor, and worship my husband like a towering god.
But whatever, we all know that Dr. Laura is batshit. Except here's the thing: all the people calling in to the radio station to respond? Totally agreed with the good doctor! Caller after caller was all "if my husband isn't getting what he needs from me, I fully expect him to go get it somewhere else." Like, for real? What ever happened to give and take? To "for better and for worse"? I mean, I'm all for trying to make my husband happy -- and expecting the same in return, obviously -- but if I thought it was ok for him to have a girlfriend other than me I wouldn't have, oh I don't know, GOTTEN MARRIED TO HIM. Who are these women that don't have the confidence to expect their spouses to work through relationship problems with them? Who are these dudes that need external forces to make them "feel like men" (and can someone explain to me what it means to Feel Like a Man? Does it have something to do with hiking your pants up before you sit down in a chair?)? And who is Dr. Laura to feed on all this crap?
I don't know, I guess what I'm feeling is this: if you're a guy who likes the ladies, why not just enjoy their company as an unmarried man? Unless you're enjoying one of those mutually agreed-upon "open marriages," in which case I say to you: "Although I do not understand your ways, I support and applaud your Interesting Alternative Lifestyle, and could you please invite me to one of your parties some day so I can be all awkward over in the corner with the hummus and pita tray?"
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
On cleaning house
My God. Who are we as a nation that we direct so much obsession and attention toward who our elected officials are sleeping with and so little to who they are illegally spying on and killing and, you know, killing some more? We become so blind to it because we're here, mired in it, and we forget to bring the outrage. Who are these people who are ok being led by a misogynist murderer but who draw the line at a guy who cheated on his wife? (And what does it say about our political system that those are our options?)
Gross.
Has anyone else been feeling an acute, nagging need to start doing some internal clean-up? I think it's that first hint of Spring, blowing around corners, telling us we could be so much more. I spend so little time actually mindful of what I'm doing. It's not that I mind just dicking around -- on the contrary, just dicking around is one of the things I do best. What I do mind, though, is that I'm not deciding to dick around. I'm dicking around because it's there and it's effortless, which is not the same thing. Does that make sense? Like, if I say to myself "Self, you're going to dick around for an hour and then you're going to eat a nourishing meal and play with your dog and take out the recycling" that feels like mindful dicking around, which is a concept I'm fully prepared to support. But if I say to myself "Self, meh" and then skim old Project Runway recaps online for two hours while my daughter plays alone in the other room? That's how you go all dead inside.
Today I've challenged myself to work on my control issues. I started by staying home while my husband took my daughter to her 18-month check-up at the pediatrician's office. This is his first time going to one of these appointments. I really, really wanted him to take her, but if I'm being honest I have to admit that I also really, really wanted to hand him a typed script detailing the exact questions he should ask, the exact outfit he should dress her in to best facilitate the administration of shots, and the exact identities of the toys she should and should not be allowed to shove in her drooling maw in the waiting room.
As it turned out I think I did pretty well with the whole thing. I did succumb to my burning compulsion to pack the diaper bag with a snack and a beverage, and I did dope her up with Motrin before the appointment and suggest that they drive rather than walk to the office due to the rainy forecast. But otherwise, I stayed out of the way as best I could. Control is a tricky motherfucker. There's power in it, but there's also a whole lot of fear and regret. I want my husband to be my parenting equal, but only if he does it my way. I want him to take more ownership over our parenting decisions, but I'm disappointed when we come to different conclusions. There's only so much the guy can do, you know?
What I'm really digging about our impending move to New College-Town Home is that it's a clean slate. A new arms-wide-open start. I mean, the internal clean-up's still got to get done, but somehow it all feels more promising when you look at it against a fresh landscape.
Gross.
Has anyone else been feeling an acute, nagging need to start doing some internal clean-up? I think it's that first hint of Spring, blowing around corners, telling us we could be so much more. I spend so little time actually mindful of what I'm doing. It's not that I mind just dicking around -- on the contrary, just dicking around is one of the things I do best. What I do mind, though, is that I'm not deciding to dick around. I'm dicking around because it's there and it's effortless, which is not the same thing. Does that make sense? Like, if I say to myself "Self, you're going to dick around for an hour and then you're going to eat a nourishing meal and play with your dog and take out the recycling" that feels like mindful dicking around, which is a concept I'm fully prepared to support. But if I say to myself "Self, meh" and then skim old Project Runway recaps online for two hours while my daughter plays alone in the other room? That's how you go all dead inside.
Today I've challenged myself to work on my control issues. I started by staying home while my husband took my daughter to her 18-month check-up at the pediatrician's office. This is his first time going to one of these appointments. I really, really wanted him to take her, but if I'm being honest I have to admit that I also really, really wanted to hand him a typed script detailing the exact questions he should ask, the exact outfit he should dress her in to best facilitate the administration of shots, and the exact identities of the toys she should and should not be allowed to shove in her drooling maw in the waiting room.
As it turned out I think I did pretty well with the whole thing. I did succumb to my burning compulsion to pack the diaper bag with a snack and a beverage, and I did dope her up with Motrin before the appointment and suggest that they drive rather than walk to the office due to the rainy forecast. But otherwise, I stayed out of the way as best I could. Control is a tricky motherfucker. There's power in it, but there's also a whole lot of fear and regret. I want my husband to be my parenting equal, but only if he does it my way. I want him to take more ownership over our parenting decisions, but I'm disappointed when we come to different conclusions. There's only so much the guy can do, you know?
What I'm really digging about our impending move to New College-Town Home is that it's a clean slate. A new arms-wide-open start. I mean, the internal clean-up's still got to get done, but somehow it all feels more promising when you look at it against a fresh landscape.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Could've been so beautiful, could've been so right
This morning we all slept in until 7:30. When Cletus the Former Fetus finally chirped me awake from her bedroom down the hall ("HI! HI! HI! HI!"), I rose to fix her morning rice milk and padded in to pluck her from her crib. She was all warm and soft, she burrowed her head into the crook of my neck and patted my arm with her hand. We settled into the broken rocking chair for a drink and a cuddle. The husband got out of bed about ten minutes later. He came into the living room, stretched, put on shoes and a jacket, took the dog out for a quick walk, came back inside, and announced "I don't want to go to work today."
The birds started singing, the sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains, angels danced with unicorns on marshmallow cloud puffs from heaven. "I never take vacation days," declared the husband. "I should take a vacation day!" Cletus toddled over to her pile of books and grabbed an armfull. "Play! Play!" she called. The dog contentedly chewed a Nylabone.
Then the husband went to the bathroom. When I heard the buzz of his electric razor, I knew the moment was over. He would never shave for a day off. He came out, sat down on the floor with Cletus and me and played with blocks for a couple of minutes, then said "I'll be home really early" and took off for the day.
Fuck it all, man. I wish he had never even brought up the idea. Cletus and I spent the morning at the mall because there was nothing going on at the library and the indoor playground was closed and I was just completely out of ideas. I bought hand soap. We fondled the Elmo merchandise at the toy store. We ate some fruit leather and played on the germ-infested merry-go-round. It was bleak, people. I'm ready for the weekend, the kids' clothes resale event on Saturday and the Cutting Edge marathon (1, 2, AND 3, friends, we don't play) with Jen on Sunday.
I've been craving creativity lately -- not writing, I already do that, although not as much as I should... I'm talking about something I can do with my hands. I've got no skills, an eagerness to learn things coupled with an inconvenient lack of patience for seeing things through. Sometimes I wish I could sew or knit like so many of my friends. I tried quilting for a little while a few years back but it didn't really go anywhere.
Two nights ago I tried to fill my creativity hole by baking things: a dairy-free soy-free carrot spice snack cake for Cletus, some whole wheat brown sugar scones for my dear friend E. who was to visit from Austin this weekend. The recipe for the snack cake called for an absurd amount of olive oil. In retrospect, I can see that it must have been a typo. But whatever, I followed the instructions and poured the "batter" (read: sludge) into a pan, popped it into the oven. Thirty minutes later I checked on it, just a few moments before it began the process of setting the house on fire. People, the layer of crackling, sizzling, bubbling oil that had risen to the top of that cake was so deep that I could have fried chicken wings in it. I should have fried chicken wings in it; at least then I would have enjoyed a tasty snack for my efforts rather than the bitter angst with which I demanded the husband dispose of my creation.
The scones were more successful. Completely successful, in fact -- I was nervous because I had never attempted scones before, but they were surprisingly flaky and delicious. But then yesterday night I got a call from my sobbing friend E., telling me that she wasn't going to make it to Chicago because the shady freaks who were to buy her home backed out at the literal last minute. Those shady freaks put to waste the most edible batch of baked goods I ever turned out.
Oh yeah, and I have a cold. It's the same cold I had last weekend, when the husband let me stay in my PJs all day and watch an entire six hours of tivo'd BBC Pride and Prejudice. I don't think I can ask for two such passes in a row. Do any of the rest of you seem to hang on to colds forever? I'm pretty sure that everyone I know has been sick at some point in the past month. I'm going to go eat another scone.
The birds started singing, the sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains, angels danced with unicorns on marshmallow cloud puffs from heaven. "I never take vacation days," declared the husband. "I should take a vacation day!" Cletus toddled over to her pile of books and grabbed an armfull. "Play! Play!" she called. The dog contentedly chewed a Nylabone.
Then the husband went to the bathroom. When I heard the buzz of his electric razor, I knew the moment was over. He would never shave for a day off. He came out, sat down on the floor with Cletus and me and played with blocks for a couple of minutes, then said "I'll be home really early" and took off for the day.
Fuck it all, man. I wish he had never even brought up the idea. Cletus and I spent the morning at the mall because there was nothing going on at the library and the indoor playground was closed and I was just completely out of ideas. I bought hand soap. We fondled the Elmo merchandise at the toy store. We ate some fruit leather and played on the germ-infested merry-go-round. It was bleak, people. I'm ready for the weekend, the kids' clothes resale event on Saturday and the Cutting Edge marathon (1, 2, AND 3, friends, we don't play) with Jen on Sunday.
I've been craving creativity lately -- not writing, I already do that, although not as much as I should... I'm talking about something I can do with my hands. I've got no skills, an eagerness to learn things coupled with an inconvenient lack of patience for seeing things through. Sometimes I wish I could sew or knit like so many of my friends. I tried quilting for a little while a few years back but it didn't really go anywhere.
Two nights ago I tried to fill my creativity hole by baking things: a dairy-free soy-free carrot spice snack cake for Cletus, some whole wheat brown sugar scones for my dear friend E. who was to visit from Austin this weekend. The recipe for the snack cake called for an absurd amount of olive oil. In retrospect, I can see that it must have been a typo. But whatever, I followed the instructions and poured the "batter" (read: sludge) into a pan, popped it into the oven. Thirty minutes later I checked on it, just a few moments before it began the process of setting the house on fire. People, the layer of crackling, sizzling, bubbling oil that had risen to the top of that cake was so deep that I could have fried chicken wings in it. I should have fried chicken wings in it; at least then I would have enjoyed a tasty snack for my efforts rather than the bitter angst with which I demanded the husband dispose of my creation.
The scones were more successful. Completely successful, in fact -- I was nervous because I had never attempted scones before, but they were surprisingly flaky and delicious. But then yesterday night I got a call from my sobbing friend E., telling me that she wasn't going to make it to Chicago because the shady freaks who were to buy her home backed out at the literal last minute. Those shady freaks put to waste the most edible batch of baked goods I ever turned out.
Oh yeah, and I have a cold. It's the same cold I had last weekend, when the husband let me stay in my PJs all day and watch an entire six hours of tivo'd BBC Pride and Prejudice. I don't think I can ask for two such passes in a row. Do any of the rest of you seem to hang on to colds forever? I'm pretty sure that everyone I know has been sick at some point in the past month. I'm going to go eat another scone.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The things we do for love
Last night my lovely sister-in-law and her boyfriend stopped by on the way down to Georgia, where this Sunday they will commence a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. (You can follow their progress, if you're into that sort of awe-inspiring craziness that makes the rest of us feel fat, on his blog.) They are fully planning on rocking this hike hard-core; they bought these space-age coats that fold down to the size of your fist, they have superstrength sleeping bags and his-n-hers frame-packs, they bought about three times their collective weight in instant mashed potatoes and ramen noodles and Snickers bars, most of which they are arranging to mail to themselves at various points along the trail. They aren't messing around.
You may not remember this, but the summer after I graduated from college I hiked the Vermont section of the AT, me and the husband (back when he was the boyfriend) and three of our friends. I embarked upon this endeavor for the sole purpose of fooling my husband into believing that I was marriage material. His family are hardy people. They like to carry canoes around on their backs and make 6-month-old babies climb trees. I loved that boy of mine something fierce. I wanted to prove that I could be down. So I "trained" by going on 2-mile walks around my parents' neighborhood for about a week, then strapped on my ridiculously overloaded backpack and my brand new boots from REI and started hiking.
The Vermont section of the trail was 150 miles long and we did in about 3 weeks, a laughable pace for real hikers. On the first day I was in tears by, like, mile 2. One of my girlfriends was so exhausted after climbing our first teenytiny little hill that her lips turned blue. We were unbelievably unprepared. We brought too much food. Thru-hikers would speed through camp gnawing on Power Bars while we lounged around making pancakes on our collapsible stove. I was covered in blisters and bruises and my thighs chafed and I whined like a baby, even though we were hiking seven-mile days (as opposed to thru-hikers' 15-20) and spending most of our afternoons sunning ourselves by streams and ponds. I'm not sure whether the first clue was my hysterical crying or my daily two-hour trailside ruminations on the glories of ice cream and/or bacon, but either way I'm pretty sure I didn't fool my husband into seeing me as Nature Woman. That's ok, though, because he ended up marrying me anyway. Had I known it would ultimately turn out to be so easy to solidify his affections on the basis of my own questionable, loud, couch-potato merits, I could have spared myself any of the following:
A. Pretending to "love the water" and agreeing to spend half of our honeymoon canoeing in the Adirondacks. Yes canoeing is fun, and yes I recognize that this is a dream honeymoon for lots of fabulous, outdoorsy people, but as for me? On my honeymoon I want to feel pretty and sexy and clean, and it is hard to do that when you are using your hands to dig a hole in which you will ultimately shit.
B. Pretending to be interested in reading The Hobbit. Again, sorry purists. The husband's mom read him all kinds of Tolkien when he was a kid, as the husband will probably do for Cletus the Former Fetus, and when he bought me a copy for my birthday one year when we were still in college and proposed that we read it together at bedtime, how could I refuse? I'll tell you how: because it was boring and I had, like, 30 papers to write and I was tired and I just wanted to sleep. Or have sex. But mostly sleep.
C. Buying a Grateful Dead album. That was just trying way, way too hard.
You may not remember this, but the summer after I graduated from college I hiked the Vermont section of the AT, me and the husband (back when he was the boyfriend) and three of our friends. I embarked upon this endeavor for the sole purpose of fooling my husband into believing that I was marriage material. His family are hardy people. They like to carry canoes around on their backs and make 6-month-old babies climb trees. I loved that boy of mine something fierce. I wanted to prove that I could be down. So I "trained" by going on 2-mile walks around my parents' neighborhood for about a week, then strapped on my ridiculously overloaded backpack and my brand new boots from REI and started hiking.
The Vermont section of the trail was 150 miles long and we did in about 3 weeks, a laughable pace for real hikers. On the first day I was in tears by, like, mile 2. One of my girlfriends was so exhausted after climbing our first teenytiny little hill that her lips turned blue. We were unbelievably unprepared. We brought too much food. Thru-hikers would speed through camp gnawing on Power Bars while we lounged around making pancakes on our collapsible stove. I was covered in blisters and bruises and my thighs chafed and I whined like a baby, even though we were hiking seven-mile days (as opposed to thru-hikers' 15-20) and spending most of our afternoons sunning ourselves by streams and ponds. I'm not sure whether the first clue was my hysterical crying or my daily two-hour trailside ruminations on the glories of ice cream and/or bacon, but either way I'm pretty sure I didn't fool my husband into seeing me as Nature Woman. That's ok, though, because he ended up marrying me anyway. Had I known it would ultimately turn out to be so easy to solidify his affections on the basis of my own questionable, loud, couch-potato merits, I could have spared myself any of the following:
A. Pretending to "love the water" and agreeing to spend half of our honeymoon canoeing in the Adirondacks. Yes canoeing is fun, and yes I recognize that this is a dream honeymoon for lots of fabulous, outdoorsy people, but as for me? On my honeymoon I want to feel pretty and sexy and clean, and it is hard to do that when you are using your hands to dig a hole in which you will ultimately shit.
B. Pretending to be interested in reading The Hobbit. Again, sorry purists. The husband's mom read him all kinds of Tolkien when he was a kid, as the husband will probably do for Cletus the Former Fetus, and when he bought me a copy for my birthday one year when we were still in college and proposed that we read it together at bedtime, how could I refuse? I'll tell you how: because it was boring and I had, like, 30 papers to write and I was tired and I just wanted to sleep. Or have sex. But mostly sleep.
C. Buying a Grateful Dead album. That was just trying way, way too hard.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Why Jordan Can't Read
I apologize if your interest wanes, but I feel that I have an obligation to tell you a little about what's happening at a public library near you. Or, as we in the biz "like" to say, @ your library.
See, you -- like I -- might have a real soft spot in your heart for the tax-funded gem of education and recreation that is the public library. You may take your kids there for picture books, story hours, and music programs. You may take your very own self there for novels, how-to manuals, Consumer Reports buying guides, People magazine back-issues, books-on-tape, movies about gladiators, or free porn. You may study there. You may use the public computers there. You may read a whole book there in one efficient sitting.
Those books you like so much, though? The ones you can read there in one sitting OR take home with you for free? Yeah... we're throwing those away. Like, in bulk. Especially the old ones, the ones without shiny covers, the ones that were written years and years ago. John Dunne, Christina Rossetti, James Joyce. Some people might call them classics -- we pretty much just call them Ten Cents At The Book Sale. Also, the small-scale novels? The foreign prizewinners in translation, or the first fiction by up-and-coming authors, the ones that you fall in love with after someone plucks them off the shelf and tells you about them? Yesterday's trash, my friends. The library needs room to breathe. Space is at a premium these days, and a library's got to have all the basics: overstuffed chairs, a big-screen TV showing you the time and temp (you're busy -- who's got time to look for a clock?), self check-out stations (you don't want to wait in line for library staff to check out your books -- you want to wait in line for someone to come fix the self check-out machine when it mis-reads your library card!), and a coffee shop. There's just no room for all those volumes and pages, you know?
See, our library directors, our administrators and our department heads? They really REALLY want you to know how hip we are. All these years, you guys have totally misunderstood your local librarians! We're not stuffy ladies in cardigans spending all our time drooling on books. Books are gross! Books are lame! No, we are totally and completely obsessed with technology in all of its various formats. See all of these shiny computers we bought? Ask us to find something for you on the internet. Go ahead! ASK US TO FIND SOMETHING FOR YOU ON THE INTERNET BECAUSE WE TOTALLY KNOW HOW TO DO IT!!
Don't believe us? Well how else can we prove it to you? I mean, I guess we could hire some librarians under the age of 50 who know how to do more than search Google, and we could build an up-to-date technical reference collection of books and AV materials, and we could offer hands-on workshops on new technologies and social networking sites instead of simply walking around and policing a bunch of kids looking at boobies in the computer lab. But hey -- that stuff takes time and money, and we just spent all the money on all these shiny computers... oh, and on our new video game collection. Wheeeeee - look at us! We've got video games! Like, for your Playstation! And you can check them out! Librarians in the hizouse!
But if you still for some reason insist upon looking at books, just be aware that our selection may seem... well, a little different. Because back in the day, back when your library used to look a wee bit more familiar? Your friendly librarians probably shared the library's book-buying responsibilities based on their areas of interest and expertise. That sprawling aisle of science fiction tomes was lovingly chosen by a librarian who plays Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends and believes that somewhere, somehow, unicorns do exist. Those tax prep guides and books about making your millions were picked out by a librarian who knows the difference between a stock and a bond. Now, though? Your library probably rocks a centralized "selection" department. It's all the rage. A couple of librarians buy everything for everyone. So even though I don't give a rat's ass about why your husband doesn't find you attractive anymore, I would be happy to purchase a self-help book just for you! Need an auto-repair guide, or a fascinating read on classic cars? I don't know how to put oil in my Hyundai, but let me pick something out for you! See how streamlined and efficient this is?
What's even better is that all this time we're saving on book-buying? It totally frees up the other librarians to stalk you while you roam the library. Oh, I'm sorry -- haven't you heard? The reference desk is an abominable relic. It actually offends me just to look at it. What the people -- that's YOU! -- really want in these busy times is instant gratification. They don't want to have to strain their eyes looking and looking for that giant and clearly-marked sign bearing the words "Reference Desk - Ask here!" in capital letters. They want service where they stand! That's why more and more, libraries are using what's called "roving reference" -- this means that instead of sitting behind a cold, formal reference desk with their books and computers (I mean, really, how unfriendly is that?), librarians walk around the library with Blackberries, ready and willing to answer your questions. Don't have a question? Don't worry -- we'll answer it anyway! Just want to browse the collection? Never fear -- we'll just be over here, watching you, until you need us. I'm sorry, did you just sneeze? Want a tissue? There, there... that's better, now isn't it?
Doesn't this all sound fabulous? I think so too! Maybe, though, just to reinforce how awesome this all is, you should all take a little visit over to your local public library sometime soon and take a good look around. Take a "Speak Out" form (most libraries offer these feedback forms at service points) -- take three. Let your library administrators know how you feel about how your tax dollars are being spent. And then go find the oldest, dustiest, loveliest book on the shelf and check it out -- just like that, you saved its life.
And then go vandalize the bathroom. Seriously. We live for that stuff.
See, you -- like I -- might have a real soft spot in your heart for the tax-funded gem of education and recreation that is the public library. You may take your kids there for picture books, story hours, and music programs. You may take your very own self there for novels, how-to manuals, Consumer Reports buying guides, People magazine back-issues, books-on-tape, movies about gladiators, or free porn. You may study there. You may use the public computers there. You may read a whole book there in one efficient sitting.
Those books you like so much, though? The ones you can read there in one sitting OR take home with you for free? Yeah... we're throwing those away. Like, in bulk. Especially the old ones, the ones without shiny covers, the ones that were written years and years ago. John Dunne, Christina Rossetti, James Joyce. Some people might call them classics -- we pretty much just call them Ten Cents At The Book Sale. Also, the small-scale novels? The foreign prizewinners in translation, or the first fiction by up-and-coming authors, the ones that you fall in love with after someone plucks them off the shelf and tells you about them? Yesterday's trash, my friends. The library needs room to breathe. Space is at a premium these days, and a library's got to have all the basics: overstuffed chairs, a big-screen TV showing you the time and temp (you're busy -- who's got time to look for a clock?), self check-out stations (you don't want to wait in line for library staff to check out your books -- you want to wait in line for someone to come fix the self check-out machine when it mis-reads your library card!), and a coffee shop. There's just no room for all those volumes and pages, you know?
See, our library directors, our administrators and our department heads? They really REALLY want you to know how hip we are. All these years, you guys have totally misunderstood your local librarians! We're not stuffy ladies in cardigans spending all our time drooling on books. Books are gross! Books are lame! No, we are totally and completely obsessed with technology in all of its various formats. See all of these shiny computers we bought? Ask us to find something for you on the internet. Go ahead! ASK US TO FIND SOMETHING FOR YOU ON THE INTERNET BECAUSE WE TOTALLY KNOW HOW TO DO IT!!
Don't believe us? Well how else can we prove it to you? I mean, I guess we could hire some librarians under the age of 50 who know how to do more than search Google, and we could build an up-to-date technical reference collection of books and AV materials, and we could offer hands-on workshops on new technologies and social networking sites instead of simply walking around and policing a bunch of kids looking at boobies in the computer lab. But hey -- that stuff takes time and money, and we just spent all the money on all these shiny computers... oh, and on our new video game collection. Wheeeeee - look at us! We've got video games! Like, for your Playstation! And you can check them out! Librarians in the hizouse!
But if you still for some reason insist upon looking at books, just be aware that our selection may seem... well, a little different. Because back in the day, back when your library used to look a wee bit more familiar? Your friendly librarians probably shared the library's book-buying responsibilities based on their areas of interest and expertise. That sprawling aisle of science fiction tomes was lovingly chosen by a librarian who plays Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends and believes that somewhere, somehow, unicorns do exist. Those tax prep guides and books about making your millions were picked out by a librarian who knows the difference between a stock and a bond. Now, though? Your library probably rocks a centralized "selection" department. It's all the rage. A couple of librarians buy everything for everyone. So even though I don't give a rat's ass about why your husband doesn't find you attractive anymore, I would be happy to purchase a self-help book just for you! Need an auto-repair guide, or a fascinating read on classic cars? I don't know how to put oil in my Hyundai, but let me pick something out for you! See how streamlined and efficient this is?
What's even better is that all this time we're saving on book-buying? It totally frees up the other librarians to stalk you while you roam the library. Oh, I'm sorry -- haven't you heard? The reference desk is an abominable relic. It actually offends me just to look at it. What the people -- that's YOU! -- really want in these busy times is instant gratification. They don't want to have to strain their eyes looking and looking for that giant and clearly-marked sign bearing the words "Reference Desk - Ask here!" in capital letters. They want service where they stand! That's why more and more, libraries are using what's called "roving reference" -- this means that instead of sitting behind a cold, formal reference desk with their books and computers (I mean, really, how unfriendly is that?), librarians walk around the library with Blackberries, ready and willing to answer your questions. Don't have a question? Don't worry -- we'll answer it anyway! Just want to browse the collection? Never fear -- we'll just be over here, watching you, until you need us. I'm sorry, did you just sneeze? Want a tissue? There, there... that's better, now isn't it?
Doesn't this all sound fabulous? I think so too! Maybe, though, just to reinforce how awesome this all is, you should all take a little visit over to your local public library sometime soon and take a good look around. Take a "Speak Out" form (most libraries offer these feedback forms at service points) -- take three. Let your library administrators know how you feel about how your tax dollars are being spent. And then go find the oldest, dustiest, loveliest book on the shelf and check it out -- just like that, you saved its life.
And then go vandalize the bathroom. Seriously. We live for that stuff.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
This just in: Shady landlords remain shady
So the husband and I finally got up the nerve to email our landlords last night and ask them if we could extend our lease through the summer. We emailed from my husband's account, because when dealing with past instances of their wretchedness I have found them to be at their most responsive (read: about 50% responsive) when I pull the antifeminist "You're going to need to speak with my husband" card. We thought perhaps, given their history of ignoring our pleas for repairs, surprising us with shady utilities charges, and just generally acting like slumlords, that they might decide to show us some mercy on the lease extension out of guilt.
You're seeing where this is going, right? They said no. Actually, they said something akin to "No. Well, let me think it over. But still, honestly? No." So, given the fact that the husband's new job will not start bringing in a paycheck until September 1st AND the fact that we are not of such financial means that would allow us to live for three months without an income, we've got a dilemma here. Yes, there are options. No, none of them will kill us. But mother of holiness do they make me want to chew up a stick just to spit splinters.
We could:
A) Find a dog- and baby-friendly furnished summer sublet here in the Chicago area. Put all of our belongings in storage (because like hell am I unpacking just to repack three months later). Try not to break anything that we don't own. Continue life and jobs as "normal" until a moving date at the end of the summer.
B) Put all of our belongings in storage. Cletus, Frodo, and I move into my parents' basement for a month or two while the husband finds somewhere to stay in Chicago, works like crazy during the week, and takes the train to my parents' place on the weekends. Try not to return to the bottomless depths of self-hatred I harbored as a 16-year-old living in my hometown. Move to New College-town Home sometime mid-summer, because surely I cannot survive this situation for three full months.
C) Buy a house in New College-town Home within the next three months. Move into said house on June 1st. Spend days or even weeks alone in new house with Cletus and Frodo while the husband stays somewhere in the Chicago area and puts in appearances at his current job to ensure a paycheck. Try to make friends on my own in new town despite marked lack of social skills.
D) Go on rampage. Kidnap landlords and make them my minions. Remain in current apartment and continue life and jobs as normal, except now with addition of landlord-slaves to do chores and perform skits.
If anyone has any better ideas, I'm all ears.
You're seeing where this is going, right? They said no. Actually, they said something akin to "No. Well, let me think it over. But still, honestly? No." So, given the fact that the husband's new job will not start bringing in a paycheck until September 1st AND the fact that we are not of such financial means that would allow us to live for three months without an income, we've got a dilemma here. Yes, there are options. No, none of them will kill us. But mother of holiness do they make me want to chew up a stick just to spit splinters.
We could:
A) Find a dog- and baby-friendly furnished summer sublet here in the Chicago area. Put all of our belongings in storage (because like hell am I unpacking just to repack three months later). Try not to break anything that we don't own. Continue life and jobs as "normal" until a moving date at the end of the summer.
B) Put all of our belongings in storage. Cletus, Frodo, and I move into my parents' basement for a month or two while the husband finds somewhere to stay in Chicago, works like crazy during the week, and takes the train to my parents' place on the weekends. Try not to return to the bottomless depths of self-hatred I harbored as a 16-year-old living in my hometown. Move to New College-town Home sometime mid-summer, because surely I cannot survive this situation for three full months.
C) Buy a house in New College-town Home within the next three months. Move into said house on June 1st. Spend days or even weeks alone in new house with Cletus and Frodo while the husband stays somewhere in the Chicago area and puts in appearances at his current job to ensure a paycheck. Try to make friends on my own in new town despite marked lack of social skills.
D) Go on rampage. Kidnap landlords and make them my minions. Remain in current apartment and continue life and jobs as normal, except now with addition of landlord-slaves to do chores and perform skits.
If anyone has any better ideas, I'm all ears.
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