We got the results from some lab work I had done on Monday and things - didn’t look fantastic. The doctor prescribed hormones to try to keep my levels up and I've been taking them for a couple of days now. Prescribed hormones + normal pregnancy hormonal upheaval + morning sickness = total emotional chaos.
(I’m really pleasant to be around right now, trust me on this.)
I don’t feel much like myself right now, so I’m gonna take a little bloggy vacation for a week or so. I hope I'll see you when I get back.
Thanks so much for all of the well wishes and reassurance and for all the love. It was exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you. Really.
COMMENTS OFF
PS: Oh - don’t forget to go enter the giveaway, it closes tonight. Free Amazon, what’s not to love?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
So... The News
This is karmic payback for all of the times my teenage self scoffed at my mom over my youngest brother and sister’s “accidental” entry into the world.
I'm very accidentally pregnant - just past the first trimester.
We are still adjusting to the reality of it all. We're a little shell-shocked, because we were done. DONE. We gave away every last baby thing a long time ago.
And of course, there's stuff making me nervous.
For one thing, I’m old. Thirty-SEVEN. (How is that possible?!)
For another, my uterus is shot. Two different OBs warned me numerous times not to get pregnant and strongly encouraged me to do something to ensure that I didn’t.
(You know, I kept meaning to take care of that…)
The current plan is to take the baby about six weeks early to avoid uterine rupture. (Yeah, if you thought I was a hypochondriac BEFORE...) Apparently this isn't all that uncommon and they know how to handle it, so (insert melodramatic tone here) WE WILL SURVIVE.
We’re trying to work our way into being excited about it, but right now, even though we’ve known for a while, it still seems like something we made up, like a little joke we are telling each other. SURE we’re having another baby. Right. Good one.
I'm a little worried about the kids. I have three good kids and I usually feel somewhat equal to the task of being their mother. But four? I don’t know. I don't know if I can do it and still be the kind of mom I want to be.
Some women have the patience for a large family - the natural knack, the talent for handling crowds. My next door neighbor has seven, and she's a fantastic mother. But if I had seven I'd end up on the news. "Local mother barricades herself inside shed with shotgun, refuses to come out until the children are all asleep."
I know four kids isn't necessarily a large family. (I have eight brothers and sisters. THAT's a large family.) But four kids feels like a lot for me. I'm nervous.
So tell me congratulations, and tell me it's going to be o.k. I really need to hear that right now.
“How can you have an accidental baby, Mom? Sheesh. Just use birth control. It’s not that hard."NEVER TEMPT FATE, PEOPLE.
I'm very accidentally pregnant - just past the first trimester.
We are still adjusting to the reality of it all. We're a little shell-shocked, because we were done. DONE. We gave away every last baby thing a long time ago.
And of course, there's stuff making me nervous.
For one thing, I’m old. Thirty-SEVEN. (How is that possible?!)
For another, my uterus is shot. Two different OBs warned me numerous times not to get pregnant and strongly encouraged me to do something to ensure that I didn’t.
(You know, I kept meaning to take care of that…)
The current plan is to take the baby about six weeks early to avoid uterine rupture. (Yeah, if you thought I was a hypochondriac BEFORE...) Apparently this isn't all that uncommon and they know how to handle it, so (insert melodramatic tone here) WE WILL SURVIVE.
We’re trying to work our way into being excited about it, but right now, even though we’ve known for a while, it still seems like something we made up, like a little joke we are telling each other. SURE we’re having another baby. Right. Good one.
I'm a little worried about the kids. I have three good kids and I usually feel somewhat equal to the task of being their mother. But four? I don’t know. I don't know if I can do it and still be the kind of mom I want to be.
Some women have the patience for a large family - the natural knack, the talent for handling crowds. My next door neighbor has seven, and she's a fantastic mother. But if I had seven I'd end up on the news. "Local mother barricades herself inside shed with shotgun, refuses to come out until the children are all asleep."
I know four kids isn't necessarily a large family. (I have eight brothers and sisters. THAT's a large family.) But four kids feels like a lot for me. I'm nervous.
So tell me congratulations, and tell me it's going to be o.k. I really need to hear that right now.
Friday, February 20, 2009
HA! HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA! HAHA! (And Such)
I think I'm changing it from "Very Funny Friday" to just "Friday." And you can just post whatever. Or not.
It's the Very-Low-Threshold-For-Participation Carnival. Come one, come all!
I’m still working away at those questions you guys gave me. (Never fear Shawn!)
Today, I’m answering this one from Mom Babe:
"Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah, I don't really care how you met your husband. I want to know how many boys you kissed BEFORE you met him."
THERE IS NOT ENOUGH BLOG SPACE IN THE WORLD TO LIST THEM ALL.
No, that's a lie.
But not because I was one of those "only kiss the guy you marry" types. No way.
It's just that I was a complete horror show in high school, and then I had a succession of super hopeless crushes that kept me out of the dating pool for months at a time. And then I got married.
But here are the ones who squeaked through the safety net.
- Larry Long. Seriously, that was his name. Complete tool. I’ve told this story before, but for those who missed it:
- A guy I met when I was ditching school with my friend Diane a.k.a. The Very Bad Influence. It was the only time in my life that I ever had alcohol. I drank half of a wine cooler, thought this meant I was drunk, and proceeded to make out with - some random guy. After fifteen minutes I felt horribly guilty and left.
I went to my bishop at church and confessed about my wild afternoon of debauchery, crying and asking him if there was any way I could ever be forgiven or if my soul would always be black and dark and evil. (I was lacking a little, how you say - oh, yes - PERSPECTIVE.) He managed to keep a straight face and told me not to worry about it, but to stop hanging out with Diane so much. - Chris, the adorable cook at the Mr. Yogurt where I worked as a waitress the summer before college - the summer of the forty pound weight loss due to my shredded lettuce and taco sauce diet. He kept flirting with me and asking me out. I could not understand it. What was his GAME? What was his DEAL? He was very cute and funny, and I developed a sizable crush on him, but I was suspicious, because cute boys weren’t usually interested unless there were bets involved. (THANKS AGAIN LARRY.) Clearly, something was wrong with him and/or he was just playing with me. I repeatedly turned him down and insulted him, made fun of his vocabulary ("I don't think that word means what you think it means"), and generally behaved like a charm school drop-out.
One night we were closing the restaurant together and I said something particularly insulting and he kissed me, shocking the stuffing out of me. I called and quit the next day, completely unable to deal with the situation. The situation where a cute, charming, smart guy who I had a crush on wanted to date me. {{pounds head against desk}} - Oh gosh. Kent. Poor Kent. Poor incredibly shy, mom’s-station-wagon-driving, ran-out-of-money-on-our-first-date, car-broke-down-in-my-driveway-after-the-second-date Kent. I was about to let him down gently after the second date, but he wrote me a letter saying how much he cared about me and it made me feel bad. (DATING TIP: Generally, you should not kiss guys because you feel bad for them. It makes them write you a LOT more letters.)
- Justin. Or, more accurately, Keith.
- Friend who I secretly kissed a few times who I should NOT have secretly kissed a few times. I'm not going to name him because a few of my friends from back then read my blog and if Facebook has taught me anything, it's that meaningless but juicy gossip has no shelf life.
- Scott - the on again, off again guy who was, as it turned out, just not all that into me.
- My friend Heather’s friend, short Rob. I completely took advantage of him. I was on the rebound, trying unsuccessfully to make someone jealous, and this was the equivalent of grasping at very short straws. I would feel bad about it, except that right before we kissed I said, “I’m totally on the rebound.” And he said, “O.K.”
The most awful kiss ever. I think he was trying to strangle me with his tongue. He kissed me for a minute, then said, “People say I’m not a very good kisser. What do you think?” I said, “I have to go home now.” - Aaaaaand…. My husband. Out of respect for his privacy and probable complete embarrassment over this post (aren’t you glad you showed the people at work my blog? I told you that was a good move) I will not comment on the quality of the kissing, I will just say I think we went on four real dates during our entire - uh… courtship. The rest of the time we mostly spent making out in his truck.
At a Saturday night dance the spring I turned fifteen, I somehow ended up talking to THAT guy. You know the one - football player, extremely cute, very popular. Way out of my dating league - not that I was dating. Truth be told, I was so young for my age, so gullible, and so just plain dumb that I have to wonder why my parents ever let me out of the house.(I know, this is the best Funny Friday post EVER. SO HILARIOUS. Now excuse me for a minute while I go weep in the corner over my crushed fifteen year old hopes and dreams. Ha! Ha ha! Also - THANKS LARRY.)
Larry danced with me, told me I was cute, told me he really liked me. He drove me home - almost all the way to my house, where he stopped the car, took my hand and asked me if I wanted to take a walk with him. (DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!)
We walked down the street and he told me how much he liked me and gave me a kiss (more like a SERIES of kisses) and then eventually, veeeery eventually, I went home. I was so happy. Ugh.
The next day he wouldn’t call me back. My best friend’s boyfriend Wayne told me that he and Larry had a bet going on to see how many girls he could kiss in one night, and I was girl number five. But Wayne told me I should be proud, because I’d taken a lot more work than some of the other girls, and that “was cool.” Somehow this was not comforting. It was my first kiss, and I was absolutely crushed.
(If you participate, don't forget to link back. Non-linking posts will be deleted. For more info about what's going on here, go here. Or you can just wonder. Forever.)
(wonder, wonder, wonder)
Monday, February 16, 2009
In Which the Universe Sends a Little Karmic Justice My Way
IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!
No, it isn’t my birthday.
OK, actually it is. It's my birthday. (Am I allowed to say that? Is that like some kind of big faux pas? Here's my whole thing about birthdays. You SHOULD get extra recognition on your birthday. You kind of need it to get through the day, because it's not like its a naturally fantastic moment in time. Sure, you might snag a few presents, but really it just means you're one year closer to death.)
(I would never end up having a Sixteen Candles forgotten birthday deal, because after about five minutes I’d be all, HELLO LOSERS, WHERE ARE MY PRESENTS?!)
(My husband likes to claim I forgot his birthday last year, but this is a wretched lie. He was getting ready to leave for work and I stumbled out to the kitchen. I was barely conscious, and he gave me a whole thirty seconds of head clearing time before he said, “I can’t believe you forgot my birthday.” I was like, “I didn’t forget your birthday - I’m not even AWAKE yet.” It’s not like I was going to forget it all day long. Probably.)
We celebrated my birthday on Monday, because Tuesday is one of our horrifically busy days, and today we were all home. Sarah used her actual piggy bank money to buy me a present. My husband tried to pay for it, but she insisted, and actually CRIED when he didn't use her dollar bills to pay the cashier. If that isn't so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, then you are DEAD INSIDE.
I answered some of the questions from the last post in the comments to the last post. Tonguu Mama was right - I’m kind of sick of talking about myself. (I KNOW! Who'd have thought?!) There are a few I didn't answer that I'll probably post about later. I know you can hardly stand waiting for my thrilling answers. Try to contain your excitement.
Aprel, Mandajuice and Melanie all wanted to know how things were going on the book front and I've been meaning to talk about that, because the whole thing is ridiculous. (Me + ridiculous = SURPRISING.)
So how things are going, how things are going, how things are going....
Wait. Before I tell you, first I'd better make sure we're all on the same page, that we're speaking the same LANGUAGE, that you know all about the whole publishing BAG.
Here is how traditional publishing works:
So if you've read for a while, you know that one night a few months back, I completely lost my mind and sent out query emails to a few agents in the middle of the night. Even though, uh, I hadn’t exactly written a manuscript. And by that I mean I’d written four pages.) But they were GOOD pages.)
I did not expect to get an answer, especially from a national agent who pretty much specialized in the kind of stuff I imagined I wrote. (I mean, I had no actual proof, but I was guessing - if I wrote something, it would be RIGHT UP HER ALLEY.)
But a few days later I did get a response, and she wanted to see a partial. So I got all blithery dithery and pounded out a partial, sent it to my critique partners (who told me exactly what I needed to fix), then sent it off to her after making my changes.
Now this agent said it would take her a couple of months to read the partial, and not to expect to hear from her before that time. So I planned to use the two months to finish the manuscript.
And I started. I did. I started to finish it. But when I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, I started to have doubts. Because really, would it HONESTLY take her two months? Just because she'd said it would? Of course not. That was probably just her way of letting the bad writers down easily.
Obviously, the only reason she hadn't responded within the first two weeks was that she'd read it and decided it was the most horrible dreck that ever drecked. I re-read the partial approximately eighty times, and by the eighty-first read I was ready to stomp on it, burn it, curse it for the horror it was. There was no way she would like it, why bother finishing it, why bother even LIVING, blah blah dramatic blah.
So I stopped working on it.
And of course, a week or so ago she sent me an email. She really liked my partial and wants to read the full.
Gulp.
So now I'm working on the full, hoping that she'll still want to read it when I'm done. I figure – hey – what’s a little two month lapse, right? Right? RIGHT?
And so I sit here late at night after the kids are in bed and I’m done with my work, trying to write something funny and fluffy and my mind is a total blank. All I can think about is popsicles.
I’ve always wanted to be a real live published writer, and now that I have something close to an opportunity I’m completely frozen. It’s like those dreams you have where you’re back in high school and there’s this really important test you need to study for, and then suddenly you’re in the classroom and the test is right in front of you but you didn’t study, and also you’re naked.
My writer friends are all hating me right now, thinking "CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER," and "THIS IS KARMA" and such. And yes. Yes. THIS, THIS is why you don’t try to cheat the system, my friends.
WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS? WHY? WHY? WHY?
See, this is what being impulsive gets you. (Besides married. And owning a boat.) LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU.
PS: No – that isn’t my news. The news – I’m still percolating on that, but it’s nothing very exciting. I'll probably tell you about it later. I was just feeling a tad dramatic that day. (I like to be melodramatic, have you ever noticed? You probably haven't noticed. I'm subtle.)
No, it isn’t my birthday.
OK, actually it is. It's my birthday. (Am I allowed to say that? Is that like some kind of big faux pas? Here's my whole thing about birthdays. You SHOULD get extra recognition on your birthday. You kind of need it to get through the day, because it's not like its a naturally fantastic moment in time. Sure, you might snag a few presents, but really it just means you're one year closer to death.)
(I would never end up having a Sixteen Candles forgotten birthday deal, because after about five minutes I’d be all, HELLO LOSERS, WHERE ARE MY PRESENTS?!)
(My husband likes to claim I forgot his birthday last year, but this is a wretched lie. He was getting ready to leave for work and I stumbled out to the kitchen. I was barely conscious, and he gave me a whole thirty seconds of head clearing time before he said, “I can’t believe you forgot my birthday.” I was like, “I didn’t forget your birthday - I’m not even AWAKE yet.” It’s not like I was going to forget it all day long. Probably.)
We celebrated my birthday on Monday, because Tuesday is one of our horrifically busy days, and today we were all home. Sarah used her actual piggy bank money to buy me a present. My husband tried to pay for it, but she insisted, and actually CRIED when he didn't use her dollar bills to pay the cashier. If that isn't so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, then you are DEAD INSIDE.
I answered some of the questions from the last post in the comments to the last post. Tonguu Mama was right - I’m kind of sick of talking about myself. (I KNOW! Who'd have thought?!) There are a few I didn't answer that I'll probably post about later. I know you can hardly stand waiting for my thrilling answers. Try to contain your excitement.
Aprel, Mandajuice and Melanie all wanted to know how things were going on the book front and I've been meaning to talk about that, because the whole thing is ridiculous. (Me + ridiculous = SURPRISING.)
So how things are going, how things are going, how things are going....
Wait. Before I tell you, first I'd better make sure we're all on the same page, that we're speaking the same LANGUAGE, that you know all about the whole publishing BAG.
Here is how traditional publishing works:
- In order to get published, you need an agent. They’re the gatekeepers for the publishing world.
- In order to get an agent, you have to write a query letter. Most agents get hundreds, if not thousands of query letters every month – so your letter has to be at least goodish.
- If the agent likes your query letter, she might ask you to send a partial manuscript – usually the first 30 to 50 pages or so.
- If the agent likes your partial, she might ask you to send her the full manuscript.
- If she likes your full manuscript enough, she might just go crazy and decide to represent you.
- If she represents you, she’ll shop your book around to publishers and you MIGHT get a book deal. And CHANCES ARE, if you get a book deal, she's gonna ask you for another cookie.
So if you've read for a while, you know that one night a few months back, I completely lost my mind and sent out query emails to a few agents in the middle of the night. Even though, uh, I hadn’t exactly written a manuscript. And by that I mean I’d written four pages.) But they were GOOD pages.)
I did not expect to get an answer, especially from a national agent who pretty much specialized in the kind of stuff I imagined I wrote. (I mean, I had no actual proof, but I was guessing - if I wrote something, it would be RIGHT UP HER ALLEY.)
But a few days later I did get a response, and she wanted to see a partial. So I got all blithery dithery and pounded out a partial, sent it to my critique partners (who told me exactly what I needed to fix), then sent it off to her after making my changes.
Now this agent said it would take her a couple of months to read the partial, and not to expect to hear from her before that time. So I planned to use the two months to finish the manuscript.
And I started. I did. I started to finish it. But when I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, I started to have doubts. Because really, would it HONESTLY take her two months? Just because she'd said it would? Of course not. That was probably just her way of letting the bad writers down easily.
Obviously, the only reason she hadn't responded within the first two weeks was that she'd read it and decided it was the most horrible dreck that ever drecked. I re-read the partial approximately eighty times, and by the eighty-first read I was ready to stomp on it, burn it, curse it for the horror it was. There was no way she would like it, why bother finishing it, why bother even LIVING, blah blah dramatic blah.
So I stopped working on it.
And of course, a week or so ago she sent me an email. She really liked my partial and wants to read the full.
Gulp.
So now I'm working on the full, hoping that she'll still want to read it when I'm done. I figure – hey – what’s a little two month lapse, right? Right? RIGHT?
And so I sit here late at night after the kids are in bed and I’m done with my work, trying to write something funny and fluffy and my mind is a total blank. All I can think about is popsicles.
I’ve always wanted to be a real live published writer, and now that I have something close to an opportunity I’m completely frozen. It’s like those dreams you have where you’re back in high school and there’s this really important test you need to study for, and then suddenly you’re in the classroom and the test is right in front of you but you didn’t study, and also you’re naked.
My writer friends are all hating me right now, thinking "CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER," and "THIS IS KARMA" and such. And yes. Yes. THIS, THIS is why you don’t try to cheat the system, my friends.
WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS? WHY? WHY? WHY?
See, this is what being impulsive gets you. (Besides married. And owning a boat.) LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU.
PS: No – that isn’t my news. The news – I’m still percolating on that, but it’s nothing very exciting. I'll probably tell you about it later. I was just feeling a tad dramatic that day. (I like to be melodramatic, have you ever noticed? You probably haven't noticed. I'm subtle.)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Highway Freaking Robbery
(Post Disclaimer: I've been in a funky mood for the last couple of weeks, a mood caused by news that's completely thrown me. Like picked-me-up-and-slammed-me-against-the-far-wall kind of thrown me. I'm not ready to talk about it, but just know that I'm a little off. A little discombobulated. A little brittle. But I should be back to my regular self any day now. Probably.)
I hate Valentines Day. (CHEERFUL!)
Not because the romance is gone, but because it's this one day where it feels like you have to "PROVE IT! PROVE IT NOW! MEASURE YOUR LOVE! IN CHOCOLATE!" And then after Valentines Day, everyone posts about the darling things they did for their kids, or the darling table they set, or the darling gift their significant other got them, and then I end up chasing my eyeballs around the kitchen floor after I roll them so hard they freaking spin right out of their sockets.
Today we performed our annual St. Valentines Day Why-Don't-We-Just-Go-Ahead-And-Set-the-Money-On-Fire-a-thon, buying Valentines for all three children to give to their classmates, along with candy and Valentine plates and cups and drinks and napkins for the class parties. Of course, attempting to find anything red or pink ("Dear Sarah's Mom: The plates and cups must be red. Or pink. Sincerely: Sarah's Sadistic Teacher") at this late date was an exercise in complete futility which required visiting three separate stores, and after all of that I STILL forgot the parmesan cheese.
(For dinner, not for the class party.)
(Tell me about how fun class Valentines Day parties are and I will come over there and rip out your gizzard.)
Class party fury aside, I do try to make Valentines Day fun for the kids. Last year, in a fit of guilt over our impending move, I did all kinds of Type A Valentines Day Motherish things - even attempting pink heart-shaped pancakes (FAIL). This year I will probably... I don't know.... Do... something. (That is my big plan as of 11:00 tonight.)
My husband and I usually go to dinner, and that's what we're doing again this year, but on Friday instead of Saturday because 1) who cares? (romantic) and 2) finding a babysitter in our neighborhood on Valentines Day is impossible.
There are at least fifty-seven families with young children within a three block radius of our house. Babysitters are booked up for seven months in advance and when you do manage to win the babysitting lottery and secure one you have to pay them in Cool Ranch Doritos and freaking GOLD. Bidding wars break out for the good ones until only the babysitting dregs are left and you end up making incredibly desperate choices. "Well yes, I know Margene almost electrocuted Carter last time, but really, what are the odds it would happen twice? Pretty small, right?"
Here's the thing that annoys me about babysitters. My kids are good kids. I'm not just saying that. We won the good kid lottery. They're easy, they get along, they play well together, they do what they're told - and they're even easier with babysitters than with their mom. We usually have them in bed by 7:00, and the sitter typically comes at 7:30. So basically we pay some teenager $7 an hour to sit on our couch and watch TV and eat our food and make sure the house doesn't burn down. It really chaps my hide. A LOT. MAN. SEVEN BUCKS.
When I was a babysitter I did the dishes and cleaned the counters and mopped the floor and organized their 8-track collection, all for $1 an hour. BUT THESE KIDS TODAY. THESE LAZY KIDS TODAY.
MAN. !!!
(Actually, I'm not sure if I'm legitimately upset by this or if this is just a continuation of my MYSTERIOUS ITEM induced bad mood. Maybe I'm doomed to be irrationally irritated for a little while.)
(I apologize in advance if I end up posting tomorrow about how it really ticks me off when the sun is out, and also it ticks me off when the sun is behind the clouds, and also how inconvenient is it that it gets so freaking DARK at night?!)
(Any of these things might set me off. AT ANY MOMENT.)
Happy freaking Valentines Day.
I hate Valentines Day. (CHEERFUL!)
Not because the romance is gone, but because it's this one day where it feels like you have to "PROVE IT! PROVE IT NOW! MEASURE YOUR LOVE! IN CHOCOLATE!" And then after Valentines Day, everyone posts about the darling things they did for their kids, or the darling table they set, or the darling gift their significant other got them, and then I end up chasing my eyeballs around the kitchen floor after I roll them so hard they freaking spin right out of their sockets.
Today we performed our annual St. Valentines Day Why-Don't-We-Just-Go-Ahead-And-Set-the-Money-On-Fire-a-thon, buying Valentines for all three children to give to their classmates, along with candy and Valentine plates and cups and drinks and napkins for the class parties. Of course, attempting to find anything red or pink ("Dear Sarah's Mom: The plates and cups must be red. Or pink. Sincerely: Sarah's Sadistic Teacher") at this late date was an exercise in complete futility which required visiting three separate stores, and after all of that I STILL forgot the parmesan cheese.
(For dinner, not for the class party.)
(Tell me about how fun class Valentines Day parties are and I will come over there and rip out your gizzard.)
Class party fury aside, I do try to make Valentines Day fun for the kids. Last year, in a fit of guilt over our impending move, I did all kinds of Type A Valentines Day Motherish things - even attempting pink heart-shaped pancakes (FAIL). This year I will probably... I don't know.... Do... something. (That is my big plan as of 11:00 tonight.)
My husband and I usually go to dinner, and that's what we're doing again this year, but on Friday instead of Saturday because 1) who cares? (romantic) and 2) finding a babysitter in our neighborhood on Valentines Day is impossible.
There are at least fifty-seven families with young children within a three block radius of our house. Babysitters are booked up for seven months in advance and when you do manage to win the babysitting lottery and secure one you have to pay them in Cool Ranch Doritos and freaking GOLD. Bidding wars break out for the good ones until only the babysitting dregs are left and you end up making incredibly desperate choices. "Well yes, I know Margene almost electrocuted Carter last time, but really, what are the odds it would happen twice? Pretty small, right?"
Here's the thing that annoys me about babysitters. My kids are good kids. I'm not just saying that. We won the good kid lottery. They're easy, they get along, they play well together, they do what they're told - and they're even easier with babysitters than with their mom. We usually have them in bed by 7:00, and the sitter typically comes at 7:30. So basically we pay some teenager $7 an hour to sit on our couch and watch TV and eat our food and make sure the house doesn't burn down. It really chaps my hide. A LOT. MAN. SEVEN BUCKS.
When I was a babysitter I did the dishes and cleaned the counters and mopped the floor and organized their 8-track collection, all for $1 an hour. BUT THESE KIDS TODAY. THESE LAZY KIDS TODAY.
MAN. !!!
(Actually, I'm not sure if I'm legitimately upset by this or if this is just a continuation of my MYSTERIOUS ITEM induced bad mood. Maybe I'm doomed to be irrationally irritated for a little while.)
(I apologize in advance if I end up posting tomorrow about how it really ticks me off when the sun is out, and also it ticks me off when the sun is behind the clouds, and also how inconvenient is it that it gets so freaking DARK at night?!)
(Any of these things might set me off. AT ANY MOMENT.)
Happy freaking Valentines Day.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
I Know What You Are Probably Thinking
You are probably thinking about how best to achieve world peace.
But also, ALSO, you are probably thinking, "Geez, Sue. What's the deal with the freaking blog makeover? How long are you going to force us to look at those infernal clouds?" (This probably keeps you up at night.)
Listen. I'm SORRY. I KNOW. Here is the thing about having me work with a blog designer. The process goes kind of like this:
"So, Sue, what would you like your blog to look like?"
"I don't know."
"What colors do you like?"
"All of them. Except orangey-red. For obvious reasons."
"Do you want a cartoon person at the top?"
"Yes. No. Probably no. I don't know. Maybe yes. No."
"OK, I'm not really getting a sense of what you want here."
"Yes."
"Help me out here, Sue."
"Make it look nice. Something nice. Cute but not too cute. Modern but not too modern, because I don't like really modern things. But also not scrapbooky. It should just make you think of my blog. You should look at it and think, yeah, that's it."
"Uh - "
"Read my archives, then it will probably just come to you. Like in a vision."
"Huh."
"When could you have that done by, do you think?"
She offered to give me a whole new layout, but the sheer number of "what-do-you-want-it-to-look-like" oriented decisions I'd have to make if we did that was making my brain pressure high, so I told her we'd just stick with the header for now.
(Speaking of strep (see how I snuck that in there, even though we were not actually talking about strep? SNEAKY): My doctor prescribed me something called Magic Mouthwash to make my throat stop hurting, but I'm afraid to take it because the pharmacist said it would make my tongue numb and to be careful or I might accidentally bite my tongue off. I was having visions of accidentally chewing my tongue to a bloody stump without realizing it, so I decided not to take it.)
(Also I'm suspicious of medications that contain the word "magic." It's a little too old timey and peddlerific for my liking. "Where's the COW, Jack?" "I sold him for five magic beans and some Magic Mouthwash, Mother." "You FOOLISH BOY." My throat is KILLING ME right now.)
Currently the blog designer is waiting for me to tell her what my new tagline is. I need a new tagline because of the whole "stupid dog" issue. It is apparently not kind to continue to refer to your stupid dog as a stupid dog after you've sent said dog to live with old people (old people who do not have children to bite). It makes people think you are filled with dog-hate.
(And even if you are filled with post-stupid-biting-dog-dog-hate, you should not admit to this, because then people think you must be a CAT person, but really cats suck even MORE (if that is possible), and if you admit to disliking cats and dogs (and generally anything that sheds or makes you itch in uncomfortable places), people just think you're a weird animal hating CRETIN, because everyone likes animals except for YOU, you horrible woman.) (Although really, I don't mind dogs OR cats, as long as they stay out of my house.)
So, long story short - I've been trying to think of a new tagline. All I've come up with so far is "It's Not About Oranges" which is kind of - not catchy. Help me out here... If you have any ideas for a new tagline, I'd love to hear them.
But also, ALSO, you are probably thinking, "Geez, Sue. What's the deal with the freaking blog makeover? How long are you going to force us to look at those infernal clouds?" (This probably keeps you up at night.)
Listen. I'm SORRY. I KNOW. Here is the thing about having me work with a blog designer. The process goes kind of like this:
"So, Sue, what would you like your blog to look like?"
"I don't know."
"What colors do you like?"
"All of them. Except orangey-red. For obvious reasons."
"Do you want a cartoon person at the top?"
"Yes. No. Probably no. I don't know. Maybe yes. No."
"OK, I'm not really getting a sense of what you want here."
"Yes."
"Help me out here, Sue."
"Make it look nice. Something nice. Cute but not too cute. Modern but not too modern, because I don't like really modern things. But also not scrapbooky. It should just make you think of my blog. You should look at it and think, yeah, that's it."
"Uh - "
"Read my archives, then it will probably just come to you. Like in a vision."
"Huh."
"When could you have that done by, do you think?"
She offered to give me a whole new layout, but the sheer number of "what-do-you-want-it-to-look-like" oriented decisions I'd have to make if we did that was making my brain pressure high, so I told her we'd just stick with the header for now.
(Speaking of strep (see how I snuck that in there, even though we were not actually talking about strep? SNEAKY): My doctor prescribed me something called Magic Mouthwash to make my throat stop hurting, but I'm afraid to take it because the pharmacist said it would make my tongue numb and to be careful or I might accidentally bite my tongue off. I was having visions of accidentally chewing my tongue to a bloody stump without realizing it, so I decided not to take it.)
(Also I'm suspicious of medications that contain the word "magic." It's a little too old timey and peddlerific for my liking. "Where's the COW, Jack?" "I sold him for five magic beans and some Magic Mouthwash, Mother." "You FOOLISH BOY." My throat is KILLING ME right now.)
Currently the blog designer is waiting for me to tell her what my new tagline is. I need a new tagline because of the whole "stupid dog" issue. It is apparently not kind to continue to refer to your stupid dog as a stupid dog after you've sent said dog to live with old people (old people who do not have children to bite). It makes people think you are filled with dog-hate.
(And even if you are filled with post-stupid-biting-dog-dog-hate, you should not admit to this, because then people think you must be a CAT person, but really cats suck even MORE (if that is possible), and if you admit to disliking cats and dogs (and generally anything that sheds or makes you itch in uncomfortable places), people just think you're a weird animal hating CRETIN, because everyone likes animals except for YOU, you horrible woman.) (Although really, I don't mind dogs OR cats, as long as they stay out of my house.)
So, long story short - I've been trying to think of a new tagline. All I've come up with so far is "It's Not About Oranges" which is kind of - not catchy. Help me out here... If you have any ideas for a new tagline, I'd love to hear them.
Monday, February 02, 2009
I'm Definitely Teaching Them The Baked Goods Thing
I just got a 16" shot in the behind. Turns out the illness that's been slowly sucking away my will to live is strep. Never fear - that's not what this post is about. I just wanted to share. Because anytime you get a needle in the butt, it's kind of an Occasion.
When we lived in Las Vegas for that short four month period, my six year old came home from first grade suddenly talking like a valley girl, repeatedly shrieking “Oh my God.”
I was startled because Mormons aren’t supposed to talk like that. Of course I’d never actually bothered to tell her about the whole not-taking-the-name-of-the-Lord-in-vain thing, so it wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t know.
I’ve been a bit of a slacker in the religious education department over the last few years, partly because I currently suffer from an advanced case of spiritual slackeritis, and partly because in Utah I hadn’t had to teach her much of anything - she’d just absorbed the shared religious/cultural values almost by osmosis. Here in Las Vegas things were a bit looser, and it suddenly dawned on me that if I didn’t want her to eventually end up swearing like a long-haul trucker, I was probably going to have to sit down and actually parent her a little.
Eureka.
We had a little talk about language - about how in our religion, we only use God’s name when we are actually talking about or to God. That we only use His name with reverence. She seemed to get it, and agreed to do her best not to say it. She is her mother’s daughter though, forgetful and flighty, and the words came flying out of her mouth throughout the day.
She swore she was actually saying “Oh my gosh.” My hearing is rapidly going, and I couldn’t tell the difference between the Word and the word and so we decided the best thing to do (read: easiest for mom) was to just ban both phrases – and that is how “Oh my gosh” became a Very Bad Thing to Say in our family.
Now you've gotta understand, I was educated in Idaho (if by educated you mean I went for one disastrous year, then slunk home in defeat), so “oh my gosh,” “holy crap” and “holy freaking cow” are all sadly permanent parts of my vocabulary. At least six times a day I let out an “oh my gosh.” The kids would hear me say this and would look at me with shock and horror, all, “ooooooh, mommy you said a BAD word.”
(Of course I can let fly with a nice strong dammit and the children won’t even blink. They have no idea it’s a curse word. I do try not to say dammit around the children, but sometimes I forget myself, mostly because I don't think of dammit as a swear word. I figure it's more of a comic prop when used appropriately - always with the appropriate emphasis and bluster, ala “DAMMIT, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a technical writer.”)
When my mother-in-law found out about our banned phrase she shook her head and muttered something profane about Utah Mormons, sure I was turning into some strange kind of fundamentalist.
Now we're back in Highland and the community standards are a little, er, different, to say the least.
At the end of last summer I ran into a pack of neighborhood seven year olds who were all making that “ooooooh, you’re in trouble” noise and asked what was going on.
Nate looked at me solemnly. “She said the S word,” he said, pointing at one of the girls.
I was a little shocked until the girl hung her head and confessed that yes, she’d called her sister a stupid head.
PROFANE SINNER.
So the whole taking the name of the Lord in vain issue has kind of faded into the background, because the other kids around here just don't say it. With the impetus gone, I decided I would let my kids know that "oh my gosh" wasn't ACTUALLY an evil thing to say. (I was tired of having them giving me these pitying little looks every time I said it, looks that clearly said, "Oh mommy, I'll be so sad when you aren't up in heaven with us.") So I sat them down and reminded them it wasn’t actually a bad word, then told them I was lifting the rule, and they could say it if they wanted to.
You would’ve thought I’d told them it was Christmas. THEY COULD SAY IT. WHENEVER THEY WANTED. The forbidden was now – allowed. It blew their minds. I could see it on their faces. Mom is an all powerful being, who has the power to make The Naughty = The Un-Naughty. Bending the laws of the universe to suit her will.
All day long they said “Oh my gosh,” then watched me out of the corner of their eyes. “We’re allowed to say that now,” they reminded me, eyes darting around. “You said we could. You said we could.”
(I should say for the record - I'm not one of those people who believes a fake swear word is just as bad as a real swear word, that if you say, "oh fudge," you might as well just fork over the whole F word.)
It's funny and a little scary, the way they think I have the power to "make it so." The way they take my word for it - what is good and what is bad.
If I tell them the color blue is evil, or that robots will fall from the sky in 2017, or that "Honor thy father and thy mother" actually means that at least once a day all good children must bring their parents baked goods, they might believe me - at least for a couple of years. And it suddenly feels like a lot of responsibility, teaching kids what to believe - especially since I'm not always one hundred percent sure what I believe myself.
When we lived in Las Vegas for that short four month period, my six year old came home from first grade suddenly talking like a valley girl, repeatedly shrieking “Oh my God.”
I was startled because Mormons aren’t supposed to talk like that. Of course I’d never actually bothered to tell her about the whole not-taking-the-name-of-the-Lord-in-vain thing, so it wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t know.
I’ve been a bit of a slacker in the religious education department over the last few years, partly because I currently suffer from an advanced case of spiritual slackeritis, and partly because in Utah I hadn’t had to teach her much of anything - she’d just absorbed the shared religious/cultural values almost by osmosis. Here in Las Vegas things were a bit looser, and it suddenly dawned on me that if I didn’t want her to eventually end up swearing like a long-haul trucker, I was probably going to have to sit down and actually parent her a little.
Eureka.
We had a little talk about language - about how in our religion, we only use God’s name when we are actually talking about or to God. That we only use His name with reverence. She seemed to get it, and agreed to do her best not to say it. She is her mother’s daughter though, forgetful and flighty, and the words came flying out of her mouth throughout the day.
She swore she was actually saying “Oh my gosh.” My hearing is rapidly going, and I couldn’t tell the difference between the Word and the word and so we decided the best thing to do (read: easiest for mom) was to just ban both phrases – and that is how “Oh my gosh” became a Very Bad Thing to Say in our family.
Now you've gotta understand, I was educated in Idaho (if by educated you mean I went for one disastrous year, then slunk home in defeat), so “oh my gosh,” “holy crap” and “holy freaking cow” are all sadly permanent parts of my vocabulary. At least six times a day I let out an “oh my gosh.” The kids would hear me say this and would look at me with shock and horror, all, “ooooooh, mommy you said a BAD word.”
(Of course I can let fly with a nice strong dammit and the children won’t even blink. They have no idea it’s a curse word. I do try not to say dammit around the children, but sometimes I forget myself, mostly because I don't think of dammit as a swear word. I figure it's more of a comic prop when used appropriately - always with the appropriate emphasis and bluster, ala “DAMMIT, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a technical writer.”)
When my mother-in-law found out about our banned phrase she shook her head and muttered something profane about Utah Mormons, sure I was turning into some strange kind of fundamentalist.
Now we're back in Highland and the community standards are a little, er, different, to say the least.
At the end of last summer I ran into a pack of neighborhood seven year olds who were all making that “ooooooh, you’re in trouble” noise and asked what was going on.
Nate looked at me solemnly. “She said the S word,” he said, pointing at one of the girls.
I was a little shocked until the girl hung her head and confessed that yes, she’d called her sister a stupid head.
PROFANE SINNER.
So the whole taking the name of the Lord in vain issue has kind of faded into the background, because the other kids around here just don't say it. With the impetus gone, I decided I would let my kids know that "oh my gosh" wasn't ACTUALLY an evil thing to say. (I was tired of having them giving me these pitying little looks every time I said it, looks that clearly said, "Oh mommy, I'll be so sad when you aren't up in heaven with us.") So I sat them down and reminded them it wasn’t actually a bad word, then told them I was lifting the rule, and they could say it if they wanted to.
You would’ve thought I’d told them it was Christmas. THEY COULD SAY IT. WHENEVER THEY WANTED. The forbidden was now – allowed. It blew their minds. I could see it on their faces. Mom is an all powerful being, who has the power to make The Naughty = The Un-Naughty. Bending the laws of the universe to suit her will.
All day long they said “Oh my gosh,” then watched me out of the corner of their eyes. “We’re allowed to say that now,” they reminded me, eyes darting around. “You said we could. You said we could.”
(I should say for the record - I'm not one of those people who believes a fake swear word is just as bad as a real swear word, that if you say, "oh fudge," you might as well just fork over the whole F word.)
It's funny and a little scary, the way they think I have the power to "make it so." The way they take my word for it - what is good and what is bad.
If I tell them the color blue is evil, or that robots will fall from the sky in 2017, or that "Honor thy father and thy mother" actually means that at least once a day all good children must bring their parents baked goods, they might believe me - at least for a couple of years. And it suddenly feels like a lot of responsibility, teaching kids what to believe - especially since I'm not always one hundred percent sure what I believe myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)