Hey, he stole my outfit.Happy Fourth of July, everyone!
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Frequently Asked Questions About This Weblog
-or-
My Attempt to Make it Look Like I Have More than Three Readers Who Did Not Watch Me Grow Up
-or-
My Attempt to Make it Look Like I Have More than Three Readers Who Did Not Watch Me Grow Up
You sound just like every other self-obsessed, egocentric mom out there who thinks her blog will some day score her a big book deal, don't you think? Why, thank you. That's entirely what I was going for. I'm reminded of the words of my step-son, who, when his father asked, "Do you know what a blog is?", rolled his eyes at the backasswardness of his old man born and reared in the previous century and said, "Yes... it's an online journal." And that's just what this is. My online journal. To keep my thoughts and my experiences for my posterity. It's all about me. The only reason I even bother to do it on line is because I am somehow patently unable to continue writing when it's in a notebook that no one will open for half a lifetime. I've been more successful at keeping this blog going than the several dozen other journals and scrapbooks I've started since I was a kid. The bonus is that I don't have to use The Phone to keep friends and relatives up on my life. When someone says, "Hey, I didn't know you had a kid, why didn't you tell me?" I simply blink and say, "Read the blog." But if you're someone out there who wants to pay me actual dollars to write about this crap so I can quit my job and lie around the house all day, living in a manner I'd like to become accustomed to... hey, I'm all ears.
What's up with that step-son anyway? Why don't you ever talk about him? My step-son quite possibly is one of the greatest kids ever. But a) he's a teenager and I'm sensitive to the fact that he might not want to someday see cutesy stories about himself on the Interweb, however anonymous they are; b) he lives with his mother most of the time, so I have less day to day stuff to write about, and; c) I am concerned that maybe his mother possibly would like to not see cutesy stories about him on the Interweb either. Basically, I'm protecting his privacy in case he one day would like to disavow any knowledge of my existence.
Does this mean you'd stop writing about your daughter if she felt uncomfortable with what you were posting - even if it were anonymous? Absolutely.
How about your husband? He doesn't rank the same sensitivity. Especially since one of his favorite hobbies is telling other people how "scary" I am.
I'm offended by [insert blog post here] that you wrote and I want to tell you how wrong you are. Have I not made it abundantly clear that this is all about me? Look, there's a lot of content on the web, so if you don't like what I'm writing, you can feel free to hop on over to the NRA website or on-line porn or something that more suits your sensibilities. But... because I am accommodating like that, I have installed a polling system on my website so you can click to announce your displeasure at any given time. See that little red box in the uppermost top right hand corner of this window? Yeah, the one with the X in it. That's it. If something I write here offends you and you want to let me know, click that.
Why is the font so big? You could fit more stuff on a page if you made the font smaller. Perhaps, but I would also not be able to read it while leaning back in my chair with my feet up while looking like I'm doing something else at work. And since we've established that this is all about me....
Is everything you write true? Yes. Absolutely. Except for when it's embellished truth. Or when it's just plain fabrication. In fact, how do you even know I'm answering this question truthfully? Honestly, this is my life as I see it. So no apologies when my perspective doesn't match yours. That having been said, however, I do try very hard - especially in quoting things people say to me - to directly quote them. So if you're reading this and you think something I write about seems like something you said and I'm making you sound like a dumass, that's probably how you sounded to me when you said it.
Can't you think of anything else to write about other than your kids and husband? Sure. My job, my boss, my extended family, my paycheck... But I'd kind of like to hold onto all of those things and I'm fully aware that my husband and kids are the only ones with the sense of humor to not Dooce me. Also, they are powerless to do so, so that's a plus.
Just what is it that you do? My job requires that I be equal parts therapist, computer programmer, writer, planner, executive assistant, network administrator, editor, musician, graphic designer, middle-manager, marketer, bookkeeper, mechanic, and shoulder to cry on. As passionate as I am about my career, however, my job often bears little resemblance to the career for which I was trained. It's also fairly specialized, so I won't go into any more detail than that, because someone once warned, "be ye not so stupid", and I be not.
Why don't you put up a belly pic every morning and evening? First, I am assuming that the writer of this question implied a "while you are pregnant" at the end. If the "while you are pregnant" was not implied, then, well, this is simply not that kind of site. If it is implied, I'm pleased as punch you want to look at my knocked-uppedness and watch it grow. But I can assure you, it's not a pretty picture. I do not get "cute pregnant" like all those little skinny girls who end up looking like an olive on a toothpick in their eighth month. My body... expands. And it's unpleasant. I'm actually considering telling people that I'm sitting shiva and covering all the mirrors in the house until about nine months (or maybe more accurately, two years) after I give birth, when I can again see my reflection without wondering, "hey, who's that fat lady?" If you want to see cute pregnant bellies, there are plenty of photos of Angelina Jolie, Katie Holmes, and Brittney Spears out there... and given Hollywood's obsession with sex, I'm willing to bet there will be more to come.
Why don't you think pregnancy is the most fun you've ever had!? Five words: pain, vomiting, pain, fear... and pain. Actually the vomiting has passed me over with this go around. But I've also had an extra dose of the pain. All other things being equal, I'd take the vomiting. I dislike the shopping for maternity clothes quite a bit too.
What's with the Alice in Wonderland thing? I honestly can't explain that adequately. It started when I moved all the way across the country to take a job that turned out to be one of the worst mistakes I've ever made in my life. I remember telling my family that I felt like I was Alice and I'd stepped through the Looking Glass into this world that didn't run the way I was used to. I started using characters in the book to identify my co-workers... my boss was the Queen of Hearts, the Cheshire Cat was someone who was there the first day I worked but that I didn't see again for weeks, etc. It just kind of stuck with me. I love Lewis Carroll's writing. He was one of the first uber-popular children's writers in the US (take that, JK Rowling) - so there's a ton of cool artwork, history, and a variety of book editions and treatments of the story to examine.
Why do you use code names? To keep Chris Hansen from showing up in my living room to film another installment of To Catch a Predator.
Why do you use code names for you and your family, but not your friends? Good point. Most of my friends show up on the blog under the moniker "a friend/coworker/acquaintance/person I know/family member said the other day....". This way, I look like I have just one friend. Which is not at all true... I have two friends - and sometimes use those terms interchangeably for the same person. But it is true that I have been known to use real names for some people. In those cases, those other people have set the precedent by either a) outing themselves on their own blog or website or b) outing themselves on their own in my comments section first. So I know that they do not share my paranoia about putting a name on the Interweb for all to see. In addition, the "real" names tend to be common ones (unlike some of my family's names) and a Google search result of 158,000 hits is almost as good as anonymity. If a friend has a codename on his/her own weblog, I'll gleefully use that instead because I think they're more fun anyway.
That KingofHearts, he sounds like a real tool. What's up with him? Actually, that wasn't a real question. But that made KoH stand up and take notice, didn't it honey? Gotcha.
Tell me the story of how you and the KingofHearts got married. He wore me down. End of story.
Is your husband as big of a geek as he sounds? You decide. In my house there is a box of Dungeons and Dragons paraphernalia. It does not belong to me.
Why does your site look weird in insert name of browser that is not Firefox here? I'm not much of a web designer - I totally stole this template (and this FAQ) from Zoot. I look at my site in Firefox and occasionally IE7 and I barely bother to make sure it works there. That much obsession I cannot allow into my life because soon, I'd be touching doorknobs and turning keys eleven times before opening the doors and walking through, only to wonder if I really turned that key the ninth time, or if it didn't really count because I maybe didn't turn it all the way to where it stopped on the left and then having to turn the car around a drive the three miles back home to make sure it was done right or I'd bring some horrible calamity raining down upon all the people I loved.
Why did my comment not show up after I submitted it? There are several possibilities for that: 1) your comment was spam and even though I know it's an uphill battle, I like to do my part to keep the Interweb as ad-free as possible so it was not approved. 2) your comment was completely unrelated to the post and you were just looking for a forum to spout your opinion/product/website and Alice don't play that way. 3) your comment was assy and I hate wars started in comment sections by people who are just looking to get a rise out of others, so it was not approved. 4) you can't figure out how to work the Leave a Comment feature and you need a little more practice with the Interweb.
Why do all my comments have to be approved? See the question above - and then let me tell you a little something about myself: I'm lazy, lazy, lazy. And there's an extra step to deleting comments in having to look back at your web page all the time. Once I post something, I tend to not go back and look at it again until the next time I post something and comment moderation comes with a handy email that comes straight to your inbox.
I comment on your site all the time, why don't you comment on mine? I know it's difficult to believe, based on the number of lanes I can take up writing about nothing on the Information Superhighway, but I am actually a person of few words. I read lots of blogs, but I will only go to the trouble to comment if there's something I really feel the need to say (or more likely, something to say that I think is really funny). I hate it when someone raises his hand in church to say exactly what the last guy just said, just using different names in what turns out to be pretty much the same story. So if I see that someone else has commented with basically what I was thinking, I don't bother - there's enough redundancy on the Interweb as it is. Plus I am L-A-Z-Y.
Why didn't you comment about my comment? Gimme an L. Gimme an A, Gimme a Z....
What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow? African or European?
I've heard that Mormons are a cult, is that true? The Merriam-Webster online dictionary lists five different meanings of the word "cult":
Where do you find the time to write all this stuff? I've got a lot of things in my life that require procrastination. You gotta fill up that time with something.
Where do you find all of those crazy pictures you use? A lot of people don't know that in addition to being a pretty excellent doctor, Google can also find an image on the web for just about any search terms you care to query. I do, however, make attempts (however minimal) to avoid using copyrighted and/or personal graphics and photos. Sometimes that's difficult to determine on the web though
Is it really true that nobody guesses Pluto first? This is a veiled reference to a Pictionary game eight years ago that no one has yet forgotten. To answer the question, no, it is not true. But it really is true that geeky, astronomer types think so. Of course, they also used to think Pluto was a planet, so, what can you really trust them with?
Did you really have enough questions to warrant an FAQ page? Yeah... you got me. Just looking for topic material.
Did you really have enough questions to warrant an FAQ page? Yeah... you got me. Just looking for topic material.
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Troll dolls. 
Especially when they are miniaturized by some sweat shop worker in China and stuck to a hair clip.
But they are well-loved by some.
Thanks, Grandma.
Especially when they are miniaturized by some sweat shop worker in China and stuck to a hair clip.
But they are well-loved by some.
Thanks, Grandma.
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We're getting ready for the day and I've thrown a bowl full of Fruit Loops in front of The Dormouse to save time because she woke up late. She begins eating, then pauses, looks at me earnestly and says quietly:
“Momma, I need to say something to you.”
She places her spoon down deliberately and raises her voice to imitate Don Pardo. Then slowly, ploddingly, as if she's a twelve year old boy reciting a poem in front of the whole classroom, or George Bush reading a speech in front of the press (oh wait, same thing) announces:
“Fruit. Loops. Aren’t. Just. Weird. They. Are. Good.
I guess there is improvement, because she used to just call Fruit Loops "Rainbow Cheerios." That was before these came out:
(I think Cheerios owes me some money)
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After one too many nights of waking up at three am from a dream that the Boston Strangler had come into my house and chosen me as his next victim only to find my hair wrapped around my neck, I finally garnered up the effort to pick up The Phone and make an appointment to cut it all off.
I've been trying to wait it out until it was long enough to cut off and donate. Because, apparently there's a great desire among pediatric cancer patients to look like you're auditioning for a revival tour with Devo.
But despite the photos on their website, it seems like a great organization and a good thing to do because, after all, it's for the children, right? So I had the stylist cut it all off.
My hair has never been so long:
or so short:
in my life. (My bathroom mirror has also never been so filthy.) It was also quite amusing that in the time I had not been going to get my hair cut with my regular stylist, they not only remodeled the entire place, but she also got pregnant and had another child, who is now nearly a year old. That ought to be a window into how fast my hair grows.
I'm not a short-hair-kind-of-person, so I fully expected my head to look like a bee sting caused it to swell eight times its normal size the second I exited the salon. And it does. I'm banking on the hormone-laden pregnancy to help this grow into something I'm more comfortable with as quickly as possible. What I didn't expect was how much darker my hair became once ten inches were removed from the ends. I never realized what a redhead I'd become with the long hair and I have to say, I miss it.
I've always had a thing for redheads -- from the time I was a teenager. I think it goes back to the senior I had a crush on and got to sit next to on a trip to the Sonora Desert Museum during my sophomore year. Because if you, too, were driving through the desert with your science teacher in a school-owned van toward Yuma, Arizona, the only thing you'd have to look at is the senior in the seat next to you and you'd probably develop some sort of weird transference that would last the rest of your life, I guarantee you. Or maybe that's just me. The funny thing is I don't even remember what that kid's name was, nor do I think I could find him in my high school year book if I really even tried.
But from that point on I always loved, and wanted to be, a redhead. I'm not a dye-your-hair-kind-of-person either (mainly because that would require my spending more than $20 and fifteen minutes inside a hair salon every two months and that would be unacceptable), but I have spent a lot of time over the years silently willing my hair to become red all on it's own. Not just red highlights, but the kind of red I was naively certain as a teenager that Deborah Kerr and Maureen O'Hara did not get from a bottle but had been born with - the kind with which God had played a cruel joke by neglecting to bless me. (I also seem to have spent a good deal of time as a child watching old movies, as those are the only two famous redheads I could come up with off the top of my head and I then felt it necessary to place a wiki link to them since I doubt any people outside of my mother will know who they are.)
I dyed my hair once in college. But since my hair by then was actually quite dark brown, it really only succeeded in making my hair look a little red in the right light. Friends and potential dates got tired of me dragging them outside the building into the sunset and waiting for an expression of "Wow, look at your red hair!", which never came. Once, a janitor at the place I worked asked me if I got my red hair from my mother or my father and it was the greatest compliment I'd ever received up to that point in time. I may have hugged him.
So, despite my life long desire for my hair to magically change color with no effort on my part at all, I have resigned myself to what my drivers' license says my hair color is: brown. Not even brunette, because that would somehow imply that it meant to be that color, but rather brown as in, "well, it's not blond, red or black... it's definitely not green... so the only thing left to call it is brown." I secretly hoped that somehow The Dormouse would be born with red hair, so I could vicariously live my life through her in the years to come, but there again, God opened up his mouth, let out a great "Ha!", and then gave her the same dishwatery blond hair I was born with.
So now I'm lamenting the fact that I was probably as close to being a redhead as I'd ever be in my life and I just cut it all off because of a couple bad nights and some high humidity. And I'm wondering if there's a wig out there for me. Perhaps a red one?
Just the color the kids were hoping for
(All kidding aside, this is a great organization, which I don't mean to belittle in any way. Even if your hair is not a long as their specifications, you can still donate shorter lengths of hair, which they will sell to help fund their mission. Check it out if you're at all inclined.)
I've been trying to wait it out until it was long enough to cut off and donate. Because, apparently there's a great desire among pediatric cancer patients to look like you're auditioning for a revival tour with Devo.But despite the photos on their website, it seems like a great organization and a good thing to do because, after all, it's for the children, right? So I had the stylist cut it all off.
My hair has never been so long:
or so short:
in my life. (My bathroom mirror has also never been so filthy.) It was also quite amusing that in the time I had not been going to get my hair cut with my regular stylist, they not only remodeled the entire place, but she also got pregnant and had another child, who is now nearly a year old. That ought to be a window into how fast my hair grows.
I'm not a short-hair-kind-of-person, so I fully expected my head to look like a bee sting caused it to swell eight times its normal size the second I exited the salon. And it does. I'm banking on the hormone-laden pregnancy to help this grow into something I'm more comfortable with as quickly as possible. What I didn't expect was how much darker my hair became once ten inches were removed from the ends. I never realized what a redhead I'd become with the long hair and I have to say, I miss it.
I've always had a thing for redheads -- from the time I was a teenager. I think it goes back to the senior I had a crush on and got to sit next to on a trip to the Sonora Desert Museum during my sophomore year. Because if you, too, were driving through the desert with your science teacher in a school-owned van toward Yuma, Arizona, the only thing you'd have to look at is the senior in the seat next to you and you'd probably develop some sort of weird transference that would last the rest of your life, I guarantee you. Or maybe that's just me. The funny thing is I don't even remember what that kid's name was, nor do I think I could find him in my high school year book if I really even tried.
But from that point on I always loved, and wanted to be, a redhead. I'm not a dye-your-hair-kind-of-person either (mainly because that would require my spending more than $20 and fifteen minutes inside a hair salon every two months and that would be unacceptable), but I have spent a lot of time over the years silently willing my hair to become red all on it's own. Not just red highlights, but the kind of red I was naively certain as a teenager that Deborah Kerr and Maureen O'Hara did not get from a bottle but had been born with - the kind with which God had played a cruel joke by neglecting to bless me. (I also seem to have spent a good deal of time as a child watching old movies, as those are the only two famous redheads I could come up with off the top of my head and I then felt it necessary to place a wiki link to them since I doubt any people outside of my mother will know who they are.)
I dyed my hair once in college. But since my hair by then was actually quite dark brown, it really only succeeded in making my hair look a little red in the right light. Friends and potential dates got tired of me dragging them outside the building into the sunset and waiting for an expression of "Wow, look at your red hair!", which never came. Once, a janitor at the place I worked asked me if I got my red hair from my mother or my father and it was the greatest compliment I'd ever received up to that point in time. I may have hugged him.
So, despite my life long desire for my hair to magically change color with no effort on my part at all, I have resigned myself to what my drivers' license says my hair color is: brown. Not even brunette, because that would somehow imply that it meant to be that color, but rather brown as in, "well, it's not blond, red or black... it's definitely not green... so the only thing left to call it is brown." I secretly hoped that somehow The Dormouse would be born with red hair, so I could vicariously live my life through her in the years to come, but there again, God opened up his mouth, let out a great "Ha!", and then gave her the same dishwatery blond hair I was born with.So now I'm lamenting the fact that I was probably as close to being a redhead as I'd ever be in my life and I just cut it all off because of a couple bad nights and some high humidity. And I'm wondering if there's a wig out there for me. Perhaps a red one?
Just the color the kids were hoping for(All kidding aside, this is a great organization, which I don't mean to belittle in any way. Even if your hair is not a long as their specifications, you can still donate shorter lengths of hair, which they will sell to help fund their mission. Check it out if you're at all inclined.)
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Funny, the Safety Instructions Don't Say Anything About This One
Posted on
6/28/2007 12:45:00 PM
- by NG
"Momma, what does this picture on my car seat mean? The one with the circle and the line on the seat."
"Oh. That means 'don't put the car seat in the front seat'."
"Why not?"
"Because it's dangerous."
"Oh... right! Because children can't drive.... that would be very dangerous."
"Oh. That means 'don't put the car seat in the front seat'.""Why not?"
"Because it's dangerous."
"Oh... right! Because children can't drive.... that would be very dangerous."
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"What should we name the new baby, honey?"
"We should name her Cinderella."
"Well, as lovely a name as Cinderella is, I don't think we'll be naming her Cinderella."
"Weeelllllllll... we could name her Sara...... and call her Cinderella for short!"
"We should name her Cinderella."
"Well, as lovely a name as Cinderella is, I don't think we'll be naming her Cinderella."
"Weeelllllllll... we could name her Sara...... and call her Cinderella for short!"
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I know this is a crappy photo taken with a camera phone, but I love it.
I guess when you consider that we shared it, it's two $2.50 milkshakes.
I guess when you consider that we shared it, it's two $2.50 milkshakes.
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Now If It Was Dennis Quaid, This Would be a Whole Different Story
Posted on
6/25/2007 10:18:00 AM
- by NG
"Randy Quaid just measured my uterus."
"Should I be worried?"
"OK - maybe not Randy Quaid, but if Randy Quaid had a twin brother who was an OB-GYN... that'd be him. He also yelled at me."
"Am I gonna have to beat him down?"
"Randy Quaid sucks. I'm never watching his movies again."
Between the OB-GYN, the Perinatologist, blood draws and lab work, the Witch Doctor... er... Pain Specialist, and whatever other random appointment I'm told I need, I'm in a doctor's office at least once a week, often more. Not only have I spent more time in waiting rooms than exam rooms the past several months and am sick of that rigmarole (if one more nurse makes me sit around in their waiting room for forty-five minutes past my appointment time with a full bladder, I'm afraid I'm going to have to pee all over their nice upholstery) but my purse is decidedly lighter every time I have to pay for someone to take my blood pressure, run a tape measure across my stomach and perform no other medical intervention. I realize that one of the reasons the United States has a lower infant mortality rate than most other countries is because of the constant monitoring and prenatal care and that makes me happy, but on these visits in between ultrasounds and blood tests, it irritates me to pay over $150 for the same information that I could get from two quarters at a pharmacy blood pressure machine and giving The Dormouse a tape measure.
So last month, when I had to schedule an in-depth evaluation and ultrasound with the perinatologist, I did not feel the need to schedule an additional visit with my regular OB. What the perinatologist was doing was more extensive and detailed than anything my OB would do... and.... aren't they supposed to be sharing information? It's not like I'm sneaking out in the middle of the night to visit Dr. Doom in a dirty, back alley abortion clinic on the sly. I've done my due diligence in full disclosure, thank you. So I went to see Dr. Doom and had a two hour ultrasound where they measured everything from the baby's head-to-rump length to the size of her fingernails. A copy of that report was then sent to my regular OB and all should have been kosher.
At the beginning of the month, I got a nasty phone call from the OB's office in a tone that basically accused me of child abuse: "We haven't seen you in a long time and we're wondering what's going on?"
"You haven't seen me in five weeks... and at my last visit, I told Dr. BeenThereDoneThat that my next appointment was at the perinatologist's office for the twenty week ultrasound. He said you could do that here, but I told him that since the perinatologist was doing more extensive measurements, I'd do that in place of my twenty week ultrasound here." Apparently, there's been a little competition and patient stealing between the Dr. Doom and Dr. BeenThereDoneThat and it seemed to be a sore spot at the time. But I still wanted the big, cool ultrasound where they'd actually spend more than fifteen minutes with you, and Dr. BeenThereDoneThat said it was my decision.
"Oh, OK. Well, we need to see you about every four weeks, do you want to make an appointment for this month now?"
"Sure."
So I made an appointment there and then a few days later during the first week in June. Unfortunately, I ended up having to play for a funeral on the day for which I had made the appointment. (Funny how you never have those kinds of things written into your schedule weeks in advance. How irresponsible of me.) I called as soon as I found out about the funeral to reschedule my OB appointment. The nurse was completely understanding and helped me schedule a make up appointment. The only spot they had available for me was three weeks later. So I rescheduled for this past Friday.
Walking into the office on Friday, I signed in and the receptionist looked at my signature and gave me one of those cranky schoolmarm looks, "We haven't seen you in awhile." Apparently, I'd been talked about.
"I had a perinatologist appointment in place of the OB one last month."
Once I was led into an exam room, the nurse gave me the same lecture: "We haven't seen you in awhile. You know we really need to be monitoring you every four weeks."
"Yeah, my appointment last month was at the perinatologist and he did all the measurements you would have done here and then some. You should have a copy of that report."
She glanced through my chart and nodded, "Yeah, we do."
"OK then."
"But it's been almost eight weeks since your last appointment."
"I had an appointment two weeks ago, but I had to reschedule because of a funeral. This was the only other time you had available."
"Hmmmpf."
She closed the chart, checked my blood pressure, gave me a million and one instructions for next month's glucose test, the only one of which I remember was "put this stuff in the fridge before you drink it because it tastes nasty", and left.
Enter Randy Quaid. This is a new doctor in the practice they hired after Dr. Coolness had a heart attack last year and, somehow assuming that his medical needs were more important than mine, retired. Randy Quaid looks and speaks just like the actor; the only difference being that in his white lab coat, he appears slightly less creepy... slightly.
"It's been awhile since we've seen you," said Randy Quaid with disapproval in his voice.
So I explained the whole thing above... again.
"Well, we really need to be able to monitor your blood pressure and make sure you aren't having any signs of pre-ecclampsia. You really, really need to have an appointment here every four weeks." Tsk, tsk, finger wag, etc., etc. Yawn.
"Well, I hear that perinatologists have training in taking blood pressure too. Dr. Doom took mine - 123/80 - and wrote in in the report. You don't have a copy of that?"
"Well, we also need to be able to monitor other things too. Like the baby's heartbeat and your uterus."
"Did the perinatologist not do that either?"
Glances at the report, "Yes, he did."
I kept my tongue at that point, feeling my silence has said plenty.
Randy Quaid then did three things: glanced at the blood pressure the nurse took - 124/83 - ran a tape measure across my belly, and jammed a heartbeat monitor on my stomach to hear the baby's heartbeat for approximately four seconds before turning it off without even approximating a per/minute count. It took all of three minutes and he was gone. $165.92 for those three services.
Thanks, Randy Quaid. I think the actor might have at least looked like he did more.
Would you let this man check your cervix?? Share:
Clearly Lacking Direction About Workings of the Physical World
Posted on
6/24/2007 07:33:00 AM
- by NG
"Speaking of eggs," (we weren't, but this is how every question like this begins) "where do eggs come from. Daddy?"
"Eggs come from chickens. Chickens lay the eggs and we use them."
"And.... when you plant an egg in the ground, it grows into an eggplant!"
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I have not really paid attention to this show, but The Dormouse saw it on PBS yesterday and has been singing its theme song non-stop. The actual lyrics go like this:- It's Maya (it's Maya) and Miguel (and Miguel),
- Brother and Sister, and Best Friends as Well!
- It's Maya (it's Maya) and Miguel (Miguel),
- What they will do next you never can tell!
- It's Maya Miguel,
- Best Friends are Cigarettes she's Brother as well.
- It's Maya Miguel,
- Best Friends are Cigarettes she's Brother as well.
Sometimes I wonder what she thinks things actually mean when she repeats them. Because when I hear this, the image that pops into my head is a chain smoking transsexual with multiple personality disorder. Let's hope whatever image The Dormouse has in her mind isn't an Axis I diagnosis.
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It's always good to know where your food comes from, I guess.
My potato-farmer ancestors from Rigby are looking down on this and smiling.
(I also find it fascinating that Today's Potatoes seem to be made from 100% real beef. The world of Potato Farming has changed since I was a child, it seems.)
My potato-farmer ancestors from Rigby are looking down on this and smiling.
(I also find it fascinating that Today's Potatoes seem to be made from 100% real beef. The world of Potato Farming has changed since I was a child, it seems.)
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People close to me know that I'm not the best at being pregnant. Even the so-called "good parts" of pregnancy don't thrill me. I don't enjoy the extra attention. I hate Hate HATE shopping... especially for maternity clothes. I don't relish discussing my plans for delivery or whether I expect to breast feed with people in the elevator who now feel it's appropriate to ask about these very personal decisions even though they've not exchanged three words with me in the past four years. I don't like strangers feeling my belly without asking. I don't like strangers asking to feel my belly (What is that anyway? I have never, NEVER, felt the desire to touch a strange pregnant woman's stomach.). I don't want to describe how I'm feeling every second of the day to everyone with whom I come into contact. I feel crappy, thanks. Can we move on now?
Though I'm sure my husband's version of the story would differ, I have tried very hard to keep the bitching and moaning to a dull roar around my house and for this reason, I have posted few entries about my physical woes and pregnancy observations on this weblog. I seldom discuss it with other women, because I'm generally sick of myself and when I talk to another adult, I want to be distracted, not go through a laundry list of my symptoms. I'm pretty much in pain about two-thirds of each day and I know myself well enough to realize that if I allow myself to start bitching to everyone I know, I won't be able to stop and then people will be like "C'mon already! If it was that bad, what'd you go and get knocked up for in the first place?"
Let the record show that my overwhelming attitude and feeling is that I am genuinely excited and grateful to be undergoing what by all accounts so far, looks like a normal pregnancy and I will, without reservation, continue suffering if it means that at the end of it all I will have a healthy child to bring home. YOU HEAR THAT KARMA?!? You can't touch me now! See me knocking on this wood, crossing my fingers and throwing salt over my left shoulder? OK - so maybe there's a healthy dose of superstition thrown in there too. I feel like if I complain too much now, especially knowing that all of these symptoms - even the constant static in my ears - will most likely go away the minute I give birth, I'll have something much worse to deal with tomorrow. Call me superstitious. Oh, and by the way, there's something of which you'd never hear my husband accuse me. If you ask him, I'm never, ever five things: superstitious, illogical, sentimental, selfless, or pay attention to commercials.
That being said, Monica requested "more stories about how pregnancy sucks and belly shots". And I am never one to disappoint. What's below is what I've taken from the half a dozen posts I've started over the last several weeks that I later did not publish because they were either too whiny or I was simply sick of thinking about the issue by the time I sat down to write so I never finished. I call them my 25 Great Ironies About Being Pregnant to Accompany This 25 Great Things About Being Pregnant List That Dr. Google Found (for short).
1. You're guaranteed to stop traffic whenever you cross the street.
Except you'll absentmindedly walk out into the middle of the street against the light because you have pregnancy brain and then you'll feel the need to run to show the car about to hit you that you know it was your fault and you're sorry. After running for two lanes, you will pay for it the next day.
2. People look at your stomach and can't help smiling, as if the mere thought of your being pregnant has actually made their day a little bit brighter.
Most people look at my stomach and have one of two reactions: male) shakes head sadly, mutters "too many M&Ms" to the person next to him or female) smiling is accompanied by "Pregnant in the summer, oh you poor thing!"
3. You can eat a whole pint of chocolate-chunk ice cream and not feel guilty. Every night.
Until several months later when everyone knows that breast-feeding burns calories and you haven't lost a pound yet.
4. You can -- no, you must! -- take naps. Lots of them.
But you will not be able to sleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time. All. Night. Long.
5. Getting to name another human being.
Getting to hear from relatives and friends just how bad the name you're thinking of is and how it's the absolutely worst name anyone ever thought about in the history of naming and your child will grow up unloved and unemployable because of the name you chose, and you might as well just name your kid Charles Adolf Hitler Manson, so live with that guilt.
6. Watching your husband turn into a father when he kisses your belly good night, reads to the baby in utero, or stays up until 3:00 a.m. putting the crib together -- just in case the baby decides to come eight weeks early.
Watching husband complain that he hasn't been able to feel the baby move yet, and then try for 3.2 seconds to put his hand on your stomach before giving up, exasperated, saying, "She never moves for me." Toddler has more patience.
7. Sex: For once in your life, you're neither worried about getting pregnant nor trying to get pregnant. You can have sex just for the pure fun of it.
"Can", but do not have the energy or pain tolerance for it.
8. Buying a bathing suit. It's not about hiding your flaws; it's about flaunting your belly.
You belly may want to be flaunted, but your giant thighs and upper arms' desire is to be hidden. Must put on pants by throwing them on floor and gingerly working one foot and then the other into leg holes so trying on any clothing is undesirable.
9. Those wild, intense, amazing pregnancy dreams in which every remote person from your past makes some sort of appearance. None of these dreams can even begin to be analyzed or understood.
Have you met me? Hi, I'm Alice. I'm crazy. See this entry.
10. The amazing anticipation. It's like all your previous birthdays and holidays rolled into one.
That goes on and on and on and on and on and on until... (anticipa.............tion is not all it's cracked up to be)
11. Imagining the possibilities.
The possibilities that something catastrophic will happen and my body will no longer be able to sustain this life, how the fact that homicide is the leading cause of death among pregnant women in the US will come into play, that I'll be in a car wreck and deliver at twenty-two weeks, that this baby will grow up to hate me and choose a life of crime just to spite me... ah the possibilities!
12. More personal space! And you have no qualms about claiming it.
Also fill up more personal space and have been accidentally groped or felt up by everyone from a missionary to a cable repair man. Number of people who now have direct access to look at and touch my bajingo has now increased ten-fold.
13. You eat healthier, drink more water, and carefully read ingredient labels. Suddenly, it matters more to you what you put in your body.
Tell that to my body that craves only Diet Coke and Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuits from McDonald's.
14. In the middle of a boring meeting at work or a meaningless argument, you feel your baby squirming inside you and the sensation takes you away. It's your own secret communication.
Every time this feeling happens, feel like I'm on a roller coaster ride and must suppress urge to throw my arms up and yell, "Weeee" during staff meetings.
15. Getting to hear the swish swish swish of your baby's heartbeat on the Doppler.
Worrying in between every doctor visit that you won't hear that swish swish swish kind of sucks, though.
16. Playing "Guess the part sticking out," usually at bedtime, when your baby starts moving furniture around or whatever it is he does in there.
Or more accurately, "Guess the part that's sticking in my cervix."
17. The extra attention you get from everyone -- your husband gives you more foot rubs, and your friends call to check in more often. Neighbors offer to help; coworkers volunteer to get lunch for you; little presents (a bottle of water, an afternoon snack) mysteriously show up on your desk.
Everything I touch ends up on floor; floor is suddenly three feet further away from reach. People are only interested in helping if it means they can carry something heavy. No one wants to wheel me in my rolling chair to the bathroom or pick up the eighteen pencils that are under my desk. Am still waiting for a foot rub, by the way.
18. The pregnancy beauty package: thick, silky hair; long, strong nails; beautiful skin; big boobs.
Exhibit A: strange clump of baby fine hair growing out of left side of forehead which cannot be combed, pulled back, curled or sprayed into submission
Exhibit B: need to shave legs twice as frequently, but cannot reach legs to do so
Exhibit C: twice as likely to need to brush teeth; cannot do so without gagging... or gums bleeding
Exhibit D: bra that looks like David misplaced his sling and instead used it to throw the rock that slayed Goliath.
19. Getting to skip to the front of the line in public rest rooms.
Needing to ask to do that on average twenty-seven times per day.
20. Shopping for a person you haven't met yet: tiny clothes, all-new furniture, and adorable room decorations.
Paying $30 for a dress made from material equivalent to a $2 remnant piece.
21. Dreaming about the first time someone calls you "Mommy" and the first time you hear someone call your husband "Daddy."
Strangely inappropriate and creepy, though, when people at work start every email with “Hi Mom.”
22. Baby showers! They remind you how special your friends and family think you are.
Unless you don’t enjoy playing games like Stages of Labor Concentration and eating melted candy bars out of diapers.
23. A continuous sense of accomplishment. You can answer "What did you do today?" with cool things like "I made ears" or simply "I'm making a person. What did you do?"
And yet, inexplicably, “I finished publishing that book from my hospital delivery room” didn't lead to the raise I wanted when it came time for my annual review.
24. Spending immeasurable amounts of time trying to remember all those nursery rhymes, children's songs, and lullabies.
And then later singing the same one, over and over and over. I think most people aren't aware that the portion of my brain formerly set aside for the olfactory sense has been re-appropriated and is now simply filled with song lyrics.
25. Knowing that all the bad stuff -- the heartburn, swollen ankles, backaches, and the rest -- doesn't last forever. And that in the end, it's all worth it.
Can't see ankles anyway.
And now the requested "belly shot". Ugh.
Enjoy, because that will probably be the last one for a long time.
25 weeks
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Last weekend, I was asked to accompany some singers for a friend's daughter's quinceañera. For those of you not similarly engrossed in Latin culture, the only way to describe a quince is thusly: a birthday party on steroids. Quince is the Spanish word for fifteen. The closest thing to a quinceañera in American culture is possibly a Sweet 16 party - but only if you watch that annoying reality show with the rich kids on MTV. Maybe it's even closer to being on a par with a Bat Mitzvah without quite the the religious significance. It's basically a coming out party disguised as a wedding reception for a girl who's fifteen and not getting married.When I lived in South America, I attended dozens of these parties... my favorite tradition at them was the ribbon cake, where small charms with ribbons attached to them are baked into the cake with the ribbon end sticking out. At some point in the evening before the cake is cut, all the teen-aged girls get to choose a ribbon and on cue, yank theirs out of the cake. One of the charms is always a small ring and whoever is lucky enough to get this one is the recipient of either a) good luck for a year or b) the first marriage proposal, depending on local superstition. At one party I attended, they let me pull ribbons with the other girls although I was decidedly NOT a teenager at the time. I got the ring. It took another eight years for my first marriage proposal after that event, so I'm going with the good luck theory.
At a quinceañera, the birthday girl dresses up in an opulent white gown that is only slightly less ornate than a wedding dress and chooses several of her best friends, who have the dubious distinction of being her attendants and dressing in bad bridesmaids' gowns. Not unlike a wedding. Each of them is either accompanied by her father, or a like aged-boy, in a tuxedo. They process in and stand there looking lovely (but never lovelier than the birthday girl - that is not allowed) while everyone goes through the reception line, gives presents to the birthday girl and greets everyone else in the receiving line. Then they party their brains out.
Quinces are always elaborate, but the one this weekend took the cake with even more pomp and circumstance than those I remember. They had formal presentations of gifts and flowers, each symbolizing something about turning from a child into a woman, two singers, an emcee, and a waltz. Each section of the program represented a different stage in life. I was disappointed to note that my favorite tradition of the ribbons and the charms in the cake apparently isn't a Brazilian custom, because those were absent. But the cake itself rivaled any wedding cake I've seen in the past - three-tiered and decorated with flowers. And, unlike any party in Brazil I'm sure, the food came complete with Halal, Kosher and Vegetarian options. It was crazy intense.
After the girl, her family, and her friends all processed in, they simply stood in a row looking lovely and holding their not-a-bridal-bouquets in front of everyone while the program ran on. There was a musical number, some talking, an exchange where someone took away the doll she carried representing her childhood and replaced it with a bouquet of flowers representing her emergence into adulthood, more talking, introducing of all the attendants, another musical number, more talking, dancing, etc.
After the second musical number, I looked up from the piano in time to see one of the little boys in a tux buckle at the knees and start on his way to the ground before the mother of the birthday girl caught him. She looked up and uttered the understatement of the night, "Is anyone here a doctor? He's not feeling well." The party planner in charge (yes, they hired a party planner) was also apparently a part time nurse so she ran up, caught him by the legs and they carried him off into the lobby while everyone else, including the emcee, simply stood by looking.
I thought to myself, "I know what this is." Many was the time back in my high school choir days when some nervous, overdressed kid locked his knees standing on the risers, then forced all the blood to his or her head singing and passed out. It happened at least once a semester. (I've heard lots of tall tales about kids falling off the top riser, falling into the choir to be caught by peers, and even one about a tenor who passed out during the death section of the Requiem Mass they were performing and fell into the orchestra pit on top of a trombone player. He supposedly later sneaked back on stage during the resurrection section of the Mass, thinking it seemed the appropriate thing to do.) So it didn't really worry me or anyone else in the room and the program simply halted while they waited for the boy to come back and take his place.
While everyone was standing around staring in awkward silence, the thought occurred to me: "Hmmm... maybe the girls who are left standing should sit down too." and I looked up, wondering how to tactfully suggest this, just in time to see a young girl in a peach ruffled dress nearest the piano start to swoon. I hauled my enormous pregnant bulk off the piano bench and ran to the side of the room and brought back a chair just in time for her companion to sit her down in before she hit the floor. She was out cold. People immediately crowded around her, yelling her name and trying to fan her with their hands, which was now a lost cause because they'd formed a bubble around her so tight that little air could enter or escape. I tried to hand her the water bottle I'd grabbed off the piano bench but by that time, I'd been squeezed out.
Which, I guess, is a good thing because while everyone was all concerned about her and the boy who was out in the lobby, the other girls were still left standing. I looked up to see yet another little one start to swoon, grabbed her date by the elbow and said, "She needs to go outside and sit down... now."
The meeting planner looked up and said, "Ladies who are left standing, please make sure that you aren't locking your knees." About this time, another teen-aged witness to the carnage had an emotional breakdown and began sobbing uncontrollably.
"I have a better idea," I said, "Why don't you all go out into the lobby, get a drink of water and sit down until this is all sorted out." The girls did and we all adjourned into the lobby, leaving the confused DJ to play the only thing he had handy: strangely inappropriate salsa music.
As it turned out, everyone was fine. No one was really sick, just overdressed, overheated and overnervous. They were all able to come back to the party later on, save the one girl who actually passed out and was simply too embarrassed to show her face again. Hope she rented that dress rather than bought it.
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"Momma, I'm going to tell you a joke." "OK - go ahead. Tell me your joke."
"What do castles move when they have a wallet to do?"
"I don't know, what do castles move when they have a wallet to do?"
*laughs hysterically* "That's a funny joke! Isn't it, Momma?"
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"Hey, momma, can we make some circle breads?"
"I don't know what circle breads are."
"I love to eat them."
"But what are they?"
"Breads... in a circle... we made them before."
"Huh?"
"Like a popcorn ball."
"I'm sorry honey, I don't understand. I don't know how to make circle breads."
"But I know the recipe: first you dough, then you put them in the oven, tic tock tic, tock, ding."
I've only just now while typing this realized that she meant dinner rolls.
"I don't know what circle breads are." "I love to eat them."
"But what are they?"
"Breads... in a circle... we made them before."
"Huh?"
"Like a popcorn ball."
"I'm sorry honey, I don't understand. I don't know how to make circle breads."
"But I know the recipe: first you dough, then you put them in the oven, tic tock tic, tock, ding."
I've only just now while typing this realized that she meant dinner rolls.
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The Dormouse, singing along to the tune of the Sesame Street Theme with the television: "Ruuuun awaaay, Bing-ga-dah, Ruuuun awaaay."Me: "What does bing-ga-dah mean?"
DM: "It means that you run away from your mom and dad."
Me: "And that's what Sesame Street is teaching you?"
DM: "Yep, told ya."
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President: "Let's go around the room. Please tell us who you are and one interesting thing that's happened to you recently or is going to happen to you in the next few months."I am wrapping up some loose ends this week from last weekend's meeting at work. We do this twice a year - people from all over the country come in and spend a weekend talking, bitching and theoretically solving the problems of the profession, only to lay all the real work in the laps of the people who work in the office and go home again afterwards absolved of any real accountability because they've said their piece and now all they have to do is sit back and watch it happen.
Me: "My name is Alice and I can't think of a single interesting thing that's going to happen to me in the next few months."
Attendee who doesn't understand sarcasm: "You're expecting a baby - that's pretty interesting."
Me: "Oh that? Yawn."
Part of my responsibility at this meeting is to give a half hour report on all that I've been doing for the past six months... a sort of Justify My Love, where it looks like a status report, but my real goal is to remind everyone how overworked I am and how if they could just stop calling me to look up a phone number that they could easily find in their directories themselves, I'd probably get a lot more done. But... you know... with tact.
Somehow, (I'm sure denial has the lion's share of blame here) I'd let it get past me that I've been working at this job for ten years now. So after I gave my report, wheezing and sucking down water due to the parasite... I mean... baby... that is slowly stealing all my breath, I asked if there were any questions. The President said she had something to add and stood up to present me with a large plaque/photo arrangement for ten years of service.
It was sweet, actually. I've been working recently on trying to be more grateful for the things I have and despite all the problems and issues with my job - a good half of them due to the fact that I have to work at all and not the job itself - I realize what a good deal I've got. I don't know of many other organizations where they would do that for you in a public meeting. I don't know of many other organizations where the Treasurer brings you her old maternity clothes to wear because she heard you were pregnant, either.
But because this pregnancy is destroying my brain, or because I am simply an evil person, when the President said, "Congratulations on your ten years!", I said, aloud, "Thanks.... seems like twenty." Realizing almost immediately how that sounded, I told this story about my husband, and when it was our third anniversary and I said something about how I couldn't believe it had been three years, he wholeheartedly agreed and replied, "Yeaaaaah... seems like ten." Then he immediately started backpedaling and explaining: "No what I mean is... that it just seems like we've always been together and I can't remember a time when we weren't together and... oh crap... just send me to sleep on the couch now." So it's been an inside joke between us and our thing to say ever since then. And that's not entirely a lie - he did say that. But I'm not sure if they bought it.
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Yesterday, I played the piano at a funeral for a friend who died last week. It was not unexpected - he was 92 years old and in failing health - but it was sudden. He died late Thursday night but I didn't hear about it until Sunday morning and not twenty minutes later, I'd agreed to play for a duet of vocalists and we were trying to figure out how to throw something together that a) honored him and b) sounded good, knowing that we had about an hour to practice before the funeral. In the end, we just turned to his favorite hymn in the church hymnbook and all improvised together - me comping chords and pretending I knew how to do that kind of thing and one of the singers improvising an obbligato over the other one's melody. Afterward, a man in attendance who studies the organ pretty seriously pulled me aside and gave us all a nice compliment by asking if he could have a copy of the arrangement we used because he'd really enjoyed it and would like to perform it somewhere too. I was like, "Um... no." Then explained that we probably couldn't repeat it again if we tried, but if he had any good arrangements he'd like to share with me it might be a little less stressful the next time I'm asked to do something like that. Ah, musicians.
The eulogy for this man was eye opening. I've known him almost as long as we've lived here and I was superficially aware of things that had happened to him in his lifetime, but as the saying goes, I had no idea.
He was born in Germany during World War I only a few days before his father was sent to fight on the front lines. His father was quickly killed in action, leaving his mother to raise him alone. She then died four years later from an illness and he was sent to be raised by an aunt he'd never met. As a young man, he was drafted against his wishes into Hitler's army and forced to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. He received a three day furlough after what amounted to basic training to marry his wife and was then immediately sent to the Russian front, where he was taken as a prisoner of war. He didn't see his wife again for the next five years. Somehow, he survived that and after the war the family was sent back to Berlin just as the wall was going up there. They ended up on the Eastern side and could not leave. Through a series of what I can only term as miraculous events, he escaped with his wife and their young son to come to America. In Washington, D.C., he worked for the German embassy under more than a few American Presidents - many of his colleagues were in attendance at the funeral.
During the service, it was pointed out by a confidante that recently he had begun having flashbacks of things he'd done and seen during World War II and was concerned that he would never be forgiven. This weighed heavily on his conscience and occupied his thinking much of the time for the last several years of his life. I saw him every week in church and was never given a clue. He was never anything but happy, smiling and sang to my daughter in German as she danced around his cane, and later his walker. Despite living under horrible conditions, he had nothing but love for the Russian people and talked about them with respect. More than once, I heard him describe the moral conflict he had while being forced to fight for Hitler and only express gratitude for the way things had turned out for him and his family despite a storybook of experiences and events they lived through - any one of which would make a normal person feel otherwise. They never had grandchildren, thanks to a physical attack on their young adult son while he served as a missionary which left him with life long physical and mental problems and kept him from marrying. All the family they had were the three of them - everyone else had been killed in the war or left behind when they left Germany. But all I heard from his wife at the viewing was introductions of people who were "like a daughter" to her to other people who were "like a grandson" to her.
I watched all this yesterday with wonder - from the viewing, to the service, to the grave site, and then back to the church again for an unreasonable amount of food afterward. How could they seem so grateful for all they had been through? Why am I not more grateful for my pitiful little trials - or at least less bitter? I've studied human behavior for a long time and I don't know any more now than I did in my high school psychology class what makes one person rise above the horrible things that happen to them and another crumble under a ridiculously unmatched amount of pressure. Maybe it's biological... maybe it's just... a choice. I think sometimes when it comes right down to it, some people just choose to be happy.
So when I got up this morning and looked at the unfinished post I'd written yesterday morning about all the things I hate about pregnancy and bitching about the physical problems I will look forward to saying goodbye to once this baby is born, it felt somehow inappropriate to finish and publish. Just for today, I'm going to try to be grateful for them instead.
The eulogy for this man was eye opening. I've known him almost as long as we've lived here and I was superficially aware of things that had happened to him in his lifetime, but as the saying goes, I had no idea.
He was born in Germany during World War I only a few days before his father was sent to fight on the front lines. His father was quickly killed in action, leaving his mother to raise him alone. She then died four years later from an illness and he was sent to be raised by an aunt he'd never met. As a young man, he was drafted against his wishes into Hitler's army and forced to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. He received a three day furlough after what amounted to basic training to marry his wife and was then immediately sent to the Russian front, where he was taken as a prisoner of war. He didn't see his wife again for the next five years. Somehow, he survived that and after the war the family was sent back to Berlin just as the wall was going up there. They ended up on the Eastern side and could not leave. Through a series of what I can only term as miraculous events, he escaped with his wife and their young son to come to America. In Washington, D.C., he worked for the German embassy under more than a few American Presidents - many of his colleagues were in attendance at the funeral.
During the service, it was pointed out by a confidante that recently he had begun having flashbacks of things he'd done and seen during World War II and was concerned that he would never be forgiven. This weighed heavily on his conscience and occupied his thinking much of the time for the last several years of his life. I saw him every week in church and was never given a clue. He was never anything but happy, smiling and sang to my daughter in German as she danced around his cane, and later his walker. Despite living under horrible conditions, he had nothing but love for the Russian people and talked about them with respect. More than once, I heard him describe the moral conflict he had while being forced to fight for Hitler and only express gratitude for the way things had turned out for him and his family despite a storybook of experiences and events they lived through - any one of which would make a normal person feel otherwise. They never had grandchildren, thanks to a physical attack on their young adult son while he served as a missionary which left him with life long physical and mental problems and kept him from marrying. All the family they had were the three of them - everyone else had been killed in the war or left behind when they left Germany. But all I heard from his wife at the viewing was introductions of people who were "like a daughter" to her to other people who were "like a grandson" to her.
I watched all this yesterday with wonder - from the viewing, to the service, to the grave site, and then back to the church again for an unreasonable amount of food afterward. How could they seem so grateful for all they had been through? Why am I not more grateful for my pitiful little trials - or at least less bitter? I've studied human behavior for a long time and I don't know any more now than I did in my high school psychology class what makes one person rise above the horrible things that happen to them and another crumble under a ridiculously unmatched amount of pressure. Maybe it's biological... maybe it's just... a choice. I think sometimes when it comes right down to it, some people just choose to be happy.
So when I got up this morning and looked at the unfinished post I'd written yesterday morning about all the things I hate about pregnancy and bitching about the physical problems I will look forward to saying goodbye to once this baby is born, it felt somehow inappropriate to finish and publish. Just for today, I'm going to try to be grateful for them instead.
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veg·an (vē'gən, věj'ən)
n. A vegetarian who eats plant products only, especially one who uses
no products derived from animals, as fur or leather.
Colleague 1 *excitedly*: "This is vegan soap... It's VEGAN SOAP!" (pronouncing it "vejan" both times)
Colleague 2: "Vegan soap? Is that even the right term?"
Colleague 3: "Yeah... wouldn't you call it 'made from natural ingredients' or something like that? I think vegan has more to do with diet."
Colleague 2: "And I believe it's pronounced 've-gan' with a hard g, not a j."
Colleague 4 *sarcastically*: "Who knows? Those Vegans, you know how they love to confuse matters."
Colleague 1: "I thought those were Anarchists."
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