Miles driven in order to visit in-laws: approx. 900
Helpings of stuffing eaten: infinite
Meals consumed at McDonald’s in the last week: 4
Articles of baby clothing sacrificed to road trip poop incidents: 1 pair gray socks, disposed of in a gas station trash can in Prunedale, CA (coincidence? I think not.)
Number of potentially inflammatory conversations accidentally had in room with baby monitor: 1
Dollars’ worth of Nordstrom gift certificates received: $180 (!)
Plans for New Year’s Eve: 0
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
hot vs. not
Well geez, people, looks like I’m having a pretty good week.
What’s Hot:
What’s Hot:
- Having all my gifts bought/wrapped/shipped
- Getting my Christmas cards in the mail
- Taking Friday off in order to get a long-overdue haircut and highlights
- Having paid our property taxes and not having to worry about that for another year
- The awesome new velvety pants my husband got me at J Crew last night
- Bacon
What’s Not:
- Not being able to find the Napoleon Dynamite talking pen that I was going to put in my dad’s Christmas stocking (so Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry you’ll be missing out on the magic)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
the wave
Sometimes I feel like this blog is an outlet for my annoyances about motherhood. All the complaining about post-baby hair loss and terrible memory (mine), and the constant pooping (his) must make me sound an ungrateful wench. Which, let’s face it, sometimes I am. But sometimes I sit back and reflect on how I feel like I’m the luckiest person in the world.
Case in point: Evan recently learned how to wave. For the last few days, we’ve been sitting there and waving our arms frantically, saying “hi!” and “bye bye!” in those ridiculously chirpy tones that new parents innately use. Recently, during this embarrassing charade, he lifted up his arm and flopped it up and down a couple of times. I think he realized immediately that he was on to something, because we erupted into cheers and applause as if he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize, found a cure for cancer or even just emptied his own Diaper Champ. He broke into a huge grin and began flapping that arm up and down some more. Now, after a little practice, it takes only one or two loud “bye-byes” and a couple of small waves on our part to get him going.
I have no idea if a baby’s first wave is that much of an emotional event for other parents, but I was dumbfounded. It struck me that I am raising a real live human being here. He’s no longer a little blob. He is an ACTUAL PERSON who is learning how to COMMUNICATE. This parenting thing is really amazing, but is an unbelievable responsibility. I felt pure joy when I saw that wave. But afterward, it mixed with a little bit of fear, because now I have to be a good example. He is watching what I do and mirroring it. Now I don’t just have to take care of his basic physical needs. I also have to do my best not to screw him up! It really is an awesome responsibility.
But it is a responsibility that comes with so many rewards. People tell you about this before you have kids, but it’s hard to really get it. I know that I really truly did not understand. I honestly never thought seeing a little hand bobbing up and down would make my eyes well up with tears. It did, and for the first time made me feel like a real parent.
Although this real parent thinks it would rock if he could empty the Diaper Champ just once.
Case in point: Evan recently learned how to wave. For the last few days, we’ve been sitting there and waving our arms frantically, saying “hi!” and “bye bye!” in those ridiculously chirpy tones that new parents innately use. Recently, during this embarrassing charade, he lifted up his arm and flopped it up and down a couple of times. I think he realized immediately that he was on to something, because we erupted into cheers and applause as if he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize, found a cure for cancer or even just emptied his own Diaper Champ. He broke into a huge grin and began flapping that arm up and down some more. Now, after a little practice, it takes only one or two loud “bye-byes” and a couple of small waves on our part to get him going.
I have no idea if a baby’s first wave is that much of an emotional event for other parents, but I was dumbfounded. It struck me that I am raising a real live human being here. He’s no longer a little blob. He is an ACTUAL PERSON who is learning how to COMMUNICATE. This parenting thing is really amazing, but is an unbelievable responsibility. I felt pure joy when I saw that wave. But afterward, it mixed with a little bit of fear, because now I have to be a good example. He is watching what I do and mirroring it. Now I don’t just have to take care of his basic physical needs. I also have to do my best not to screw him up! It really is an awesome responsibility.
But it is a responsibility that comes with so many rewards. People tell you about this before you have kids, but it’s hard to really get it. I know that I really truly did not understand. I honestly never thought seeing a little hand bobbing up and down would make my eyes well up with tears. It did, and for the first time made me feel like a real parent.
Although this real parent thinks it would rock if he could empty the Diaper Champ just once.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
lethal combination
Note to self:
Please keep in mind that feeding the baby pears and barley cereal at the same time is a bad idea. The pooping, it has only just begun to let up.
Over & out.
Please keep in mind that feeding the baby pears and barley cereal at the same time is a bad idea. The pooping, it has only just begun to let up.
Over & out.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
provided by the management for my what?
Have you ever noticed that the packaging for toilet seat covers always bears the slogan “Provided by the Management for Your Protection”? I would just like to be the first to give a big hearty shout-out to The Management for protecting my nether region. Really, it’s touching to know they care. If they cared that much, you’d think they’d give me a personal escort to walk me out to my car every night, or maybe they could warm up the temperature a bit so I don’t have to drink a constant supply of calorie-laden hot chocolate in order to stay warm in the frigid zone that is my office. But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Late-onset pregnancy brain…
… or early-onset Alzheimer’s disease? It could be either. As an example, let me share a couple of recent conversations that took place between my husband and I.
Conversation #1
Me: “What is the best way to get to the car dealership to have my car serviced? Should I take the freeway?”
Him: “No, I think you should go to Moulton and then turn right on Lake Forest.”
Me: “Oh, never mind, I figured it out. I can just take Moulton all the way to Lake Forest and turn right.”
Him: “Did you not just hear me say that?”
Me: “Huh?”
Conversation #2
Okay, so I had another incident in mind, but I don’t even remember it now.
I better go and find me some ginkgo biloba.
Conversation #1
Me: “What is the best way to get to the car dealership to have my car serviced? Should I take the freeway?”
Him: “No, I think you should go to Moulton and then turn right on Lake Forest.”
Me: “Oh, never mind, I figured it out. I can just take Moulton all the way to Lake Forest and turn right.”
Him: “Did you not just hear me say that?”
Me: “Huh?”
Conversation #2
Okay, so I had another incident in mind, but I don’t even remember it now.
I better go and find me some ginkgo biloba.
Monday, November 21, 2005
family photo
Here we are on our vacation to Cabo. You'll note we are smiling. That, of course, is because this was taken BEFORE the heinous poop incident took place!
Am beginning to finally recover from the trauma...
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
if only it were a vacation from poop
I just got back from a fabulous family vacation in Cabo. Loved it. Warm days, beautiful clear water, delicious margaritas and gosh dang it, the best freaking guacamole I have ever tasted. The entire trip was about me finding new and innovative ways to include guacamole in my meals. Oh, who are we kidding, they were not new and innovative at all. It was more like “bring me some more chips” and “oh good, there’s a fish taco I can dip in guacamole.”
But anyway, it was truly a great trip. There is only one incident marring the lovely surface of this vacation. And it is an ugly one. It involves a diaper (Evan’s, not mine) that was horrifically dirtied the minute, and I actually do mean the actual minute, we sat down in the airplane to go home yesterday. So there I sat, holding my super stinky baby on my lap until the captain turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Safety first! I merrily walked him down to the lavatory thinking we’d just flip down the little changing table, plop him down onto it and whisk off the offending diaper.
But NO. there was no changing table to be had and the not very helpful flight attendant refused to let me use the open space near the lavatory. Instead, he handed me a blanket and told me to change him on top of the toilet, with the lid down. I was game for it until I went in and discovered that America West has the TINIEST airplane bathrooms I have ever seen. There was barely enough room for me, let alone the squirming poopy wonder.
Not having another choice, I figured I’d just go for it and try to set a record for the fastest diaper change in history. But it was not to be.
The makeshift changing table, aka the toilet lid, was way too small. His head hung off the back while his feet kicked wildly. Once the pants were off the twisting and shrieking started. Then, once the diaper was off it was a race against time to remove all traces of poop while the twisting and shrieking continued. At one point the situation deteriorated into what can only be described as a flailing poop fling fest. I frantically pulled out wipes, dabbed and swiped at him as best I could but what can I say, there were casualties.
Like the sleeve of my shirt, for example, and the spots of poop that were probably left on various surfaces after I could no longer take the carnage and vacated the lavatory. I’m pretty sure I dropped an f-bomb in there, and those of you who know me know it’s extremely out of character.
On behalf of all parents everywhere, I blame America West. Any flight that is more than an hour long must have a proper facility to change a diaper. Otherwise, everyone suffers. Like any passenger on flight 6301 who visited the rear right-hand lavatory after we were done in there.
But anyway, it was truly a great trip. There is only one incident marring the lovely surface of this vacation. And it is an ugly one. It involves a diaper (Evan’s, not mine) that was horrifically dirtied the minute, and I actually do mean the actual minute, we sat down in the airplane to go home yesterday. So there I sat, holding my super stinky baby on my lap until the captain turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Safety first! I merrily walked him down to the lavatory thinking we’d just flip down the little changing table, plop him down onto it and whisk off the offending diaper.
But NO. there was no changing table to be had and the not very helpful flight attendant refused to let me use the open space near the lavatory. Instead, he handed me a blanket and told me to change him on top of the toilet, with the lid down. I was game for it until I went in and discovered that America West has the TINIEST airplane bathrooms I have ever seen. There was barely enough room for me, let alone the squirming poopy wonder.
Not having another choice, I figured I’d just go for it and try to set a record for the fastest diaper change in history. But it was not to be.
The makeshift changing table, aka the toilet lid, was way too small. His head hung off the back while his feet kicked wildly. Once the pants were off the twisting and shrieking started. Then, once the diaper was off it was a race against time to remove all traces of poop while the twisting and shrieking continued. At one point the situation deteriorated into what can only be described as a flailing poop fling fest. I frantically pulled out wipes, dabbed and swiped at him as best I could but what can I say, there were casualties.
Like the sleeve of my shirt, for example, and the spots of poop that were probably left on various surfaces after I could no longer take the carnage and vacated the lavatory. I’m pretty sure I dropped an f-bomb in there, and those of you who know me know it’s extremely out of character.
On behalf of all parents everywhere, I blame America West. Any flight that is more than an hour long must have a proper facility to change a diaper. Otherwise, everyone suffers. Like any passenger on flight 6301 who visited the rear right-hand lavatory after we were done in there.
Friday, November 04, 2005
amendment
My aforementioned husband has filed a complaint about my last post and demanded a retraction. Apparently he feels that it made him look like a bad cook who prepares only Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper. My point was, if the cooking is left to ME, we eat Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper (unless it is Saturday afternoon, where he feels free to whip up a double batch of the Ramen. Don’t deny it!). However, to be fair, when HE cooks, we eat things like pasta with delicious homemade tomato sauce, broiled salmon with brown rice and other yummy fare.
So, I’ll shout it from the rooftops: NOT ONLY does he refuse to let us starve, but he selects delicious and nutritious entrees and cooks them up with a smile.
He’s a regular Martha Stewart.
Except that Martha probably wouldn’t leave her socks on the floor right next to the laundry hamper.
So, I’ll shout it from the rooftops: NOT ONLY does he refuse to let us starve, but he selects delicious and nutritious entrees and cooks them up with a smile.
He’s a regular Martha Stewart.
Except that Martha probably wouldn’t leave her socks on the floor right next to the laundry hamper.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
OK, so I suck at the blogging.
My newfangled working-mom lifestyle hasn't left me much time for two major activities: blogging and working out. Oh, who are we kidding, I didn't work out that much before, but now I have a great excuse. HELLO, I'm a working mother. When could I possibly work out? And don't tell me to get up any earlier. Ain't happenin.
I just think it sounds so weird to have the "working mom" title. It sounds to me like I've suddenly become a 40-year old woman, and yet I still feel like I JUST got out of college. And speaking of college (and I promise you will see these two things eventually relate), I also realized that I don't really have time for cooking either. (Hmmm, see above note about working out - the same thing applies here.) Thank God I have a fantastic spouse who likes to cook and makes sure we don't starve. But right now, not starving is the operative word. In fact, the last time we went to the grocery store we bought two things I haven't regularly consumed since college (see, I told you there's a connection!) -- Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper. I crap you not.
I'm not proud of it, but it happened. It's not healthy, but as my mother says: "It will sustain life."
Over & out for now, I swear I will try to update more often...
I just think it sounds so weird to have the "working mom" title. It sounds to me like I've suddenly become a 40-year old woman, and yet I still feel like I JUST got out of college. And speaking of college (and I promise you will see these two things eventually relate), I also realized that I don't really have time for cooking either. (Hmmm, see above note about working out - the same thing applies here.) Thank God I have a fantastic spouse who likes to cook and makes sure we don't starve. But right now, not starving is the operative word. In fact, the last time we went to the grocery store we bought two things I haven't regularly consumed since college (see, I told you there's a connection!) -- Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper. I crap you not.
I'm not proud of it, but it happened. It's not healthy, but as my mother says: "It will sustain life."
Over & out for now, I swear I will try to update more often...
Thursday, October 06, 2005
a touch of the OCD
I’m not sure why, but anytime I walk up and start waiting for an elevator to arrive, I feel compelled to push the up or down button – even if there is already someone waiting there and the appropriate button is already illuminated. Why is that? I mean, I can see that the elevator is coming, so why do I feel like I have to push it again?
I also push the “Walk” button at a crosswalk multiple times, as though it will make the sign say “Walk” any faster. I guess I just need to jaywalk more.
I also push the “Walk” button at a crosswalk multiple times, as though it will make the sign say “Walk” any faster. I guess I just need to jaywalk more.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
somebody, please stop me from yelling "IT'S A BREAST PUMP!"
So the working mom thing is actually going swimmingly. I dropped him off at day care and did not cry a single tear. (And then proceeded to feel exceedingly guilty: I mean, am I not the World's Worst Mother for NOT crying buckets of tears upon separating myself from my baby all day???") Anyway, I digress.
The only complication is that I am not only a working mom, I'm a still-nursing working mom. Which means that I lug around not just my laptop, purse, and the baby's day care bag, but also a pseudo-laptop-looking bag that contains my breast pump, along with an attractive little matching lunchboxy bag with an ice pack in which you store the milk. So, my shoulders are getting rather sore carrying all this gear around. But again, I digress.
It's funny, at first I though I'd be super discreet about the pumping thing. And I am, for the most part, but sometimes I pick up the pump and the lunch box bag, walk to the elevator and head up to the 6th floor where our company's Lactation Lounge is stationed. (And by Lactation Lounge, I mean a depressing, empty white office with individual sheets of 8 1/2" x 11" printer paper taped to the window. You know, for privacy. No one else calls it that; I have just nicknamed it the Lactation Lounge to make myself feel better.)
Digression.
Anyway, so while I'm lugging my dairy supplies around I always wonder which of the zillions of people I pass on the way to the Lounge know where I'm going. Some of the women, I'm sure, are onto me. But the clueless ones will smile and say "what brings you to our neck of the woods?" and I usually answer something like "just visiting!" or another perky inane comment. I fight the urge to say "Actually, I'm going into an empty office to take off my shirt, attach my nipples to this here machine and milk myself like a cow. Any questions?"
I have no idea why I feel this weird compunction to be so honest about it. I am such a private person in normal life and I don't really feel the desire to shock anyone. Maybe I just don't care anymore. I have experienced total desensitization.
BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS. See, it doesn't bother me at all. That's how I roll.
The only complication is that I am not only a working mom, I'm a still-nursing working mom. Which means that I lug around not just my laptop, purse, and the baby's day care bag, but also a pseudo-laptop-looking bag that contains my breast pump, along with an attractive little matching lunchboxy bag with an ice pack in which you store the milk. So, my shoulders are getting rather sore carrying all this gear around. But again, I digress.
It's funny, at first I though I'd be super discreet about the pumping thing. And I am, for the most part, but sometimes I pick up the pump and the lunch box bag, walk to the elevator and head up to the 6th floor where our company's Lactation Lounge is stationed. (And by Lactation Lounge, I mean a depressing, empty white office with individual sheets of 8 1/2" x 11" printer paper taped to the window. You know, for privacy. No one else calls it that; I have just nicknamed it the Lactation Lounge to make myself feel better.)
Digression.
Anyway, so while I'm lugging my dairy supplies around I always wonder which of the zillions of people I pass on the way to the Lounge know where I'm going. Some of the women, I'm sure, are onto me. But the clueless ones will smile and say "what brings you to our neck of the woods?" and I usually answer something like "just visiting!" or another perky inane comment. I fight the urge to say "Actually, I'm going into an empty office to take off my shirt, attach my nipples to this here machine and milk myself like a cow. Any questions?"
I have no idea why I feel this weird compunction to be so honest about it. I am such a private person in normal life and I don't really feel the desire to shock anyone. Maybe I just don't care anymore. I have experienced total desensitization.
BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS. See, it doesn't bother me at all. That's how I roll.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
tomorrow
Tomorrow, I go back to work after four and a half months being at home.
Tomorrow, I won't get to take a lovely, mid-day leisurely walk pushing Evan in the stroller.
Tomorrow, I will get to speak regular English to grown-ups, instead of baby talk to a four-month old. (but I'm not sure it's better.)
Tomorrow, my time will neither belong to me or to my baby.
Tomorrow, I will probably wonder what I was thinking in coming back.
Tomorrow, I will wear waterproof mascara.
Tomorrow, I find out if I can hack this working mom gig.
Wish me luck.
Tomorrow, I won't get to take a lovely, mid-day leisurely walk pushing Evan in the stroller.
Tomorrow, I will get to speak regular English to grown-ups, instead of baby talk to a four-month old. (but I'm not sure it's better.)
Tomorrow, my time will neither belong to me or to my baby.
Tomorrow, I will probably wonder what I was thinking in coming back.
Tomorrow, I will wear waterproof mascara.
Tomorrow, I find out if I can hack this working mom gig.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
cinnamon takes a back seat to no babka
Okay okay! I like Kelly Clarkson. There, I said it.
It's like that episode of Seinfeld, the one with the black & white cookie. Jerry and Elaine are sitting in a bakery discussing cinnamon vs. chocolate babka. Elaine questions the legitimacy of cinnamon babka and Jerry vigorously defends it! He says something to the effect of "Anytime you ask someone 'what makes this so delicious?', the answer invariably comes back 'CINNAMON'."
This exactly parallels my recent radio-listening experience. Every day I find myself in my car, listening to the radio and wondering, "who sings this catchy little ditty?" and the answer, invariably, comes back "KELLY CLARKSON."
Every single time.
It's like that episode of Seinfeld, the one with the black & white cookie. Jerry and Elaine are sitting in a bakery discussing cinnamon vs. chocolate babka. Elaine questions the legitimacy of cinnamon babka and Jerry vigorously defends it! He says something to the effect of "Anytime you ask someone 'what makes this so delicious?', the answer invariably comes back 'CINNAMON'."
This exactly parallels my recent radio-listening experience. Every day I find myself in my car, listening to the radio and wondering, "who sings this catchy little ditty?" and the answer, invariably, comes back "KELLY CLARKSON."
Every single time.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
oops, I did it again
Have you ever had a random conversation with someone that went so poorly that you just wanted to run away? I was at the mall today, and ran into this girl that I hardly knew from college. I think she and I had the same major and were in a couple of classes together, but I am 100% positive I wouldn't have known who she was if she hadn't come up to me and said something. Here's a little flavor for how the conversation went down:
Background: the Nordstrom coffee bar, where I was waiting for the illicit cookies & cream frappucino thingy that I ordered at 10:30 am. (I confess! I couldn't help myself.)
Girl I Barely Knew in College: "I know you. Didn't you go to Westmont?"
Me: "Yes."
GIBKIC: "Rebecca, right?"
Me: "Yeah. Is your name Shelby?"*
GIBKIC: "Yes. "
Me: "Wow, you have such a good memory! I never would have recognized you."**
GIBKIC: (with an awkward smile) "How old is your baby?"
Me: "He'll be four months old next week. How old is your daughter? (referring to the toddler she was pushing around in a stroller)
GIBKIC: "HE is almost two."***
Me: "Well, it was nice running into you! Have a great week!"
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.
**Footnote on embarrassing comment #1: Why did I even say that? Why did I just blurt out the fact that I clearly think she is the most forgettable person I have ever come across? DUH. Seriously, it's time I got some tact.
***Footnote on embarrassing comment #2: In my defense, that kid needed a haircut, STAT. Long blonde femmy hair = me automatically assuming it's a girl. Maybe not as bad as asking someone who's not pregnant when they are due, but still... oops.
Here's hoping it's another ten years until I run into HER again.
Background: the Nordstrom coffee bar, where I was waiting for the illicit cookies & cream frappucino thingy that I ordered at 10:30 am. (I confess! I couldn't help myself.)
Girl I Barely Knew in College: "I know you. Didn't you go to Westmont?"
Me: "Yes."
GIBKIC: "Rebecca, right?"
Me: "Yeah. Is your name Shelby?"*
GIBKIC: "Yes. "
Me: "Wow, you have such a good memory! I never would have recognized you."**
GIBKIC: (with an awkward smile) "How old is your baby?"
Me: "He'll be four months old next week. How old is your daughter? (referring to the toddler she was pushing around in a stroller)
GIBKIC: "HE is almost two."***
Me: "Well, it was nice running into you! Have a great week!"
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.
**Footnote on embarrassing comment #1: Why did I even say that? Why did I just blurt out the fact that I clearly think she is the most forgettable person I have ever come across? DUH. Seriously, it's time I got some tact.
***Footnote on embarrassing comment #2: In my defense, that kid needed a haircut, STAT. Long blonde femmy hair = me automatically assuming it's a girl. Maybe not as bad as asking someone who's not pregnant when they are due, but still... oops.
Here's hoping it's another ten years until I run into HER again.
apparently
Without being consciously aware of it, I know all the words to Guns 'n Roses "Sweet Child O' Mine." I had no idea. I discovered this interesting tidbit 15 minutes ago in the car, while I was serenading my four-month old by singing along with the radio.
I wonder what other song lyrics are lurking inside my brain? And more importantly, what other things have I forgotten because said lyrics are taking up space in there?
I wonder what other song lyrics are lurking inside my brain? And more importantly, what other things have I forgotten because said lyrics are taking up space in there?
Thursday, August 04, 2005
an interview with kiki
Allrighty then, the interview game continues. These questions are from Kiki:
1. Which celebrity do you most resemble or have been told you look like?
Ever since The OC came on, I've been told repeatedly that I look just like Seth Cohen's mom. You know, Kirsten? The one who became an alcoholic? I personally don't think I look much like her, but you be the judge (FYI, that's me on the left):
On another note, I've been wondering... should I cut bangs? Anyone reading this please vote by leaving a comment. But I digress.
2. Would you rather it always be daytime or always be nightime? Why?
I would love it if it were always daytime. I'm not much of a night owl (remember, nothing makes me happier than going to bed at 9:00!) and I think it would get pretty depressing if it was dark all day long. The one drawback I can think of regarding permanent daytime is that I would have to come up with another excuse for not going running. "It's dark out" would be rendered useless.
3. What happened in your last dream?
I have no idea -- I hardly ever remember my dreams. The weirdest dream I can ever remember is that one time, years ago, I dreamed that an entire family that I knew had died in a car accident. (Morbid, I know.) After I woke up, for almost an entire day I actually thought they were gone. Then, my mom mentioned someone from that family was coming over. I was aghast that they were still alive, but really happy.
4. Would you rather have ginormous feet or ginormous hands?
DEFINITELY ginormous feet. They would be less noticeable, don't you think? Only because I don't typically gesticulate with my feet in conversation.
5. Shag, Marry, Push off a Cliff:
Johnny Knoxville, Sean William Scott, & Jessica Simpson. (Dukes of Hazzard theme)
Okay, this one is a piece of cake.
Shag: Johnny Knoxville.
Marry: Jessica Simpson (not because of any latent lesbian tendencies, but rather that if we were married I would have access to all of her awesome clothes, shoes and purses! It would almost be irresponsible NOT to pick her.)
Push off a cliff: Sean William Scott. Sorry Stifler.
_____________________________________________________
Want to play?
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
1. Which celebrity do you most resemble or have been told you look like?
Ever since The OC came on, I've been told repeatedly that I look just like Seth Cohen's mom. You know, Kirsten? The one who became an alcoholic? I personally don't think I look much like her, but you be the judge (FYI, that's me on the left):
On another note, I've been wondering... should I cut bangs? Anyone reading this please vote by leaving a comment. But I digress.2. Would you rather it always be daytime or always be nightime? Why?
I would love it if it were always daytime. I'm not much of a night owl (remember, nothing makes me happier than going to bed at 9:00!) and I think it would get pretty depressing if it was dark all day long. The one drawback I can think of regarding permanent daytime is that I would have to come up with another excuse for not going running. "It's dark out" would be rendered useless.
3. What happened in your last dream?
I have no idea -- I hardly ever remember my dreams. The weirdest dream I can ever remember is that one time, years ago, I dreamed that an entire family that I knew had died in a car accident. (Morbid, I know.) After I woke up, for almost an entire day I actually thought they were gone. Then, my mom mentioned someone from that family was coming over. I was aghast that they were still alive, but really happy.
4. Would you rather have ginormous feet or ginormous hands?
DEFINITELY ginormous feet. They would be less noticeable, don't you think? Only because I don't typically gesticulate with my feet in conversation.
5. Shag, Marry, Push off a Cliff:
Johnny Knoxville, Sean William Scott, & Jessica Simpson. (Dukes of Hazzard theme)
Okay, this one is a piece of cake.
Shag: Johnny Knoxville.
Marry: Jessica Simpson (not because of any latent lesbian tendencies, but rather that if we were married I would have access to all of her awesome clothes, shoes and purses! It would almost be irresponsible NOT to pick her.)
Push off a cliff: Sean William Scott. Sorry Stifler.
_____________________________________________________
Want to play?
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
things that make me happy right now.
1. Making quesadillas in my toaster oven. I believe that quesadillas now outrank cinnamon toast on my list of favorite everyday snacks.
2. The progress of my teeth-whitening project using the GoSmile system. I know I've already discussed my fondness for my Sonicare toothbrush, so I won't go there again, but this is a close second. (Am currently v. obsessed with dental health and whiteness.)
3. Ron Burgundy's exclamations in the movie Anchorman, including:
"Great Oden's raven!"
"Uncle Jonathan's corncob pipe!"
"Hot pot of coffee!"
...et cetera.
4. Watching Entourage. Good vicarious fun. Also, watching Dawson's Creek reruns on TBS. Reminds me of the day when Katie Holmes was a regular annoying actress instead of Scientology's puppet.
5. Going to bed @ 9 pm.
6. An email my husband sent me this morning in which he admitted narrowly avoiding a tragic misspelling. Apparently, he signs off his work email with "Regards" or "Best Regards," but had inadvertently replaced the "g" with a "t" in an email he composed this morning. He caught it in time, but is it wrong for me to almost wish he hadn't? Just to see what would happen. Still laughing.
I'm sure there are more but I'm not feeling especially creative right now. Perhaps will add more later. Peace out homies.
2. The progress of my teeth-whitening project using the GoSmile system. I know I've already discussed my fondness for my Sonicare toothbrush, so I won't go there again, but this is a close second. (Am currently v. obsessed with dental health and whiteness.)
3. Ron Burgundy's exclamations in the movie Anchorman, including:
"Great Oden's raven!"
"Uncle Jonathan's corncob pipe!"
"Hot pot of coffee!"
...et cetera.
4. Watching Entourage. Good vicarious fun. Also, watching Dawson's Creek reruns on TBS. Reminds me of the day when Katie Holmes was a regular annoying actress instead of Scientology's puppet.
5. Going to bed @ 9 pm.
6. An email my husband sent me this morning in which he admitted narrowly avoiding a tragic misspelling. Apparently, he signs off his work email with "Regards" or "Best Regards," but had inadvertently replaced the "g" with a "t" in an email he composed this morning. He caught it in time, but is it wrong for me to almost wish he hadn't? Just to see what would happen. Still laughing.
I'm sure there are more but I'm not feeling especially creative right now. Perhaps will add more later. Peace out homies.
Friday, July 29, 2005
because mommy was poking him in the eye with a sharp stick
... or at least that's what my husband is telling people.
reeking of beer at 10:00 am
Let me give you all some advice: when you load your groceries into the back of your SUV, please take a lesson from me and DO NOT put your two six-packs of Dos Equis in last. If you do, you will likely open the back of your SUV to unload your groceries, and instead of feeling calm and peaceful and good about yourself because you have completed the odious task of grocery shopping, you will be met with a shopping bag full of beer crashing down onto the driveway beneath you, making an infernal mess complete with broken glass and foaming beer EVERYWHERE.
But as an added bonus, this will leave you smelling like a brewery, which can be fun gossip fodder for your neighbors.
Good times!
But as an added bonus, this will leave you smelling like a brewery, which can be fun gossip fodder for your neighbors.
Good times!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
supersonic
Is it just me, or is the Sonicare toothbrush the greatest invention ever? I may be going bald with postpartum hair loss but BY GOD am I going to have an impressive set of shiny, white, periodontal disease-free chompers.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
mother nature, she is a vengeful beeotch
It's not enough that my stomach is permanently saggy, that I won't see the benefit of a full night's sleep for the next 18 years, and that seeing movies has become a distant memory...
Now my hair is falling out by the handful.
Motherhood rocks!
Now my hair is falling out by the handful.
Motherhood rocks!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
move over, darvocet
I have a new drug of choice: swaddling. Yep, when our baby is swaddled, he easily sleeps eight hours at night and takes two-hour naps. When he's not swaddled, he wakes himself up screaming after 45 minutes. In fact, I just tried putting him down for a nap unswaddled to see what would happen. Predictably, he woke up flailing and wailing. He still seemed tired, so I swaddled him and he went instantly back to sleep. The minute I put his arms in the blanket, his eyes just melted closed and he relaxed immediately.
So what's the problem? I'm terrified to stop swaddling him. I'm also terrified to continue, because what if he needs to be swaddled forever? I keep picturing him on his first night away at college, asking his freshman roommate to wrap him up in blankets.
I'm sure I'm worrying about nothing -- I mean, he's only three months old -- but that's what new moms do. I guess at this point, he needs his sleep. I know I do.
My name is Rebecca, and I'm a swaddle-aholic.
So what's the problem? I'm terrified to stop swaddling him. I'm also terrified to continue, because what if he needs to be swaddled forever? I keep picturing him on his first night away at college, asking his freshman roommate to wrap him up in blankets.
I'm sure I'm worrying about nothing -- I mean, he's only three months old -- but that's what new moms do. I guess at this point, he needs his sleep. I know I do.
My name is Rebecca, and I'm a swaddle-aholic.
Monday, July 18, 2005
sharp dresser
Isn't it hilarious when babies wear adult-ish clothes? Here, my son Evan shows his preppy side in a snappy white polo shirt for his Aunt Babby's wedding. He's clearly pleased with the look.
making up is hard to do
Hypothetically speaking: if you were in your sister's wedding recently, had spent 15 minutes putting on makeup for the occasion, and then were asked by the makeup artist "Are you done with your makeup?" Then, when you answered "Um, I guess," the makeup artist replied with "Would you mind if I highlighted you a little?"
... then you might come to the conclusion that wow, after 20 or so years of wearing makeup, that you don't really know what you're doing. Okay, I confess, this happened to me. To make things worse, the "highlighting" session of which she spoke took longer than my original attempt at applying it myself. After she was done, I didn't feel like myself. Well, I felt like myself, but with a face full of spackle. Shimmery spackle at that.
Ah well. I suppose I've never claimed that I was good at putting on makeup in the first place. (Unlike a good friend of mine, who believes that putting lip liner on without a mirror is her spiritual gift.) I'm good at other important things, like watching reality television and buying shoes.
... then you might come to the conclusion that wow, after 20 or so years of wearing makeup, that you don't really know what you're doing. Okay, I confess, this happened to me. To make things worse, the "highlighting" session of which she spoke took longer than my original attempt at applying it myself. After she was done, I didn't feel like myself. Well, I felt like myself, but with a face full of spackle. Shimmery spackle at that.
Ah well. I suppose I've never claimed that I was good at putting on makeup in the first place. (Unlike a good friend of mine, who believes that putting lip liner on without a mirror is her spiritual gift.) I'm good at other important things, like watching reality television and buying shoes.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
maternity leave smells like peaches.
I will confess: I have become bored with my so-called project plan of blogging topics. Maybe I have ADD, I'm really not sure. So, I'm just going to talk about something else. Deal with it.
You know how you can smell something familiar and instantly and nostalgically be reminded of a place, time, person or event in your life? Well, as I'm starting to see my maternity leave draw to a close, I am realizing that anytime I smell peaches I will remember my eighteen weeks sans work fondly. Yes, I realize this sounds kinda weird. Allow me to explain.
A few days after the baby was born I was shopping at Trader Joe's. I ended up buying this peach-scented lotion (specifically, Kiss My Face Peaches & Cream Moisturizer) and have been slathering it all over myself on a daily basis ever since. I'm not usually a big fruit-scented lotion kind of gal, but this is good stuff. It smells yummy without being overly sweet. So anyway, after many weeks of peachy lotion use, I have already come to associate the scent with leisurely walks, daily viewing of Ellen, frequent cinnamon toast consumption and many hours spent grinning at the baby and speaking to him in a ridiculously high-pitched voice in an attempt to make him smile.
I know I have to go back to work soon. I'm not totally dreading it, although I know it will be really hard at first. Somehow, though, it's comforting that one whiff of the delicious lotion will transport me back to the summer of 2005 -- the summer my life changed forever.
It was a peach.
You know how you can smell something familiar and instantly and nostalgically be reminded of a place, time, person or event in your life? Well, as I'm starting to see my maternity leave draw to a close, I am realizing that anytime I smell peaches I will remember my eighteen weeks sans work fondly. Yes, I realize this sounds kinda weird. Allow me to explain.
A few days after the baby was born I was shopping at Trader Joe's. I ended up buying this peach-scented lotion (specifically, Kiss My Face Peaches & Cream Moisturizer) and have been slathering it all over myself on a daily basis ever since. I'm not usually a big fruit-scented lotion kind of gal, but this is good stuff. It smells yummy without being overly sweet. So anyway, after many weeks of peachy lotion use, I have already come to associate the scent with leisurely walks, daily viewing of Ellen, frequent cinnamon toast consumption and many hours spent grinning at the baby and speaking to him in a ridiculously high-pitched voice in an attempt to make him smile.
I know I have to go back to work soon. I'm not totally dreading it, although I know it will be really hard at first. Somehow, though, it's comforting that one whiff of the delicious lotion will transport me back to the summer of 2005 -- the summer my life changed forever.
It was a peach.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
sleep when the baby sleeps? what a freakin' crock.
Motherhood, although generally fantastic, involves a level of sleep deprivation that would be difficult for most mortals to stomach. But when you are someone like me who absolutely NEEDS and MUST HAVE her 8-9 hours of sleep per night, motherhood can be a beeotch with a capital B.
People always tell you "Sleep when the baby sleeps." With few exceptions, I haven't been able to do this successfully. And trust me, I've tried. But the minute I lie down and try to catch some shut-eye, I begin thinking about one or more of the following items:
1) The baby will wake up any minute.
2) The gigantic pileup of dirty dishes in the sink.
3) The equally gigantic pileup of dirty laundry.
4) The numerous phone calls I need to make and/or return.
5) I wonder what's on Ellen this afternoon?
6) Did Katie Holmes really convert to Scientology?
... and so on. However, amazingly, I have learned to function on a serious sleep deficit (in no small part due to the two nectars of the gods, coffee and Diet Coke). As I've said before, it's all about lowering your standards.
So now, I've pretty much given up on napping. I spend my napless days reading Us Weekly magazine, filing my nails, bidding on random eBay auctions, perusing sale items at the Gap online and watching Ellen -- not doing the dishes or the laundry.
And you know, it's almost as fun as sleep.
Almost.
People always tell you "Sleep when the baby sleeps." With few exceptions, I haven't been able to do this successfully. And trust me, I've tried. But the minute I lie down and try to catch some shut-eye, I begin thinking about one or more of the following items:
1) The baby will wake up any minute.
2) The gigantic pileup of dirty dishes in the sink.
3) The equally gigantic pileup of dirty laundry.
4) The numerous phone calls I need to make and/or return.
5) I wonder what's on Ellen this afternoon?
6) Did Katie Holmes really convert to Scientology?
... and so on. However, amazingly, I have learned to function on a serious sleep deficit (in no small part due to the two nectars of the gods, coffee and Diet Coke). As I've said before, it's all about lowering your standards.
So now, I've pretty much given up on napping. I spend my napless days reading Us Weekly magazine, filing my nails, bidding on random eBay auctions, perusing sale items at the Gap online and watching Ellen -- not doing the dishes or the laundry.
And you know, it's almost as fun as sleep.
Almost.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
we interrupt our regularly scheduled program: an interview with undercover celebrity
Allow me to deviate from the project plan I laid out two posts ago so I can join the interview game and answer the questions posed to me by Undercover Celebrity.
Question 1: What’s the worst/most humiliating job you’ve ever had?
This is easily answered by simply stating the name of the store in which I worked in high school: H&H Tack and Feed. I was a cashier at said establishment, and spent my time a) selling alfalfa to all the rich people who owned horses, and b) trying on various pairs of Wranglers and cowboy boots with my co-workers. (For fun. Not to actually purchase. When you work at a store like H&H Tack and Feed, you must maintain a sense of humor at all times).
Now although I would give H&H the title of worst job, I have to add an honorable mention. My first job out of college was as a technical writer at a medical device company. And when I say "medical device," I really mean breast implants. At this job, I wrote manufacturing procedures and marketing materials for all our various implants. The pro of this job is that I am now quite adept at recognizing implants when I see them. The con was that I was forced to spend a lot of time cashing my paychecks at the bank they were drawn on, then going to my own bank to deposit the cash in my account. This company was notorious for giving employees bad checks, in turn causing them to bounce any checks they wrote.
Question 2: Would you rather be 4-feet tall or 8-feet tall? Why?
Definitely 4 feet tall. Why, you ask? Because "little people" totally have their own culture and I could go to conventions with them and meet other people my size. Frankly, I'm not sure what support system exists for 8-foot-tall people. It's got to be sketchy at best.
Question 3: Shove. Marry. Push-off a cliff. (please place the following men into a category) Balky Bartokamus. Mork. Kramer.
Do you mean Shag/Marry/Push off a cliff? If so, here's my order:
Shag - Kramer. (Just get it over with and forget it ever happened.)
Marry - Balky Bartokamus. (Somewhat clueless, but so good-hearted. You just know he'd bend over backwards to treat you right.)
Push off a cliff - Mork. (Too zany, and we don't have enough in common with him being from Ork.)
I'm sure these answers will cause some sort of controversy. My answers to this game are usually fodder for mockery. For example, when given the chance to marry Yoda or E.T., I chose Yoda. Hello, he's like the wisest being on earth! Although I was roundly criticized for this choice, I stand by it to this day.
Question 4: What did you want to be when you grew up?
Definitely a veterinarian. And somehow, I ended up in marketing. I guess they have more in common than meets the eye, since some of the people I work with remind me of animals.
Question 5: What was the meanest thing you did to your sister whilst still a child?
Ooh, good one! I'm sure there were many, but the first one that jumps to mind is that I told her that if she cut the tail off her My Little Pony, it would grow back. She cut it. It didn't grow back. And I'm still not sure she's forgiven me.
------------------------------------------------
Want to play?
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Question 1: What’s the worst/most humiliating job you’ve ever had?
This is easily answered by simply stating the name of the store in which I worked in high school: H&H Tack and Feed. I was a cashier at said establishment, and spent my time a) selling alfalfa to all the rich people who owned horses, and b) trying on various pairs of Wranglers and cowboy boots with my co-workers. (For fun. Not to actually purchase. When you work at a store like H&H Tack and Feed, you must maintain a sense of humor at all times).
Now although I would give H&H the title of worst job, I have to add an honorable mention. My first job out of college was as a technical writer at a medical device company. And when I say "medical device," I really mean breast implants. At this job, I wrote manufacturing procedures and marketing materials for all our various implants. The pro of this job is that I am now quite adept at recognizing implants when I see them. The con was that I was forced to spend a lot of time cashing my paychecks at the bank they were drawn on, then going to my own bank to deposit the cash in my account. This company was notorious for giving employees bad checks, in turn causing them to bounce any checks they wrote.
Question 2: Would you rather be 4-feet tall or 8-feet tall? Why?
Definitely 4 feet tall. Why, you ask? Because "little people" totally have their own culture and I could go to conventions with them and meet other people my size. Frankly, I'm not sure what support system exists for 8-foot-tall people. It's got to be sketchy at best.
Question 3: Shove. Marry. Push-off a cliff. (please place the following men into a category) Balky Bartokamus. Mork. Kramer.
Do you mean Shag/Marry/Push off a cliff? If so, here's my order:
Shag - Kramer. (Just get it over with and forget it ever happened.)
Marry - Balky Bartokamus. (Somewhat clueless, but so good-hearted. You just know he'd bend over backwards to treat you right.)
Push off a cliff - Mork. (Too zany, and we don't have enough in common with him being from Ork.)
I'm sure these answers will cause some sort of controversy. My answers to this game are usually fodder for mockery. For example, when given the chance to marry Yoda or E.T., I chose Yoda. Hello, he's like the wisest being on earth! Although I was roundly criticized for this choice, I stand by it to this day.
Question 4: What did you want to be when you grew up?
Definitely a veterinarian. And somehow, I ended up in marketing. I guess they have more in common than meets the eye, since some of the people I work with remind me of animals.
Question 5: What was the meanest thing you did to your sister whilst still a child?
Ooh, good one! I'm sure there were many, but the first one that jumps to mind is that I told her that if she cut the tail off her My Little Pony, it would grow back. She cut it. It didn't grow back. And I'm still not sure she's forgiven me.
------------------------------------------------
Want to play?
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
MBF = BFF
As promised, here is the first installment in my project plan of blogging topics, namely "How I actually came to own a pillow called 'My Brest Friend,' and how said pillow has made my life immeasurably easier."
The first thing I need to get off my chest (ironic, no?) is that I am simply not the sort of person who would purchase a product with the ridiculous and humiliating name of "My Brest Friend." Perhaps it's the marketing professional in me, or perhaps it's just that I don't like to reward the person or company who came up with such a name by giving them my hard-earned cash.
But as I've learned after having a child, you must lower your standards. For example: Four hours of continuous sleep? Heaven! Taking a shower every day? The ultimate indulgence. Remembering to eat lunch? A bonus.
So once Evan was born, I wondered how exactly the human race had sustained itself for centuries when breastfeeding is so damn hard. Really. Here's an illustration to give you an idea of the agony I endured. I honestly would go through childbirth ten more times (with an epidural, of course) before experiencing the pain of the first five weeks of nursing my son. I am talking extreme pain, and this from a person who I SWEAR is not a wimp. In fact, I've always prided myself on my high pain tolerance. However, I was popping the Darvocet they gave me in the hospital two at a time. When I went to refill my prescription, a note that said "High Dose Alert" popped up on the pharmacist's screen -- meaning they could tell that I had been taking the maximum dose because of how quickly I had returned for the refill! I'm pretty sure that was the low point.
So after a couple of weeks of cracking, bleeding, crying and picturing myself hooked on painkillers like Jack Osbourne and Rush Limbaugh, I finally consulted a lactation consultant. She took one look at me and pronounced my condition "severe nipple damage." That was another low point, yes. But this was the beautiful day that I met my new Brest Friend.
Yes, it's true. The MBF pillow, however silly the name, became my knight in shining armor. Just to give you an idea of the mechanics, you fasten the pillow around you, and it positions the baby perfectly and helps you avoid a "bad latch-on," as they say. One use and I was hooked. You strap it on and feel a little bit like a blackjack dealer. Actually, you could cover it with green felt and use it as a blackjack table for a Halloween costume. (So Martha Stewart of me.) Future Halloween costume or no, the MBF was worth every penny, and I will shout its praises from the rooftops forever and ever, amen.
So, what did I learn from my experience? First of all, the first few weeks of motherhood are simply about survival, because you have to throw quality of life out the window temporarily. (At least until the baby starts smiling at you and/or sleeping more than five hours at night.) It just goes to show you that it's never wise to say "I'll never..." when it comes to having children. You never know when you're gonna have to swallow your pride, suck it up and gird yourself, literally, with your Brest Friend.
The first thing I need to get off my chest (ironic, no?) is that I am simply not the sort of person who would purchase a product with the ridiculous and humiliating name of "My Brest Friend." Perhaps it's the marketing professional in me, or perhaps it's just that I don't like to reward the person or company who came up with such a name by giving them my hard-earned cash.
But as I've learned after having a child, you must lower your standards. For example: Four hours of continuous sleep? Heaven! Taking a shower every day? The ultimate indulgence. Remembering to eat lunch? A bonus.
So once Evan was born, I wondered how exactly the human race had sustained itself for centuries when breastfeeding is so damn hard. Really. Here's an illustration to give you an idea of the agony I endured. I honestly would go through childbirth ten more times (with an epidural, of course) before experiencing the pain of the first five weeks of nursing my son. I am talking extreme pain, and this from a person who I SWEAR is not a wimp. In fact, I've always prided myself on my high pain tolerance. However, I was popping the Darvocet they gave me in the hospital two at a time. When I went to refill my prescription, a note that said "High Dose Alert" popped up on the pharmacist's screen -- meaning they could tell that I had been taking the maximum dose because of how quickly I had returned for the refill! I'm pretty sure that was the low point.
So after a couple of weeks of cracking, bleeding, crying and picturing myself hooked on painkillers like Jack Osbourne and Rush Limbaugh, I finally consulted a lactation consultant. She took one look at me and pronounced my condition "severe nipple damage." That was another low point, yes. But this was the beautiful day that I met my new Brest Friend.
Yes, it's true. The MBF pillow, however silly the name, became my knight in shining armor. Just to give you an idea of the mechanics, you fasten the pillow around you, and it positions the baby perfectly and helps you avoid a "bad latch-on," as they say. One use and I was hooked. You strap it on and feel a little bit like a blackjack dealer. Actually, you could cover it with green felt and use it as a blackjack table for a Halloween costume. (So Martha Stewart of me.) Future Halloween costume or no, the MBF was worth every penny, and I will shout its praises from the rooftops forever and ever, amen.
So, what did I learn from my experience? First of all, the first few weeks of motherhood are simply about survival, because you have to throw quality of life out the window temporarily. (At least until the baby starts smiling at you and/or sleeping more than five hours at night.) It just goes to show you that it's never wise to say "I'll never..." when it comes to having children. You never know when you're gonna have to swallow your pride, suck it up and gird yourself, literally, with your Brest Friend.
Monday, June 13, 2005
blagger
I am so sorry to you, my 3-4 loyal readers, for my total lack of blogging in the past two months. My list of excuses is long and includes such doozies as "I just had a baby," "I'm exhausted because I always have to get up at night to feed the baby," and so on and so forth. However, the REAL reason I'm such a blogging lagger (see title of this post for my fun new term) is that the happenings in my life over the past two months are quite difficult to quantify in mere words. There are many suitable topics I could cover, however. Maybe I could start just by listing them here, and then covering them one by one in future posts. Okay, I feel better already. I will create a nice little outline-slash-project-plan and then attack them one by one. Wow. That is so satisfying! Like an electronic version of a to-do list.
Topics to cover in future blogs:
1) How I actually came to own a pillow called "My Brest Friend," and how said pillow has made my life immeasurably easier.
2) How annoyed I am that I can't follow that sage advice, "Sleep when the baby sleeps."
3) How bizarre it is that when you go into the hospital to HAVE a baby, they actually let you LEAVE with the baby. And how the baby not only goes home with you that day, but continues to LIVE with you, FOREVER.
4) The Culture of Daytime People. By this I mean the extremely large number of people who don't work during the day, and who are out and about in various places at 10:30 a.m. such as the dry cleaners, the drugstore and the mall. Ranked in order of probability, my guess is that these people are stay-at-home moms, waiters, bartenders and possibly drug dealers.
5) How I continue to torture myself by trying on my old jeans a couple of times a week, and what odd masochistic impulse compels me to do so.
Well, that'll be a start. Look forward to me covering each of these in detail soon, and forgive my absence. I've missed you, really I have.
Topics to cover in future blogs:
1) How I actually came to own a pillow called "My Brest Friend," and how said pillow has made my life immeasurably easier.
2) How annoyed I am that I can't follow that sage advice, "Sleep when the baby sleeps."
3) How bizarre it is that when you go into the hospital to HAVE a baby, they actually let you LEAVE with the baby. And how the baby not only goes home with you that day, but continues to LIVE with you, FOREVER.
4) The Culture of Daytime People. By this I mean the extremely large number of people who don't work during the day, and who are out and about in various places at 10:30 a.m. such as the dry cleaners, the drugstore and the mall. Ranked in order of probability, my guess is that these people are stay-at-home moms, waiters, bartenders and possibly drug dealers.
5) How I continue to torture myself by trying on my old jeans a couple of times a week, and what odd masochistic impulse compels me to do so.
Well, that'll be a start. Look forward to me covering each of these in detail soon, and forgive my absence. I've missed you, really I have.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
verbal diarrhea
Although this is another post along the "pregnancy hazard" lines, I wanted to call it something different — something gross — in order to illustrate the entire point of what I have come here to tell you today. That point is that at this stage in my pregnancy (e.g., The End), I have lost all compunction about using certain words and phrases, which prior to this fascinating journey I would have avoided like the proverbial plague.
Here are a few examples of specific words and phrases with which I am now completely comfortable:
Mucus Plug (my new personal favorite)
Cervix
Effacement
Discharge
Episiotomy
Of course, there are others, but because of my pregnancy-induced forgetfulness I cannot think of them right now. The funny part here is that I am typically quite a tactful and private sort. I hate when people ask me extremely personal questions that are none of their business and I am simply not given to routinely discuss bodily functions. All that has changed. Now I delight in informing others of the status of my cervix on a weekly basis. And the mucus plug? I see pieces of it almost every day now.
Seriously! I know how horrifying this is, but I cannot stop myself from sharing it.
Perhaps it all stems from the time when the ultrasound technician told me I have a beautiful cervix. I must say, I took this as a compliment of the highest order and decided that others should know about it. If you've got a great cervix, you might as well shout it from the rooftops.
I should also confess that my V.D. (verbal diarrhea, for those of you thinking otherwise) has also taken on a darker tone. Like the time when a friend of mine showed me pictures from her cousin's 3-D ultrasound and I immediately said out loud without thinking about it "Oh my gosh, he looks like the Elephant Man!" So much for my self-proclaimed tact. (But really, sometimes those 3-D photos aren't all they are cracked up to be. You can really see some scary angles on those puppies.)
The filter between my brain and my mouth seems to have malfunctioned. Hopefully it will improve after the baby comes, but I'm not holding my breath.
Here are a few examples of specific words and phrases with which I am now completely comfortable:
Mucus Plug (my new personal favorite)
Cervix
Effacement
Discharge
Episiotomy
Of course, there are others, but because of my pregnancy-induced forgetfulness I cannot think of them right now. The funny part here is that I am typically quite a tactful and private sort. I hate when people ask me extremely personal questions that are none of their business and I am simply not given to routinely discuss bodily functions. All that has changed. Now I delight in informing others of the status of my cervix on a weekly basis. And the mucus plug? I see pieces of it almost every day now.
Seriously! I know how horrifying this is, but I cannot stop myself from sharing it.
Perhaps it all stems from the time when the ultrasound technician told me I have a beautiful cervix. I must say, I took this as a compliment of the highest order and decided that others should know about it. If you've got a great cervix, you might as well shout it from the rooftops.
I should also confess that my V.D. (verbal diarrhea, for those of you thinking otherwise) has also taken on a darker tone. Like the time when a friend of mine showed me pictures from her cousin's 3-D ultrasound and I immediately said out loud without thinking about it "Oh my gosh, he looks like the Elephant Man!" So much for my self-proclaimed tact. (But really, sometimes those 3-D photos aren't all they are cracked up to be. You can really see some scary angles on those puppies.)
The filter between my brain and my mouth seems to have malfunctioned. Hopefully it will improve after the baby comes, but I'm not holding my breath.
Monday, April 04, 2005
pregnancy hazard #1,763,098
Forgetting things. For example, the other day at work, I forgot how to use the "Track Changes" feature in Microsoft Word. Now, for someone who has been working in a corporate environment since 1995 -- many of those years as a marketing writer and editor -- this may sound wacky. But I assure you, it happened last Thursday. I needed to edit a document and I spent several minutes searching for how to track my changes. Logically, you would think that it would be under the Edit menu. Alas, it is not. After looking at every single menu available in Microsoft Word, I finally found the elusive Track Changes feature under the Tools menu. Where, of course, it's been all along. After I did finally discover it (and realize that I have become certifiably insane), I got really pissed off that it WASN'T under the Edit menu. I mean, wouldn't you go to the edit menu when you want to edit something?
Call me crazy, because I am.
Call me crazy, because I am.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
sleep now or forever hold your peace
I've realized a few things about myself. I dislike being the center of attention (most of the time). Also, I'm exceedingly impatient (virtually all the time). Well, actually I've known about both those traits for a while, but as a pregnant woman those two things together create a volatile mix of emotions that are especially noticeable when a person virtually unknown to me asks one of the following questions:
"When are you due?"
"How far along are you?"
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"What are you going to name the baby?"
"Are you going to go back to work?"
"How much weight have you gained?"
"Are you going to have an epidural?"
"Are you going to breastfeed?"
Some of these questions are reasonable, of course; some are downright rude; and most are none of their business. However, I try to be patient (really, I do), but have recently realized that I've had it up to here with one particular comment that a huge majority of people make. Especially other parents, who I know are trying to be helpful and pass on the benefit of their experience. While I appreciate the sentiment, I can't promise to react favorably the next time I hear it.
Wondering what that comment is? It's "sleep now."
Or "get all the sleep you can," or "I hope you're taking advantage of the fact that you can sleep uninterrupted now," or any number of variations on the sleep theme.
Here is the flaw in the "sleep now" logic: it ain't bankable. Trust me, if there was a way to hoard sleep, I would have mastered it for my personal use and then sold it to the highest bidder. Seriously. I'm as close as you can come to a sleepaholic. I truly love to sleep and if I haven't had my eight (nine) hours, I pity the people who have to be near me the next day. (Side note: I know I'm going to have to get over that. You people have been telling me about it for months.)
Here's the other part I dislike. At 33 weeks, I can't sleep very well as it is. I wake up two or three times a night to go to the bathroom, and by the time I return, get back in bed, comfortably arrange my complex pillow system and ensure that I'm not cutting off the blood supply to one of my arms by resting my considerable bulk on top of it, the baby has usually begun his nightly kickboxing ritual, which can last up to a couple of hours. A two-minute bathroom trip often results in a two-hour sleep deficit.
I know what you parents out there are thinking. The sleep deprivation scenario I've just described is a piffling inconvenience compared to what I'm about to endure. And that's OK. Just let me drown in that pool like the rest of you did! In the meantime, I'll keep on answering all your questions... just as long as you don't tell me to get some sleep.
"When are you due?"
"How far along are you?"
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"What are you going to name the baby?"
"Are you going to go back to work?"
"How much weight have you gained?"
"Are you going to have an epidural?"
"Are you going to breastfeed?"
Some of these questions are reasonable, of course; some are downright rude; and most are none of their business. However, I try to be patient (really, I do), but have recently realized that I've had it up to here with one particular comment that a huge majority of people make. Especially other parents, who I know are trying to be helpful and pass on the benefit of their experience. While I appreciate the sentiment, I can't promise to react favorably the next time I hear it.
Wondering what that comment is? It's "sleep now."
Or "get all the sleep you can," or "I hope you're taking advantage of the fact that you can sleep uninterrupted now," or any number of variations on the sleep theme.
Here is the flaw in the "sleep now" logic: it ain't bankable. Trust me, if there was a way to hoard sleep, I would have mastered it for my personal use and then sold it to the highest bidder. Seriously. I'm as close as you can come to a sleepaholic. I truly love to sleep and if I haven't had my eight (nine) hours, I pity the people who have to be near me the next day. (Side note: I know I'm going to have to get over that. You people have been telling me about it for months.)
Here's the other part I dislike. At 33 weeks, I can't sleep very well as it is. I wake up two or three times a night to go to the bathroom, and by the time I return, get back in bed, comfortably arrange my complex pillow system and ensure that I'm not cutting off the blood supply to one of my arms by resting my considerable bulk on top of it, the baby has usually begun his nightly kickboxing ritual, which can last up to a couple of hours. A two-minute bathroom trip often results in a two-hour sleep deficit.
I know what you parents out there are thinking. The sleep deprivation scenario I've just described is a piffling inconvenience compared to what I'm about to endure. And that's OK. Just let me drown in that pool like the rest of you did! In the meantime, I'll keep on answering all your questions... just as long as you don't tell me to get some sleep.
Friday, March 04, 2005
eureka
I have finally found it: the perfect pink lip gloss. Sheer and subtle, suitable for layering or wearing alone.
Happiness... thy name is L'Oreal Passion Fruit Squeeze.
Happiness... thy name is L'Oreal Passion Fruit Squeeze.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
adulthood
Let's review a few things, shall we:
I am over 30 years old. (31, to be exact.)
I have been gainfully employed in a full-time capacity for the better part of 10 years.
I have been married for more than five years.
I own a home.
Inside said home, I have a fire safe. (About which, incidentally, I have a pretty funny story that I will summarize briefly: We accidentally locked our passports inside the safe 24 hours before leaving for Puerto Rico. Panic ensued. A locksmith was called. Passports were recovered. A sum totaling more than $100 was paid to the locksmith. All this, and we discovered that we didn't actually NEED the passports to go to Puerto Rico in the first place. Oh well.)
I now very rarely eat Top Ramen.
And today, I officially selected a pediatrician for my as-yet-unborn son.
Yep, all evidence points to the scary fact that I am technically and in all other ways an ADULT.
Which is weird, because I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was in college.
The responsibility is a bit staggering to contemplate. So I suppose I won't contemplate it any more tonight. I think I'll wrap this up and go downstairs for some Ovaltine.
I am over 30 years old. (31, to be exact.)
I have been gainfully employed in a full-time capacity for the better part of 10 years.
I have been married for more than five years.
I own a home.
Inside said home, I have a fire safe. (About which, incidentally, I have a pretty funny story that I will summarize briefly: We accidentally locked our passports inside the safe 24 hours before leaving for Puerto Rico. Panic ensued. A locksmith was called. Passports were recovered. A sum totaling more than $100 was paid to the locksmith. All this, and we discovered that we didn't actually NEED the passports to go to Puerto Rico in the first place. Oh well.)
I now very rarely eat Top Ramen.
And today, I officially selected a pediatrician for my as-yet-unborn son.
Yep, all evidence points to the scary fact that I am technically and in all other ways an ADULT.
Which is weird, because I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was in college.
The responsibility is a bit staggering to contemplate. So I suppose I won't contemplate it any more tonight. I think I'll wrap this up and go downstairs for some Ovaltine.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
pregnancy hazard #290
Almost biting my tongue every time someone I don't know feels free to call me "mama" or "mommy."
Eeeewwww!!!!! Can I just tell you how much I hate that?
It's happening almost daily now. From the guy at work (whose name I don't even know) who says "Hey mama" every time he sees me to the lady at the nail salon who says "Just a few more minutes, mommy" to Lord knows who all else.
I'd just like to state for the record that I am fully accepting of my impending motherhood. However, that being said, last I checked I was neither his mama nor her mommy. (Thank God, because of course my perfect child will know better.) It's the weirdest phenomenon. It's as if appearing pregnant makes you public property. People think it's totally acceptable to grab your belly, ask how much weight you've gained (no, really, I am not kidding about this one) and offer advice as if you either wanted it or asked for it.
I'm still waiting for the sudden epiphany that will bring me the perfect comeback. Until it arrives, I will continue to employ the fake half-smile that masquerades as maternal peacefulness, but in reality is merely forced restraint with a chaser of painful tongue-biting.
Eeeewwww!!!!! Can I just tell you how much I hate that?
It's happening almost daily now. From the guy at work (whose name I don't even know) who says "Hey mama" every time he sees me to the lady at the nail salon who says "Just a few more minutes, mommy" to Lord knows who all else.
I'd just like to state for the record that I am fully accepting of my impending motherhood. However, that being said, last I checked I was neither his mama nor her mommy. (Thank God, because of course my perfect child will know better.) It's the weirdest phenomenon. It's as if appearing pregnant makes you public property. People think it's totally acceptable to grab your belly, ask how much weight you've gained (no, really, I am not kidding about this one) and offer advice as if you either wanted it or asked for it.
I'm still waiting for the sudden epiphany that will bring me the perfect comeback. Until it arrives, I will continue to employ the fake half-smile that masquerades as maternal peacefulness, but in reality is merely forced restraint with a chaser of painful tongue-biting.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
a blogging rite of passage
At this point in my blogging career, I felt it appropriate to compile the obligatory list of random facts and personal insights to share with you, my 1-2 faithful readers. Enjoy.
I fell in love with (twice), and married my high school sweetheart. Sickening, isn't it.
I am obsessed with Ovaltine, chocolate malt flavor.
I love black, but hate navy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I stand against all that navy represents. It's so classic, so Talbots, so inextricably linked with sensible flat shoes and blazers with gold buttons.
My hatred of clutter borders on the compulsive. (I believe I inherited this trait from my mother, although oddly it was latent until just a couple of years ago.)
I am probably one of the least germaphobic people you'll ever meet. God gave us immune systems for a reason, people. (side note: it's bothering me that I don't know how to spell "germaphobic.")
On a related topic, I've always prided myself on my excellent spelling.
I tend to overuse parentheses. (But you already knew that.)
I will go to extreme lengths to avoid vomiting.
I have an overactive conscience.
I am an equal opportunity reader. I will happily go from reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich to A is for Alibi to the nutritional facts on the back of my cereal boxes, and love every word.
I really enjoy a good casserole.
One of my shallower life goals is to identify and capture the perfect pink lip gloss - the Yeti of the cosmetics world. At this point, the closest I have found would have to be a combination of Almay Raisin Glow and Clinique New Rain, but I will not give up until I find this elusive creature in a single tube.
I always pay my bills on time.
For some reason I've never really mastered the proper use of chopsticks.
On that note, I'm also not very good at shuffling cards.
Oh well. I'm sure I could think of some others, but frankly you probably have more important things to do right now. And so do I, since it's dinnertime and I am planning to hunt through my fridge for some leftover casserole.
I fell in love with (twice), and married my high school sweetheart. Sickening, isn't it.
I am obsessed with Ovaltine, chocolate malt flavor.
I love black, but hate navy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I stand against all that navy represents. It's so classic, so Talbots, so inextricably linked with sensible flat shoes and blazers with gold buttons.
My hatred of clutter borders on the compulsive. (I believe I inherited this trait from my mother, although oddly it was latent until just a couple of years ago.)
I am probably one of the least germaphobic people you'll ever meet. God gave us immune systems for a reason, people. (side note: it's bothering me that I don't know how to spell "germaphobic.")
On a related topic, I've always prided myself on my excellent spelling.
I tend to overuse parentheses. (But you already knew that.)
I will go to extreme lengths to avoid vomiting.
I have an overactive conscience.
I am an equal opportunity reader. I will happily go from reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich to A is for Alibi to the nutritional facts on the back of my cereal boxes, and love every word.
I really enjoy a good casserole.
One of my shallower life goals is to identify and capture the perfect pink lip gloss - the Yeti of the cosmetics world. At this point, the closest I have found would have to be a combination of Almay Raisin Glow and Clinique New Rain, but I will not give up until I find this elusive creature in a single tube.
I always pay my bills on time.
For some reason I've never really mastered the proper use of chopsticks.
On that note, I'm also not very good at shuffling cards.
Oh well. I'm sure I could think of some others, but frankly you probably have more important things to do right now. And so do I, since it's dinnertime and I am planning to hunt through my fridge for some leftover casserole.
pregnancy hazard #289
multiple accidental razor cuts in shower. large belly contributes to poor leg visibility, awkward shaving angles and general lack of coordination. recommend stocking up on large supply of small band-aids.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
ten more weeks
It's hitting me now. Ten more weeks until D-Day. Or maybe I should say E-Day, since we've all but decided to name the baby Evan.
Only ten more weeks.
Which means, only ten more free weekends.
Ten more weekends to lay around and be our lazy procrastinating selves. When he arrives, I'm afraid we'll have to act like the responsible adults in our thirties that it's been easy to pretend we really aren't. We like to think of ourselves as carefree, not tied down, spur-of-the-moment, et cetera... although all evidence speaks to the contrary. Case(s) in point: we spent New Year's Eve watching the first season of 24 on DVD, and Valentine's Day watching the episodes of Americal Idol that we Tivo'd while on vacation last week. Actually, given these facts, it's conceivable to think that the baby will fit into our actual lifestyle much better than the lifestyle I sometimes like to think we lead.
Ten more weeks for me to double up on pancakes and cheeseburgers, all in the name of eating for two.
Ten more weeks to load up on all the sleep, dinners out, movies and other things that people are constantly telling us that we will never get to do again.
Ten more weeks to accumulate all the gear you supposedly "need" for a baby. (On that note, the Great Wipe Warmer Debate of 2005 rages on.)
Ten more weeks to wonder what he looks like.
Ten more weeks where we have only ourselves to feed, clothe, worry about and pick up after.
Am I ready for this?
Only ten more weeks.
Which means, only ten more free weekends.
Ten more weekends to lay around and be our lazy procrastinating selves. When he arrives, I'm afraid we'll have to act like the responsible adults in our thirties that it's been easy to pretend we really aren't. We like to think of ourselves as carefree, not tied down, spur-of-the-moment, et cetera... although all evidence speaks to the contrary. Case(s) in point: we spent New Year's Eve watching the first season of 24 on DVD, and Valentine's Day watching the episodes of Americal Idol that we Tivo'd while on vacation last week. Actually, given these facts, it's conceivable to think that the baby will fit into our actual lifestyle much better than the lifestyle I sometimes like to think we lead.
Ten more weeks for me to double up on pancakes and cheeseburgers, all in the name of eating for two.
Ten more weeks to load up on all the sleep, dinners out, movies and other things that people are constantly telling us that we will never get to do again.
Ten more weeks to accumulate all the gear you supposedly "need" for a baby. (On that note, the Great Wipe Warmer Debate of 2005 rages on.)
Ten more weeks to wonder what he looks like.
Ten more weeks where we have only ourselves to feed, clothe, worry about and pick up after.
Am I ready for this?
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
an ode to low-rise pants
Why do I hate maternity clothes so much? I think the word "maternity" might be part of the problem. The word alone sounds vaguely bloated and tentish -- two things I had hoped to avoid while pregnant. Unsuccessfully when it comes to the bloating part, I might add.
I have to confess that I was completely unprepared for how alarming it would be for my body to change like this. Obviously, you expect it to change, but you don't really get it until it happens to you seemingly overnight. I've never struggled with my weight and in fact, never really gave it much thought prior to this experience. However, once I got pregnant I realized that that body image -- the old thin one -- is much more a part of me than I ever thought. But I've weighed the options, and have decided to embrace my love for cheeseburgers even if it means I have to work a little harder afterward to fit into my old jeans.
But you know, I should count my blessings. First of all, how lucky am I to be living in the era of low-rise pants? How did people ever cope with pregnancy in the 80s, when jeans came up to your rib cage? Yuck. I've tried so hard to like maternity pants but just haven't been able to do it. However, now that I'm getting close to six months along and TOTALLY showing, I do feel a little silly walking into my standard teenybopper stores and trying things on. I already feel conspicuous as a 31-year old shopping there, but add the big belly and the whole spectacle becomes a bit ridiculous.
Oh well. It's a free country. But please, next time you see me perusing a rack of clothing at Forever 21, bite your tongue and walk on by.
I have to confess that I was completely unprepared for how alarming it would be for my body to change like this. Obviously, you expect it to change, but you don't really get it until it happens to you seemingly overnight. I've never struggled with my weight and in fact, never really gave it much thought prior to this experience. However, once I got pregnant I realized that that body image -- the old thin one -- is much more a part of me than I ever thought. But I've weighed the options, and have decided to embrace my love for cheeseburgers even if it means I have to work a little harder afterward to fit into my old jeans.
But you know, I should count my blessings. First of all, how lucky am I to be living in the era of low-rise pants? How did people ever cope with pregnancy in the 80s, when jeans came up to your rib cage? Yuck. I've tried so hard to like maternity pants but just haven't been able to do it. However, now that I'm getting close to six months along and TOTALLY showing, I do feel a little silly walking into my standard teenybopper stores and trying things on. I already feel conspicuous as a 31-year old shopping there, but add the big belly and the whole spectacle becomes a bit ridiculous.
Oh well. It's a free country. But please, next time you see me perusing a rack of clothing at Forever 21, bite your tongue and walk on by.
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