The Most Boring Post Ever

At the risk of tediously angsting up the place;

OMG. I am so. fucking. bored.

*heaving sigh*

In other, more interesting news, I watched Little Miss Sunshine with my mom the other day, and I liked it so much that I watched it again with Carl that night. Ok, that was in no way interesting news. But the movie was very good. You should see it, if you haven't yet.

Dear Pregnant Self,

You think you're real cute, dontcha? Well, you are, and you should enjoy it. What other time in your life are you going to gain 25 very noticable pounds and have people telling you how beautiful you look every time they see you? I mean, soon, it's going to be "Don't worry, the rest will come off eventually" from people you don't even know, and then you are going to have to choke a bitch in the diaper aisle and possibly go to jail. Honestly. You're not going to ask the bitch how she thinks you look, cause you think you look good, but she'll tell you "not to worry" anyway. When the time comes, remember: She deserves choking.

Also, I know you have no pretty, glowing illusions about how a baby is going to bring you and your man closer together. From what I recall, you are sure that she will arrive, smash your world into pulp, then eat that pulp for breakfast, and you're not wrong there. She will. The pulp of your former life is her favorite taco topping. And you're not wrong about the other thing either. Right now, you're relationships is all, "Let's learn how to make Thai food!" and "I love making love to you." Well, soon, it's going to be "Please tell me. How do you screw up Hamburger Helper?" and "Um...sorry about that. I'll make it up to you, I promise." But don't despair. The relationship you have built will get you through this.

You will watch Primetime specials on how babies put monumental stress on marriages, then turn to each other, hi-five, and laugh maniacally, "Joke's on them! We're not even married! Suckers!" You will amuse yourselves, not with spontanious and romantic trips to New Hope, but with the ever-critical who-can-shove-the-most-grapes-in-their-mouth contest. (He can. I tapped out at 33 and he just kept packing them in. Unsettling.) True, there will be less Friday nights out at karioke or the movies. But there will be more Friday nights spent clinging to each other under the covers, hands lovingly clamped over each other's ears to block out the crying. You can't get that kind of intimacy anywhere else, I promise.

You don't remember what "alone time" means or what you would do with it if you had it (probably sleep), but you still go to the grocery store together and mock bad Soccer Mom haircuts and grandma-panty lines under velour sweat suits. You still love each other, and in some ways you didn't expect, you are a lot closer. It's going to be okay.

Love,
Future Self

Sugar and Spice

...if the spice is red pepper flakes, or perhaps some lethal curry powder. You know. The kind of spice that keeps you up all night, clutching at your various parts in agony and wondering if the light of day will indeed come again, or if it is just another half-remembered dream you once had...

The sugar part is still sweet though. Makes you briefly forget all pain; Indian-food induced or otherwise.

Just a Little Animosity

Dear Vet Office Receptionist,

Believe me, I realize that it takes a long long time for nails to dry. Please, whatever you do, do not let the fact that my cat is on death's door get in the way of a pleasing, uniform sheen to your now Tinkerbell-pink claws. And yes, the fact that you pulled out Sympathy Card #17, which reads "It's so hard when our pets get older" even though our cat is inexplicably wasting away at 18 months of age, that totally makes up for your complete inability to be bothered by our presence in your fine establishment. Just see if we don't walk out without paying every single time we come her. Just see.

Dear Pediatric Office Receptionist,

Wow. You're right. I didn't know that I am currently unemployed and unable to provide medical insurance for my baby daughter and that she is on county assistance so she can see a doctor and that my last name is different from her daddy's because we are sinners who live together and obviously have SEX without being MARRIED and produce children out of wedlock, children who will no doubt grow up and be financial burdens on your children and maybe mug them in dark alleys too, because obviously children such as mine are no good, NO GOOD from the start, as evidenced by the fact that you cannot type her birthdate correctly and thus cannot find her in the computer. I somehow did not know those things, and neither did all of the people in this waiting room, but they do now. You've been a big help. I feel very recieved.

Dear Dentist Office Receptionist,

You are stupid. You should take lessons from these other bitter old hag receptionists that I know, because, try as you might, your "uninterested and condescending" act just comes off as "braindamaged." Or maybe some previous patient who walked into your lobby was frustrated by your "I just took eleven Xanax" approach to customer service, so they took a brick to your head, permanently altering your ability to write in appointment books and tell me the correct appointment date, and you should just bag groceries for a living.

Dear Special Parking Lot Cart Retriever Guy at Giant,

You are doing a good job, buddy. Keep it up.

Thanks all,
Mo

Power Testing

Recently Teenaged Psuedo-Stepgirl: OMG I'm totally going to get an F on my math test.
Me: Well, you can only do your best. I mean, it would suck, but if you are really doing your best, it's not the end of the world.
RTPS: Pft. What would you do if I got an F on my math test?
Me: What would I do? Well, since it's not my math test, I'd probably make dinner, eat dinner, watch some TV, and go to sleep.
RTPS: Ok, well what if Wendy was in seventh grade and got an F on her math test?
Me: Oh. Well, I'd probably take her internet away and not let her go to her friends houses untill she got a not-F.
RTPS: .....whoa now.
Me: I know.
RTPS: ...What do you think my dad would do?
Me: What do you think.
RTPS: Probably not much. Probably just say "*grumble grumble* do better in math *grumble*"
Me: Is that what you think.
RTPS: yeah.
Me: hmm. Ok.
RTPS: *blink*
Me: *blink*

Man, is she going to be pissed at me when her internet is cut and she's grounded from friends.

Preserving the Mystique

He's picked up "feminine" products for me at the store. We often discuss the status of our bowels. He has personal knowledge that my claim of "never farting" is, tragically, a lie. He watched me give birth. He's seen me eat things I found in the couch, for god's sake.

And yet I hesitate to TiVo episodes Top Chef and Real World/Road Rules Challange, because he would then see that I watch Top Chef and Real World/Road Rules Challange, and I'm just not sure I'm ready for how that might change his oppinion of me.

Tea for Two

Having now the vast experience of being someone's Mommy for an entire five weeks, I can with confidence give myself the official rating of "adequate."

This means that, while I have poked her in the eye, clipped her finger with the nail clippers, and wrapped her up in a blanket coated in cat hair, I have not yet done anything so horrible as to ensure that she will run away to follow some meteor-worshiping cult when she's fifteen. (Running away to lead some meteor-worshiping cult would of course be perfectly acceptable. Especially at fifteen. Any mother would be proud.)

My mom spent the night last week, so that she could bask in the baby-glow of her Royal Babyness. This is when I learned that in addition to being an eye-poker, my baby finds me an uninteresting conversationalist. This became apparent as Wendy, who usually regards me with all the skepticism and furrowed brow of a nineteen year-old Hot-Topic sales associate, turned to my mom and chatted her up like they were sharing gossip and scones and wearing matching hats at a tea party.

Mom: And what does that little girl think about thaaat?
Wendy: Goo! Goooo! Neh? Geeerrrr! Goo!
Mom: Oh really? Well, I think so toooo!
Wendy: Geeeh! Geh? Geh.
Mo: Yeah, she doesn’t talk to me like that.
Mom: Well, you don’t talk silly to her. Try talking silly.
Mo: HELLO WENDY I AM YOUR MOTHER LOVE ME AND WE SHALL RULE THE DARK SIDE TOGETHER. ALL SHALL DESPAIR.
Wendy, Mom: …….
Mom: Um, you just need practice. ISn’t that right, little girl? Mommy isn’t as talky as grandma, is she? Nooo she's not.
Wendy: It’s ok, I forgive her. What she lacks in the basic human warmth required to make conversation with an infant, she makes up for in copious and generously given stores of mammary treats. I mean, have you seen those things? Acres and acres of boobs, and they’re all mine! …Goo.

New

Last year on New Year's Eve, we went to a big party at a giant rented cabin somewhere in the Poconos, drank a lot of Lambic and Tully, made out with other sexy people, and ate Zoe's spicy noodles. (That is not a euphamism; Zoe made yummy spicy noodles, and we ate some. Thai peanut or something. They were delicous.)

This year, I did a lot of laundry. I had a half a glass of wine, he had a little rum and egg nog, and we watched the ball drop while leaning on each other (soooo sleeeepy!) and holding the baby, just trying to keep our eyes open.

Ahem. Mo's year in review:

1. Started substitute teaching. Five years of college and a note from the government vouching for your non-molester status, and you too can babysit teenagers!
2. Moved in with man friend. Actually, just admitted to having already moved in. I stopped sleeping anywhere else sometime in 2005.
3. Spent a month in Florida doing the Bay Area Renn Faire. (B.A.R.F.) Was this my last hurrah, seeing as I was now cohabitating with a significant other and now held a responsible job like some kind of adult? No. It was far too late for hurrahs.
4. Because I was already pregnant.

Mo's year in review should just read:

1. Got sperm poisoning.
2. Was infected all year.
3. Gave birth.
4. Cure scarier than infection.

Yeah. That sums it up much better. Because years down the line, that is all I am ever going to remember about 2006. Honestly, that is all I'm going to remember about 2006 by next week.

Today

Tuesday, I believed that I was acclimating to the lack of sleep. I was beginning to feel as though maybe I could deal with this, that perhaps one could convince one's self that sleep deprivation was a state of mind, and then talk one's self out of it. I did some dishes. I picked up some of the Christmas hurricane that still claims our living room. I made plans to go out later in the week. Tuesday was a good day.

Wednesday, all of that time that I spent feeling good about myself and doing things caught up with me. In fact, I think the entire past three weeks of baby feeding, shopping, holliday planning, and everything else that I was doing instead of sleeping caught up with me. Wednesday, I lay in bed trying to decide whether I was more tired or more hungry, and since the food was a lot farther away, I drank some water, fed the baby, and we both went back to sleep. Wednesday was over before I really knew that it started, because I never really went to sleep or woke up; I was just trapped in some mad, grinding, purgatorial nightmare in which a little elf demanded to gnaw on my flesh and refused to stop the squealing/grunting baby dinosaur fussing for a single instant.

Thursday, I recovered from Wednesday. I watched random things the TiVo had caught (yay TiVo for Christmas! We are so spoiled!), patiently saving the Venture Brothers marathon for Carl and I to watch when he came home. Which we did.

And Today, I bring you heartwarming tales of motherhood that include the phrase "grinding, purgatorial nightmare." The saving grace of this week is as follows: At the center of the all the haze and blur that this elf has made of my world, there is a bubble of clarity, where I am accutely aware of every tiny move that she makes, and greatful for it. I am greatful for her little fist earnestly clutching my thumb while she eats. I am greatful for the opportunity to watch her eyes change color from the murky mud-blue they were at birth to whatever they plan on being in the future. Right now, they are a beautiful, faceted crystal gray, ringed with the darkest indigo... Today is a better day.

Hey!

Merry Christmas!

I hope yours will be as good as mine:

warm and squishy like a full diaper...

...tender and delicious like baby toes.