Aug
21
August 21, 2007
I am experiencing seasonal disconnect lately. The calendar says it’s August, but surely it must lie—how else to explain the absence of sunshine, the wet stuff falling from the sky, the horrifying expanse outside my house where the torn-up yard and dirt from the remodel have combined with the crappy weather to create a massive muddy Bog capable of swallowing household pets, sports-utility vehicles, and at least five or six species of plant-eating dinosaurs?
At first I made a valiant attempt to keep the mud-tracking to a minimum in our house, but I guess it doesn’t really matter how many filth trails we create right now, because we have officially entered the most chaotic stage of the remodel. The kitchen is completely torn out—the fridge is in the living room (where its annoying little mechanical blurps and “errrrr” sounds, probably its drawn-out death moans, are disturbingly loud when we’re sitting on the nearby couches, and in fact nearly caused me to fearfully whizz my Old Navy sweats during a particularly harrowing scene in The Blair Witch Project the other night), the stove and dishwasher are stashed in the garage to be dealt with at a later date, and the sink is gone. The floor is being ripped up this week, revealing That Which Lurks Below Linoleum (my . . . my god, people), and every single surface in our house is covered with a fine layer of construction-related schmutz.
On the plus side, our inability to cook anything outside of the microwave has given me lots of excuses to insist on various craving-related takeout meals. Last night it was Carl’s Jr. chicken strips and curly fries. Sure, they say you should only gain 25-35 pounds in pregnancy, but I figure those numbers are for low performers.
I do have a remodel-related design challenge that maybe you guys can help me with: we’re going to have a small breakfast nook area just off the kitchen, and we’re going back and forth on whether to put in a built-in booth or not. I’ve been scouring the web trying to find a really great-looking booth (either to purchase readymade or to instruct our builders to copy) that will go with the modern-style kitchen we’re theoretically eventually maybe someday in the distant future going to have, but most of what I’ve seen has either a traditional/country feel, or it’s a puffy vinyl restaurant type thing. Any ideas are more than welcome, we can always just put in a small table and chairs but the booth seems like a better use of space.
Well, a better use of space once I’m no longer pregnant, that is. I guess booths aren’t a great option during those last several weeks, otherwise known as the Whale Shark Stage.
Lastly, a heartwarming family image (unless you don’t like dogs) (um, or children) (in which case I’m sorry I couldn’t lure Cat into the photo, but it would have been Extremely Problematic and also possibly Quite Painful for the parties involved):
Aug
19
August 19, 2007
Not to go all Seinfeld on you, but what is the deal with men and doctor visits? I swear it has to do with a rectal exam phobia. I mean, it’s like the male species as a whole has this terrified notion that the instant you walk into a doctor’s office, someone rams a finger up your ass, without even the common courtesy of a reacharound.
I’ve been nagging JB to see a doctor for what I’m fairly confident is an easily-remedied, non-deadly medical issue, and his excuses are both many and vague, and seem to center around the complaint that sitting in waiting rooms sucks. I’ll agree with him that wasting entire minutes of your life with only Golf Digest and Highlights as entertainment options does in fact suck, but I’m fairly sure that’s not the true nature of his hesitation. No, I’m thinking what JB is most wanting to avoid has more to do with the remote, theoretical possibility that he’ll be required to experience a security breach in his nether regions as part of the visit.
Hey, I’m the last person to say that a butt exam is any kind of fun. I mean, I get it: it’s uncomfortable, it’s embarrassing, and no one uses a safeword. However, as a woman who has had a ridiculous amount of internal probing over the last couple years I can only say that there are times when a person has to cowboy up. A person has to go to their happy place, and try to ignore the fact that there is a hand—and possibly, by the feel of things, a wiffleball bat—in a place previously reserved for very close friends and/or drunken hookups.
I think there’s even a Biblical saying about this: As thou groweth in years, there cometh a day when into ye most private orifice a gloved finger shall go. And yea, it shall leaveth a shameful film of lube in its wake.
Something like that. It’s right after the psalm about still waters and green pastures, I believe.
Anyway, any guy readers, can you confirm or deny? If you’re resistant to seeing a doctor, as most men I’ve ever known are, is it because you fear for the integrity of your butthole? It’s okay to share your feelings. This is a safe, nonjudgmental place. Group hug!
And now I have no smooth segue to, well, ANYTHING ELSE at this point, so let’s go to some photos from the weekend:
For anyone pretending to care about the more tiresome details of the kitchen remodel (god bless you and your generous soul), this is a new granite choice we picked out this weekend called Juparana Golden. It’s more dramatic than our previously-picked Giallo Veneziano, and has a bigger range of color. Also, aren’t granite color names wonderful? So romantic, for a slab of rock.
Also, don’t mess with this guy.
Seriously. Dude will totally throw down if he has to.
Well, unless you distract him by pointing out that he, too, has a beebee.
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