Blown Fuse

Auld Lang Syne

The older I get, the more seriously I take making New Year's resolutions. They're like promises you make to yourself and if I fail to follow through with them by year's end I'm racked with guilt that I didn't meet goals I set for myself. By nature I have a guilty conscience, so I don't like setting myself up for failure.

I keep my resolutions simple and attainable. [I remember that I resolved to quit smoking for a couple of years, but my heart wasn't really into it. Smoking was one of my favorite hobbies - I didn't want to quit, so that was a piss-poor resolution to make. I quit when I was good 'n ready.]

Without further ado, here are my resolutions for 2007. To celebrate the fact that I'm committing these to memory by screaming them out to the entire blogosphere, tonight I will have my first sip of alky in more than ten months and will open this experimental-looking case of beer.

Happy New Year, folks!

Tiffany's 2007 Resolutions (in no particular order)

1 - To write out a freelance writing business plan and actually take steps to implement it.
2 - To make the laundry room less creepy and mucky and do something about the weird, super-grody camel cricket problem. *shudders*
3 - To cut down on Rice Krispies Treat consumption by at least 75%.
4 - To gradually reincorporate exercise into my weekday routine in efforts to banish the mommy gut, mommy butt, and mommy hips.
5 - To nag and bitch until Scott becomes sufficiently annoyed enough to do something about aforementioned camel cricket problem.
6 - To shave 20% off our grocery bills and cut back on heavily processed foods (see #3).
7 - To remember to talk to my son as if he's a human being rather than a super-cute puppy ("Who's my widdle widdly woo woo baby? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!")
8 - To find more time to check in with friends and family

My mother is off her meds.

Actually, she's not really on any meds (for readers who so happen to be, pardon the reference), she just simply should be.

Backstory: I suppose I made it pretty clear during pregnancy that I didn't want anyone to be in the delivery room with me when I was in labor. I knew I wouldn't have either the presence of mind or the energy to throw them out when they began to annoy the crap out of me. For that reason I instructed Scott not to call my family until it was too late for them to leave home and be here in time to see him crowning. I knew my mother would bring my half-brother up with them and I couldn't think of a tact way of telling her to leave him at home.

Several years ago my grandmother had some sort of health episode that had her in the hospital for a couple of days. Scott and I went to the house to shower and change our clothes and by the time we returned to her room, my mother, aunt, male cousin, and half-brother were standing around her bed, her laying there with her gown hiked up over her waist. She wasn't lucent, and all she knew was that she was hot, so she kept pulling her dress up. She wasn't wearing any underwear. All the while, my mother allowed my half-brother, I guess he was around 11 at the time, to stand there staring like an idiot making to effort to to calm my grandmother or cover her legs with a blanket. I've never forgiven her for that and had to tell my grandmother when I was pregnant that THAT was why I didn't want her bringing him. She is completely lacking in the ability to put herself in someone else's position. I do hope that someday if she's in the condition my grandmother was that my sister and I will be kind.

When Scott repeatedly called my grandma's number to tell her I was in labor, my mother heard it ringing and picked it up (oops). I guess she took offense at whatever explanation Scott gave her for asking that the boy be left home, because she has yet to come visit her grandson. She kept remarking that "That's her broooottther," as if that little ruffian has any real pull with me. My grandma came up the day after we were discharged, but my mother chose not to take the day off because she had to "work." I've known her boss since I was 10. She would have given her the day off.

We spent the first week or so walking around like zombies deprived of food or sleep. It was one of the most miserable periods of my life. I didn't have anyone come up and help and support me like most new moms do, and I blame my mother for that. Thank you for alienating folks, mom.

End backstory

My mother isn't a team player. If she isn't the group leader, she'll choose not to participate at all. She doesn't get why I didn't need a bunch of people standing around my bed coaching me and telling me that I don't really need that epidural. I even kicked the freakin' volunteer doulas out the room. My crotch, my rules - 'kay?

To sum up my angst at this point, my mom went up to New York for Christmas and took my grandma up with her. When I spoke to her on Christmas day she asked when I was going to take the baby to Virginia to see them. I think I responded something along the lines of "No time soon, but maybe you can come see him for New Year's weekend." She hemmed and hawed and said something about New Year's in New York or having to work or some crap like that.

Let's talk priorities here. You would choose to stay on vacation a day longer just to spend time with your ex-husband rather than making a three hour detour on the way home to meet your grandson? Tsk tsk. My mother was so paranoid that my mother-in-law would edge her way in as the dominant grandparent, but it seems that my mother is sabotaging herself in that regard.

I don't want to think about this anymore. I'm done. It's off my chest now.

Geez, it's not Barbie hair. Shoo!

You know, one thing that really burns my biscuits is when people assume that my hair is made of some kind of synthetic material that is five seconds from compustion. I was clicking through my various attempts at self-portraiture several minutes ago and found this picture from a set I took early in the year.

In this group of pictures one can get the closest idea of what my actual hair color is. The red sweater sort of brings it out. It's kind of a dark tortoise shell color and pattern. It annoys the shit out of me when people (hair stylists in particular) ask me what number dye I use. This is the color it sprouts, folks. Who in the world would want color this uneven? If I could dye it and have it still look natural, I'd consider it. My last experiment in hair dye was an absolute failure, by the way, and no - no pictures exist of me from that time period. Sorry, but Rum Raisin wasn't a good month for me, nor were the few months I dyed black over blond to try to get brown.

Equally distressing is when people grab a handful of my hair to test the texture only to announce, "Oh, it's soft." Of course it is. You can't have this much hair and have it be hard...that would just be uncivilized of Mother Nature.

I think it's amusing when women try to emulate my hair and ask me what sort of products I use to "make it do that." It just does, as does my momma's. Squirt a dollop of thick conditioner in it in the shower each morning and let it pouf on will. Sometimes I'll just make up a regimen to advise people on that includes products I'd never put in my head.

I'm mean like that.

Stuck in my head, now.

I'm proud of my investigatory prowess. There was this song on a Scrubs rerun last night being sung by some cock-eyed dude, and I couldn't help thinking, "Man, I wouldn't mind having that on my iPod. What a great voice!"

Then the little clicker in my brain tuned into one of those 1980's music compilation disc commercials that ran repeatedly during the '90's. I KNEW I had seen that dude somewhere before. It was a music video snippet of "Who Can it Be Now," and they were zooming in on the dude at the mic, eyes looking every'whicha way. At the time, it gave me the heebie jeevies.

It's this dude, Colin Hay, and the song is indeed available on iTunes - "Overkill." Yippie! Take a gander if you haven't heard it.

Tease.

Pier 1 is one of my favorite stores. If I had the kind of husband whom appreciates accessories, I'd probably spend a good deal of my life in their stores.

They sent me an email encouraging me to preview their after-Christmas sale and of course I bit. Guess what? The frames I bought for Christmas gifts are now half off and I'm incredibly pissed. Not only that, all the good frames that I'd consider purchasing at this point are sold out online.

While it's true that the last time I was in the store they gave me a coupon good for $20 off my next $50 purchase, I can't use it until January 1 and even then not online. There are still a few organizational pieces I've been waiting for the price to drop on before I pounce and I'm afraid they'll be sold out before then.

"Sales" annoy me.

Things you realize while standing over the trash can peeling an orange.

Know what I just realized? Scott and I aren't the kind of couple comprised of participants whom finish each other's sentences. That's probably why we haven't maimed each other and filed for divorce by now. There has to be some mystery, you know? If I felt like I knew everything about him I'd find the whole marriage situation incredibly boring. It would be like having to read a book over and over again. Even if it's the greatest book you've ever read and it made you cry just a little, after the fifth or sixth perusal you're ready to put it in the donation pile.

And now, some Christmas Rosco for your viewing pleasure. I told you -- all about the kitsch.

Over the river and through the woods.

Off to the in-law's. Merry Christmas to all who enjoy it, Happy Festivus to the rest of ya.

Deck the halls.

I have a confession to make. Secretly, I'm all over holiday kitsch. Snowy village coffee mugs, garish Rudolph sweaters, UNC Santa figurines - you name it. The thing is, I'm a reasonable human being who is willing to make compromises with the people I have to live with.

Scott would prefer that anything that crosses the threshold into this house have neither visible logo (unless it's a Nike Swoosh or Jumpman icon and even then only on a sneaker) nor color scheme not easily found in nature. If it were up to him, the holiday cards we send to all his acquaintances would be solid silver with no design on the outside with the word "Happy." printed in foil on the inside. He would then sign his name with a flourish beneath it and call it a day.

I have squashed my desires for garish seasonal décor in order to keep the peace. Yes, I send my friends and relatives cards that I KNOW are borderline gauche. They expect that from me - it's one of the few ways I exhibit personality, and if I sent them some boring-ass card they'd probably think that I was depressed.

Next year, though - you wait and see. I'm going to have this house so decked out in a rainbow of large size Christmas lights that you can see it in space. Additionally, just for the hell of it, I'm going to get one of these and place it in the window instead of a Christmas tree.

Duke Lacrosse Players Off the Hook

I haven't talked about this in any detail, but I think that anyone following the case could tell that there were too many holes in the prosecution's bucket to hold any water. (True, we re-elected Mike Nifong in November, but I'm certain that has more to do with Democrats voting straight-ticket than people behing behind him.)

As much as I want to get behind the woman and support her as an alleged victim knowing that so many women who are raped don't come forward, there was something eating away at me regarding her truthfulness in the matter. Additionally, there hasn't been any real evidence supporting her statements - DNA, eye-witness accounts, accurate timeline, or otherwise.

I think that if she was truly lying this entire time (which I see as 98% probable) that she's setting back any progress that has been made in recent years of women taking a stand for themselves to confront those who would do them harm. THIS is why women fear that nobody will believe them because they're simply crying "wolf."

This may be a controversial statement, but I want to know who she is. I want her name put out into the public record. She's put my city under a microscope for the past year making us look like a bunch of damned bumpkins.

Damn zoo.

These cats. Oh, these cats. They're becoming increasingly wanton in their disregard of boundaries. As cute as they are, my tolerance is diminishing exponentially by the day.

The only reason I've been able to tolerate Puffy's idiocy of using my furniture as playground equipment has been in knowing that good ol' Bodie keeps her furry ass where she's supposed to.

Not so much anymore. Twice today (that I've witnessed), Bodie has climbed on the kitchen table, lying at the edge as if she were settling in to observe the goings-on of the front of the house. I shouted some obscenities at her and she scampered, twice. She'll return, I'm sure.

Puffy will actually sit and have a conversation with you when you're shooing her. She was on top of my curio table yesterday, and in a very "bad cat!" voice I told her to get down at least three times. Each time she held her ground and responded with "Meow?" She knew I was breastfeeding the kid and wasn't going to get up to chase her.

I wish there was some way for me to sequester them into just one or two rooms with a sliding door or something. When the kid starts crawling, I'm going to have to either keep him in his room and allow the cats to roam freely, or take the more common sensical approach and put the cats somewhere else and let the human being move about without being contaminated by cat hair on his onesie. Hmm, what to do...

I'll try not to be TOO offended.

So, I was just singing Rosco a little of "Jingle Bell Rock" and he had the audacity to cover his ear.

Cultured, my kid is.

:Geek:

Just in case you didn't know (and just in case you have interest in such things), Spike is running a Star Trek Voyager marathon this week. I'm incredibly giddy that they've added the show to their line-up: they now have DS9, TNG, and Voyager in their programming schedule and I suspect they'll be running the three shows together on weekdays come January.

From studying my handy dandy Yahoo! t.v. schedule, it looks like they're running selected episodes from each season on each day this week. I think they did a pretty good job of picking the best of season 1 today.

If unlike me you actually leave the house between 9 am and 6 pm, I guess that in January when they "officially" add it to the line-up they'll rebroadcast the premiere again.

Looks like I can take season 1 out of my Netflix queue.

Don't make me come down there.

I'm particuarly displeased to announce that my local tax dollars go to paying the salaries of nincompoops. I would write a letter to local government to complain if I weren't certain the response would be a forum for further nincompoopery.

To my great misfortune, I've had to speak with the idiots at Durham city government's billing service several times over the past few years, both for residential and work issues. 98% of the time, I end up speaking with some idiot who lacks the correct brain synapses to connect certain clues to resolve a case.

You have to repeat yourself time and time again to get your point across. More often than not, that point never does get made clear to them.

I have a "wait and see" philosophy on things. I [sometimes incorrectly] assume that if I do what I'm supposed to when people tell me to that my obligation has been fulfilled. I mailed a check in for our water bill two months ago. It never posted to my bank account, however the thought never crossed my mind that I should call and ask said nincompoops if they'd received it. In the past they'd been incredibly slow about depositing checks, so I didn't think anything of it.

Over the weekend I got a letter about the amount in question telling me that if I didn't pay it they'd put the smack-down on me. I returned the letter with a note scribbled on it telling them when I mailed the check, the amount of the check, and the check number. I then proceeded to use a yellow hi-lighter to emphasize the information asking if they hadn't received it to let me know so I could put a stop payment on the check and issue a new one.

Today, a nincompoop in the cashier's department calls and leaves a message about the note. She was confused because that wasn't the check number of the check they just recieved (for ANOTHER bill, duh). But first, she left an "accidental" message where she was mumbling to a coworker about how I got the check numbers wrong (insinuating that I was lying) and yada yada, not realizing she was recording. Then she called back. The letter clearly stated what money was due according to their records. Why would I be commenting about another bill on that letter?

I called her back and explained that there OBVIOUSLY is a missing check somewhere. Normally, I would have just put another check in the mail, but there's something about mommyhood that makes you want to crack skulls about these errors. I don't have the patience for this shit anymore.

She couldn't connect point A to point B to see that the check I paid the most recent bill with was EXACTLY the amount of the most recent bill. It had nothing to do with the note that I sent about the missing check. "...But that's not the check number of the check that came in today." FUCKING DUHHHHHH! I had to have explained myself a gazillion times, finally resorting to using small words and short sentences. If I could have gone down there and drawn her a picture I would have.

I asked if there was any danger of them sending a flunky out here to shut our service off, explaining that would be incredibly unfair since I sent that payment in two months ago. If they didn't recieve it, they could have taken me at my word and given me a chance to replace the check or else go ask their dumbass cashiers if it was misplaced. I was told to call the customer service office, where I got the same runaround. "You can call the cashiers and see if they can trace the check," she said. "Um, she told to call YOU."

Anyway, they provided no reassurance that they would try to trace the missing check. I was about ten seconds from giving someone a serious cussing, but I instead held myself in check, thanked the woman, and hung up. I'll deal with the post office and see if they can find it (wild goose chase).

Every damn time I call there I deal with incompetence. One time they lost an electronic payment I submitted through their own website and I had to call two or three different idiots for them to find it and credit it to my account. Their system is so backwards that money can be drafted from your checking account and they still won't know who it came from.

Fucking idiots. With the Duke lacrosse shit, the idiot school board, and everything else going on in Durham I'm totally ready to move a county over just to shake the "dumb" out of my clothes.

I. Am. So. Annoyed. Now my kid has to be held by angry mommy.

Lachrymose Mommy Musings

Rosco* is four weeks old today...or will be in about 45 minutes, anyway. I scratch my head in wonderment of how fast the month has gone past. Not only do I feel like time is slipping away from me, but if I take my eyes off the kid for a split second, something about him has already changed.

He's gone from being a placid little cuddler to an often-cantankerous chubby-cheeked leg-kicker who has beat the shit out of me over the past two weeks. (It's just a little colic; 20 hours of the day he's perfectly amenable to behaving like a civilized adult human being.) He's had a hell of a bout with baby acne and has learned to jut out his bottom lip and pout when he's feeling his demands aren't being met. He has learned his first non-cry syllable: "Gah." He has discovered the wonder of holding his head up like a little turtle while he's on his belly.

I've been pondering whether or not my kid has a personality yet, which I know is a dumb-ass thing to worry over. Of course he has a personality, whether I can identify its components or not. I have myself been told in the past that I exhibit absolutely no personality, so chances are that he favors me more than originally thought and chooses not to go the extrovert route. We'll see - when he starts hiding under his bed with a flashlight to read and pretend that he's in his own personal tent, we'll know for certain.

*One of many nicknames that have evolved from interacting with The Kid, this one being the one I use when he's behaving like an ill-mannered long haul trucker. Rosco = Roland Scott.

Hmm, that looks familiar.

Is everyone using the same damn snowflake postage stamp that we are on their holiday greetings? Not that I'm complaining, as I love getting cards in the mail, but can't the post office be a little more creative?

Geez.

63 Questions

Via Shank by way of Jenelle and so on.

1) How old do you wish you were? Actually if I could be as old as I am indefinately, I'd be perfectly happy.

2) Where were you when 9-11 happened? I was sitting in front of a computer in the English department at UNC typing up graduate student information (fun job...NOT.). The department secretary had a teeny tiny t.v. on her desk. When she said that someone had flown a plane into the tower, I thought she was pulling my leg.

3) What do you do when vending machines steal your money? Allow the word "FUCK" to echo loudly in my head and then walk away. On particuarly stupid days, I put even MORE money in and try again.

4) Do you consider yourself kind? Certain people would probably disagree, but deep down inside once you defeat the fiery dragon guarding my ego, I'm a softy.

5) If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be? On the bottom of my foot. I'm sick of the tattoo I've got - I don't want any more visible ones.

6) If you could be fluent in any other language what would it be? Basque. From the native speakers I've encountered, they always seem to be either slurring or mumbling. Perfect for my lazy tongue.

7) Do you know your neighbors? Yep. Except the ones I suspect are tapping into my wireless internet connection.

8) What do you consider a vacation? Sitting in the same spot for six hours and not feeling like I forgot to do something.

9) Do you follow your horoscope? No. If anything, I won't even read it until the day's over. I do put a little more belief than I should in star sign personality traits, though.

10) Would you move for the person you loved? You didn't ask how far.

11) Are you touchy feely? Only with my son. I don't do PDA, either.

12) Do you believe that opposites attract? Nope. In my experience, that's fodder for dysfunction.

13) Dream job? Staying at home with The Kid.

14) Favorite channel(s)? Um. Spike, I guess.

15) Favorite place to go on weekends? A.C. Moore if I have money.

16) Showers or Baths? Baths, but the tub has to be deep/wide enough to make me float when I lean back.

17) Do you paint your nails? Only when I need a boost to my self-esteem.

18) Do you trust people easily? Heck no. You think Homo sapien survived this long by trusting Neanderthals in the beginning?

19) What are your phobias? I have a huge fear of having my house broken into while I'm in it.

20) Do you want kids? I think the operative question here is "Do you want more kids?" to which I'd answer "yes."

21) Do you keep a handwritten journal? Not anymore.

22) Where would you rather be right now? At the bank depositing a million dollar check.

23) What makes you feel warm and safe? Mashed potatoes and a mailbox that doesn't have any bills in it.

24) Heavy or light sleeper? Sort of in-between. The cats don't wake me up when they're beating each other against the bedroom door, but I can usually hear the alarm clock...after two minutes or so.

25) Are you paranoid? No, too objective for that.

26) Are you impatient? Only when it comes to airports and Scott in the shower.

27) Who can you relate to? Most sensible, open-minded human beings.

28) How do you feel about interracial couples? Ex-squeeze me?

29) Have you been burned by love? The only way a person my age can go through life without being burned is to have NEVER been in love before. If you're not hurt when it's over then you weren't in love.

30) What's your life motto? To always lock my car doors before driving downtown.

31) What's your main ringtone on your mobile? Some techno thing that comes on when the caller i.d. pulls a real number.

32) What were you doing at midnight last night? Feeding The Kid.

33) Who was your last text message from? Friend of mine wondering if I've disappeared from the Earth.

34) Whose bed did you sleep in last night? Mine/ours, whatever.

35) What color shirt are you wearing? White - great for bleaching baby stains, my friends.

36) What are you listening to right now? The sound of Roland thrashing around on my bed through the baby monitor.

37) Name three things you have on you at all times? You mean three things I carry when I'm not slumming in the house, right? An extra hair elastic, my grocery store discount cards, and my driver's license.

38) What color are your bed sheets? I change them frequently. Trying to trap me, huh?

39) How much cash do you have on you right now? I'm sure that if I emptied my various piggy banks and coin catch-alls I'd have about $3.

40) What is your favorite part of the chicken? The cluck.

41) What's your fav city/place? Tyner, NC. Like I always say, it's not home if you don't want to go back.

42) I can't wait till . . . Roland sleeps through the night.

43) Who got you to set up a blog? Angela Nissel and her Broke Diaries. It seemed cathartic.

44) What did you have for dinner last night? Macaroni and cheese.

46) Have you ever smoked? Yes.

47) Do you own a gun? No.

48) Tea or Coffee? I'm a coffee person at heart, but while I'm breastfeeding I opt for hot tea.

49) What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex? A pregnant belly, a well-placed scowl, and obvious wedding ring. I don't know why it works, it just does.

50) Do you have A.D.D.? No, although as I progress through adulthood, I recognize that I'm guilty of tuning people out when they won't shut the hell up.

51) What time did you wake up today? I won't dignify that with a response. Ask The Kid.

52) Current worry? Employment, or lack thereof.

53) Current want? See 52.

54) Favorite place to be? Bed.

55) Where would you like to travel in the future? Contrary to what I stated in the previous post, I'd like to attend at least one Trek convention.

56) Where do you think you'll be in 10 yrs? Geographically? Probably a mile or so from here. Professionally? I don't really care.

57) Last thing you ate? Leftover mac & cheese.

58) What songs do you sing in the shower? I don't sing in the shower. Scott may be hearing impaired, but all the same I won't subject him to that.

59) Last person that made you laugh? Scoop. (not exactly a rated PG podcast...just so you know.)

60) Worst injury you've ever had? I'm not particuarly accident prone, but the only injury that comes to mind is from being dropped from an extension during high school cheerleading practice. I fell head-first (because even though I told them to let go of my fucking feet, they wouldn't) and used my hand to break my fall. My wrist didn't break, but it was screwed up for several years after that.

61) Does someone have a crush on you? No one that knows I'm married, I hope.

62) What is your favorite candy? Depends on my mood. You can generally pacify me with a cow tail, though.

63) What song do you want played at your funeral? I don't want a funeral...just take me straight to my final resting place without all the to-do. My family can install a nice Jacuzzi tub with all the money they save.

How you know you haven't had enough sleep

(AKA "Not enough pistons firing.")

You open up the refrigerator to place your bottle of Ivory dish soap on the top shelf.

"You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

People who know me well are familiar with the fact that I'm a Star Trek connoisseur. That is not to say that I have a Klingon costume in my closet and that I attend Trek conventions. I just watch the show, particuarly those in the "The Next Generation" franchise.

I got into Star Trek years ago when I was still living at home with my grandma. My uncle used to drive down from New York every couple of weeks to cut the grass and scour small town bookstores for rare volumes. We couldn't get cable out in the sticks, so if we planned on being enertained by the television at all, it had to be network stations. My uncle used to commandeer the big t.v. in the den and watch Star Trek. I haaaaated him for it - I couldn't get more than a couple of stations on the t.v. in the back of the house, and he wouldn't budge.

It wasn't until "Deep Space Nine" came out in 1993 that I began taking any interest in the show (a couple of the characters from TNG had transitioned into the show, so they were familiar to me). It was one of the new UPN network's new programs and the previews looked interesting...so I watched it. When "Voyager" was created several years later, I watched that, too (I'm still not a fan of the original series because James Kirk embodies "cocky asshole" in my opinion).

Anyhow, Scott has some perverse addiction to all things Star Wars. I'm sure I've discussed that before. He often joked about how Star Trek was a cheap rip-off of Star Wars and was only successful because it was riding on the wings of what George Lucas had created. Right. Sure. I didn't argue with him, however I always teased that I was going to buy the baby Trek action figures so that he'll know which side his allegiance is to early on. Being on paternity leave must do crazy things to the head, because guess who's watching Star Trek reruns, now? Mm hmm.

Impulse Purchasing

Today I exercised considerable restraint in Target. I went in to purchase diapers, baby wipes, and that's it knowing full well they'd be overpriced at Harris Teeter (which was to be my final stop). Unfortunately, I got stuck walking behind one of those slow people who knows you're behind them and zig zags their path to make sure you don't walk ahead of them. I made a detour through the children's clothes. Of course, I had to see if they had any widdle pants that would fit a newborn. I bought a couple of pairs last week using the length/weight sizing on the tag, but they were too big. (I didn't want to buy the newborn size if he was going to grow out of it too soon.)

Anyhow, there was this cute little pair of newborn sized khaki pants (complete with faux zipper fly) with a matching zip-up knit hoodie sweater. The whole outfit would have set me back $15, which I don't think is an unreasonable price to pay to have a well-styled baby. I put it into my hand basket and continued in my quest, trying not to get distracted by colorful baby feeding paraphernilia. Got the diapers, wipes, and baby tub (which I forgot we needed) and made my way up to the cash register.

Something clicked in my head at that point. I think it was the fact that I was about to spend $38 on five items, two of which will be gone by next week. Plus, I didn't know how much the drycleaner was going to try to bamboozle me out of for hemming my pants. I put the outfit back, sullenly, and vowed to return one day with a vengeance.

Perhaps someday when the baby leaves the house more often than to just visit with the pediatrician he can wear big boy separates.

Don't say I never told ya.

You know, there's something they* don't tell you when you're shopping for your baby's layette and picking out cute little accessories to adorn your child's head and feet with. They don't tell you that your child can easily go through three separate outfit changes per day. Easily. They won't tell you, but I will. Buy cheap and a lot of it.

Roland is fed the way nature intended: laying sideways on a Boppy rooting around my chest for signs of milk while scratching the hell out of me with his dagger-tipped fingers eight times/day. Because he's breastfed, he poops a lot (breast milk being a helluva laxative). Not only does he poop a lot, but being an infant he has no qualms about setting off small explosions in his pants when he does go.

Although this is 2006 and disposable diapers are as advanced as we can hope they'll be, sometimes you can't prevent ... escapes. Sometimes, even the wee widdle socks can't even forgo being replaced during a diaper change. For that reason young babies need a lot of clothes that are easy to peel off, and momma needs to have clothes that are as close to disposable as possible (think about it). A bunch of cute little outfits with bows and ruffles aren't going to do you a damn bit of good when you feel something warm on your leg and you have to hold your kid at arm's length to prevent your clothes from being fully ruined.

My bottle of Shout stain remover with the little scrubbie brush has been my constant companion in the past three weeks. Tell your pregnant friends to add it to their gift registry, and to be prepared to use it indiscriminately at the very SUGGESTION of a stain.

*They = people who try to scare you with stories of parenthood while you're pregnant

A'travellin' we will go...

Did I ever tell you that I won a pair of plane tickets? I can't remember and I'm too lazy to do an archive search. Yeah, I entered this "win a vacation" type deal online back in June or so thinking that it'd be an instant win/instant notification situation. It turned out to be a drawing done a couple months later.

Anyway, I won. I didn't win the grand prize (airfare PLUS accomodations for 4 select locations), but I was a "first prize winner" and won a pair of tickets to anywhere in the 48 contiguous states. (No Hawaii, damnit!) We have to use them by July.

We've discussed going to Vegas, which seems like a place where the only way you'd get bored is if you just happen to be a boring person, but I'm having second thoughts. I don't have strong feelings about visiting anywhere else, either, but I want to go somewhere I haven't been before. Nothing is really exciting me right now, especially not the idea of being on a plane that many hours.

Anybody have any other suggestions? I don't want to go somewhere where the hotel cost will throttle us towards bankruptcy, but want to leave feeling like "I wish we could have stayed a few more days." Whether you think you know me well enough to give an opinion on what I'd enjoy, just shoot it out there. I'll state what my comfort zone is just as soon as I figure out what it is myself.

Blah blah "Greetings from All of Us to All of You." blah

[I have a confession to make. I'm guilty of cropping myself out of my kid's pictures. While you can generally assume that at least part of the time when his picture is being taken someone is holding him. In the instances where I upload the images and see my flaccid gut or wild hair, I alter history and crop myself out. Some day Roland will ask why there are no pictures of me holding him and I'll have to pull out some dusty piece of technology, long since abandoned by the world like the eight-track, in order to open files I sneakily saved where nobody could find them. I have the original, undoctored images...but if I'm printing or posting them I have to take myself out. It's not humility, it's "Damn, I look bad!"]

I've noticed over the past week that the mail has become increasingly slow due to the approaching holidays. In-state delivery of mail items normally takes a day. I can send first class mail to New York and it'll normally be there in two days. Things are taking at least a day longer, and I'm sure the delay will become much longer the closer we get to December 25.

I have "thank you" cards to scribble, birth announcements to mail to family members I've lost the addresses of ("oops."), and Holiday cards to personalize and launch into the hands of USPS.

Frankly, I just haven't felt like it. I love sending out cards (and I love receiving them), but while Roland is asleep more utilitarian tasks have to be accomplished...like peeing and eating and such. I want to send little pictures of the baby using the gear he's been bestowed with the "Thank You" notes, but I have to wake him up to do that. *sigh* All the same, I'm going to try to get these suckers into the mail next week. I'll get out my glitter pens and start finessing them tonight.

I know a lot of people like to send out family portraits with their holiday cards. No sir, we won't be doing that. Momma doesn't look so hot right now (even though the double chin of pregnancy has melted away) and Roland is battling a bad case of baby acne. In fact, between the three of us Scott is the only person in this house that can take a decent picture with any sort of regularity. I always look like I want to beat the shit out of the person holding the camera. Roland is a wee widdle baby and doesn't understand the concept of "don't blink."

*sigh* Now I've got a headache.

I don't want to, but I need to.

Now that The Kid has graced us with his snuggly self, I'm really stepping up my employment search. While I was pregnant, it was really hard to stay focused on a job search when I knew that my belly would distract people from the fact that I have a brain. I went on three interviews between Labor Day and the first week of last month. Haven't heard a peep from any of them. I did my due and sent my thank you notes and even followed up one with an email. They haven't had the courtesy of telling me to fuck off formally (or even informally), so I assume that I should let those go. Scott believes that I should call them and remind them about myself. It's been at least a month since all three interviews. I feel that if I wasn't a strong enough candidate during my interview to stay on their radar, then screw it - I'm not going to guilt-trip them into hiring me.

Part of me wants to believe that it really does take an average of five interviews to land a job, but the realist in me says that they didn't want to hire a pregnant woman. Period. They can't say I wasn't qualified (because I was) so I'd be interested to see what the rejection letters would look like.

Anyhoo. Over the past week or so I've been tossing my résumé around all over the place at anything remotely close to matching my skillset. Of course I have certain limitations concerning location and pay, but for the most part I've been pretty open to exploring companies I wouldn't otherwise persue. I know for certain that I don't want to work for another super-small business where I'll hit the career ceiling within six months, but I don't have a problem with working at a non-profit or the like if they're financially stable.

I actually went to a staffing agency today and spent three hours filling out stupid forms and taking assessment tests. It turns out that I know how to use Excel and Word! Whoopie! I explained very tactfully what I've been doing employment-wise since Labor Day (not a damn thing) and watched a safety video. If they can put me in something temporary so that I can placate my starving bank account, fine. The staffing manager called me a couple of hours after I left there to see if I were interested in a position way out on the far side of Raleigh (far from here, anyway). Nope. I don't mind the idea of driving 40 minutes to work, but not if it's through traffic.

Someone from another agency called later to see if I would be interested in something in Chapel Hill. The pay is better and I'd be minutes from home, so I'm supposed to go in and see what it's all about on Monday.

As much as I'd hate to abandon the baby to someone else's care at this point, I really need to go back to work. Scott has to go back to work on Thursday so I'm hoping that there won't be a daycare issue. I realize a lot of places won't take a kid until he's six weeks old...if I have to hire some granny to come watch him during the day until he's old enough to lay in an institutional bassinet and catch other babies' germs, so be it. I'd really rather stay home with the stink-muffin, but the way I figure it his quality of life would be so much better if he didn't have to watch Star Trek with me all day.

Again?

What's going on with all the produce contamination this year?

I remember the last time there was a green onion scare (with the Hep A thing) I was afraid to use them for several months afterwards. Green onions hold a lot of goop and water in their stems, so if you sort of massage them while you're washing them you can get weirded out believing you're expelling radioactive material or something. I used to do a lot of stir-frys using green onions...other dishes, too. It's the only kind of onion Scott will eat if he knows it's present.

Seriously, what do people do to produce that would cause E. coli contamination? Poop on it?

Let it snow/sleet/ice.

You know, I really enjoy inclement weather as long as I don't have to go out in it. The thing about growing up in a coastal community is that on the rare occassions we got any of the frozen wet stuff, the entire county would shut down. School buses would be pulled off the roads (schools closed, of course), and kids would wake up early to glue themselves to the television screen to make double-sure that their school system was indeed closed and not on some crap-ass delay. The worst case scenario would be that school would be open, but would be dismissed in a couple of hours (having the students there just long enough to be considered a full day that didn't have to be made up).

I think the state of North Carolina owns three snow plows with two of them being stored somewhere in the mountain region. The third is in the shop. I'm sure that any plow my county ever saw was hooked to the front of some farmer's pick-up truck. If whatever stuff on the roads doesn't melt off, it wasn't coming off if you lived out in the rural end. I felt sorry for the mail carrier. I always worried he'd slide into one of those super-deep ditches.

Inclement weather days are best enjoyed on Wednesdays in order to break up a long week. True, you'll probably have to return to school or work on Thursday, but that mid-week vacation makes it a bit more tolerable, no?

People in metropolitan areas just don't know how to slow down during these rare blessings. They'd rather argue that [insert group not native to area] can't drive in snow and make themselves martyrs by going to work to grind out 15 minutes of productivity over 8 hours. Not me. As long as I have bread and something to wash it down with, I'm not leaving this house on a snow day for anything (except when I smoked - I left the house to find an open convenience store for cigarettes. Ended up going to the grocery store to get them.).

It would be an entirely different situation if this were Michigan and we could expect snow regularly between November and March. People in Michigan would never get anything done if they slowed down for a half-inch of ice on the roads. At the same time, if the tables were turned if it were 90 degrees and humid there on an April day, I gurarantee you that a good percentage of adults in Michigan would be skipping work in favor of anydamnthing else.

It's just an excuse, folks. It's nice to look out the window at while it's coming down, and it's a great reason to stand over the heat vent holding a cup of tea after going out to the driveway to get the newspaper.

Don't assume that Southerers can't drive in snow. Anyone who's ever terraplaned on a dirt road or extricated their vehicle from a mud patch can drive in snow. We just don't want to.

Birth Story, Part 2

You would think by now my periodic hiatuses would indicate that we’ve been busy teaching The Kid how to sleep through the night, change his own diapers, and sleep in his own crib. Not so. I would probably have a lot more free time on my hands if we didn’t have cats. The layout of our house requires that if I leave Roland in his room, I need to be near enough to hear him. I won’t set him down in the living room or front room because the cats have been far too curious/jealous. Anyway. Right now I’m wearing him in a sling on my chest (snoozing away) and a monitor has been purchased so I can listen to him flail around in his crib even when I’m in the laundry room. That didn’t stop me from having him sleep in our bed again last night, but oh well. At least I have two hands to type now.

To continue the story, I woke around dawn and ran a hot bath. I lay in the tub, sleeping between contractions, until the water turned cold. The contractions were coming fairly close together, but not so close that I was wakeful enough to want to remove myself from the tub. After one particularly painful contraction, I got out, wrapped a towel around myself and nudged Scott awake. I mumbled something along the lines of “Let’s go” to which he responded with an expression of half-“you’ve got to be kidding me” and half-“this better not be another practice run.”

I pulled on whatever clothes were on the floor nearest me: a pair of grey sweatpants, a high school marching band tee-shirt, and rubber flip-flops (I would later regret this). We left a little food out for the cats and headed back towards the hospital for the second time in eight hours.

The parking situation was a little miserable. Because of all the construction going on at UNC Hospitals…never mind. Not worth discussing. While Scott found a valet to take the car a nurse coming off the night shift sat me in a wheelchair stored by the entrance for that exact purpose. I guess the woozy state the Ambien I took had put me in hadn’t worn off. Between the contractions and the loopiness I’m sure I looked as if I were going to pass out.

Scott pushed me upstairs to labor and delivery, and guess which doctor was still on duty from the night before? Yeeessss, the one that sent me home with that f*cking sleeping pill. I hated feeling like I was panicking over a false alarm, but damn it, at that point I was shameless enough that if I had to threaten someone with some high-octane swearing they were going to admit me. If I wasn’t in labor, then something was wrong.

In triage I stripped down again into one of those backless gowns and endured the humiliation of yet another pelvic exam. Still hadn’t dilated. WTF? I had been at 1 cm for three weeks. I remember the first time my obstetrician had checked me at my 37-week visit. As I was walking into the building, a woman getting into her car (with way too much energy to suit me) was squealing with glee that she was 2 cm dilated. Hmph. I’m still annoyed that I couldn’t dilate on my own. Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself. Because my contractions were pretty much right on top of each other and I was completely effaced (which equals miserable), they admitted me.

The next thing I remember was Scott putting my street clothes into a plastic bag and someone asking if I wanted an epidural. The little Homer Simpson voice in my head was saying “Hmmmmm, druuuugs. *drools*” I had told myself early on that I was going to try to experience childbirth without an epidural. HA HA HA HA HA HA! I was in labor for close to 24 hours. No way. Somehow I got to a birthing suite (how’d I get there, Scott?) and my nurse worked with me on some breathing exercises while I contracted. She was six inches from my face and I kept thinking “DAMN, why didn’t I brush my teeth?” (Answer: because teeth don’t matter when your contractions feel like Rockettes kicking the hell out of your spine, uterus, and bladder.)

Because I was the only woman on the floor in labor, the anesthesiologist appeared fairly quickly to insert my epidural. Within 30 seconds of that puppy getting switched on I was on cloud nine and able to get some sleep.

You’ll have to excuse the fact that I can’t reference any sort of timeline here. I was so stoned that I was having a hard enough time controlling my anger at the fact that I hadn’t ate anything since … shit. When had I last eaten a real meal? Anyway, the fact that Scott ate a sandwich in front of me was perturbing. Anyway, the clock meant nothing seeing as how I was slipping in and out of wakefulness.

A doctor (who happens to be a very important doctor) appeared to invade my pelvis again. I guess there was a discussion about breaking my water and administering Pitocin in a few hours if I didn’t start dilating, but I can’t remember consenting to that. I guess I must have. The amniotic fluid was meconium-stained. (For all you laypeople, that means the baby had his first poop prematurely. Not normal – usually means the kid is distressed or else has been in the oven too long.) On top of that, because his head was turned in the wrong direction he wasn’t dropping where he was supposed to (hence the back labor).

The doctor left me to progress and would come back to check if I had dilated later. Fortunately, breaking my water was what my cervix needed to move out of my way and the Pitocin wasn’t necessary. I had some fear of Pitocin because it a) causes very intense contractions that may stress the baby and b) you could go through all that painful labor and if the cervix hasn’t moved you end up having to get a C-section.

Some blah blah happened (sorry…two weeks removes details from memory), and at 4 o’clock I was fully dilated and began pushing. I pushed for an hour and the doctor came in and suggested that we consider giving the baby some help with forceps. If I hadn’t been the type of person that goes into to “Chill” mode during stressful events, I probably would have began to bawl at that point. You never hear anything good about forceps. I evaluated the situation and decided I wanted my kid in my arms within the next five minutes. I didn’t want to labor for another hour and have his heart rate fluctuating the way it was. He would already have to be immediately assessed by NICU nurses because of the meconium: I didn’t want him to be taken away for longer if I could prevent it.

Once the forceps were applied he was out lickety-split, crying like he was offended. So, he was okay! He hadn’t aspirated any meconium, he didn’t have little forceps dents in his head, and he wanted to be fed immediately. 20 ¾”, 7 lb 13 oz. My little junior Scorpio.

Yeah, it was all worth it. The epidural shakes, stitches, limping, the catheters (no comment), the indignity of peeing in a pan in front of nurses – I’m not ashamed at all. Even when your kid comes out looking nothing like you, all you really want to do is smother him with kisses, take him home, and try to raise him better than you were raised.

I’m exhausted, but I love the squirmy little sucker. Other stuff matters less.