Mar
15
Boundaries? I don’t understand the word
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March 15, 2007
Despite February’s strategic operations involving ovulation sticks (uh, several of them, as I completely guessed wrong on when to start checking and so ended up peeing on two entire boxes of tests before finally getting the little “time to start riding the baloney pony!” result) and a nearly obsessive level of self-scrutiny (I have never been so intimately aware of my own secretions, and if you are now wishing you could go back a sentence and not read that, I apologize), it appears our efforts will have to be filed under “Practice Run”.
I felt oddly conflicted about the, er, MS appearance of the PMS I can now blame the scale’s stubborn numberlock on (2 pounds less now, hooray for bloating?). On one hand I’m sort of wanting to go further with the diet/exercise thing and see if I can’t get back into those size 8s. On the other, now that we made the decision to greenlight Suctopus #2, I’m ready to get the process started. I kind of feel like we’re in some weird limbo where another enormous life-changing event is just around the corner but in the meantime, dammit I’m out of Tampax.
I also feel 1) a little ambivalent, like it will happen when it happens and it’s no big deal to wait a while longer, 2) a little paranoid, like what if we’ve got unknown fertility issues this time around and this is just the first of many, many months where we get a big fat DENIED on the babymaking front, and 3) a little worried about zombies, because jesus, fucking ZOMBIES, man.
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Say, what do you think about this Silestone surface for a kitchen counter?
Apparently it “evokes the mystique of the Great Smoky Mountains” (hee) by containing “a collage of brown hues flecked with cream and black shades.” I think it might be nice with a cream/tan wall color, cherry cabinets, and stainless appliances. But maybe too dark for our little kitchen? I don’t know.
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JB came in yesterday morning after getting the paper, which he tossed onto the dining table with an irritated slap. “I am FARTING TOO MUCH,” he announced, glaring at me.
“I fart all the way down the driveway to get the paper. I fart on my way back in. I fart in meetings. I fart in my car. I fart in the morning, afternoon, and night. Don’t bother asking if I’m farting right now because I AM.”
“It’s good for you,” I said. “Your body is processing vegetables instead of Pizza Hut. Think of it like a Health Foghorn.”
“I’m a GUY,” he moaned. “You understand how much farting a guy has to do to think it’s too much? A hell of a lot, that’s how much.”
Frankly, I can’t deny the effects that broccoli, beans, and bok choy are wreaking on my own system. I prefer to think of it as off-gassing, that with each emission I’m reducing my overall capacity and eventually may just fart myself into a smaller jeans size.
They seem to be mostly of the All Sound and Little Odor variety (“Proooo!” “Pah!” “Fnapffff!”), so I haven’t worried about it overmuch. Perhaps it’s time to take some countermeasures, though—I had assumed it was a temporary bodily adjustment, but with each passing (haaa!) day we’re continuing to let ’em rip, to the point where we’re actually outfarting both the boy and Dog combined.
Last night we were watching TV and I heard a robust wind note emanate from the couch. “YOUR FAULT,” JB said, without looking up. I thought about answering in kind, until we created a sort of whalelike communication song between our respective rear ends, but figured that kind of game really has the potential for an unpleasant ending (“Um, I need a new pair of pants over here”).
So Beano’s on the shopping list, along with Tampax and more First Response kits. I’d ask JB to run to the store for me, but I doubt he’d be capable. Just one more reason why we’re the stronger sex, ladies.
Mar
13
Braaaaaaaaainssss
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March 13, 2007
The other night I was holding Riley after we got him ready for bed and he was tired and cranky and really whiny and I was murmuring soothing mama things in his ear and his body softened and curled into mine and he burrowed in close and he smelled wild and sweet like clover and I could feel his face pressed against me and I was stroking his back and humming and the room was soft and dark and that’s when he bit the living shit out of my shoulder.
Parenthood! Every day is an adventure.
I can’t seem to adjust to the time change. First of all, it is blowing my nubbly little pencil-eraser-sized brain that it’s so light out at 7 PM. We’re putting Riley to bed at this seemingly absurd hour and wondering if we should cover his windows with aluminum foil or something (“Just like Mama did in high school, sweetie! Would you like a large poster of a nice man named Robert Smith, too?”). I can’t seem to go to bed at my normal time, either. We’ve been staying up late watching all these episodes of “Survivorman” and “How It’s Made” and I feel bloated with weird trivia about how to start a fire using the fluff off your cotton socks and how wire eyeglass frames are bent into shape with computer-programmed robotic arms but the nose pad still has to be attached by hand.
When I finally do go to bed I read a few chapters of World War Z and get thoroughly freaked out and then I dream about zombies all night long. In fact, that book is so eerie I find myself idly thinking about zombies during the day, too. As in, “Hey, I wonder if there are any zombies outside. Let’s just take a look . . . nope, don’t think so. WHEW.”
My god, is anything scarier than zombies? Well, other than zombies carrying really big spiders that they threaten to drop on you (before they devour your brains)? Brrr. Gah.
Oh, and DISTURBING: according to the Death-by-Zombie Risk Calculator questionnaire I am practically walking zombiebait right now. Look:
29%? Gee, why don’t I just paint myself with A-1 and lie down on the front lawn so the zombies can more readily tear the flesh from my body with their soft, rotting teeth?
You know what’s great, though? Having a coworker who takes the whole fending-off-zombie thing totally seriously:
(“Z-hunting times”. Hee.)
ENOUGH ABOUT ZOMBIES. Because I am getting all crawly and itchy and fighting the urge to look out the window. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE oh it was the cat. OR WAS IT? Why is my child biting my shoulder and is he reaching for the A-1?
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