When I was a kid my mom and grandma decorated for every holiday. We put our American flags out for every patriotic holiday, there were special cookie jars for Valentine's day and halloween, and there were ceramic figurines that we painted for Halloween and Easter. Christmas was an event all its own. Decorating the tree was always a big affair. My mom would take an entire day and unwrap each ornament one by one and find the exact right spot on the tree. She would enlist our help to make it a family affair, but then after we went to bed she'd rearrange all the ornaments to her liking. As a child, I loved the fourth of July but there was something special about Christmas. Even to this day there is a feeling of magic that surrounds it, and I can't picture a Christmas tree without thinking of snow, hot chocolate, warm air smelling like cinnamon buns and my family parked in front of the fireplace.
The week before Halloween, my mom unpacked those same ceramic figurines that we decorated as kids and pulled out her special cookie jar. It was then that I realized this is the first year that I get to decorate an entire house by myself. Eric and I purchased our home at the beginning of the summer and even then I was ecstatic about the idea of having our own Christmas tree for the first time.
I started stocking up around Halloween. I bought material to make my own wreath to hang on the door. I bought a nativity set that I love, even though the baby Jesus looks like an elf. I bought a little block sculpture that says "Happy Holidays" and has snowmen posing as some of the letters. I put out the Santa Claus that my grandpa carved for Clara and as soon as I get it from my mom's house I will pair it with the larger Santa he carved for me. I bought an ornament to commemorate Clara's first Christmas, and I plan to hit up World Market after Thanksgiving to get some more beautiful ornaments. And I've been Christmas tree shopping for about a month now.
The point is that I could not be happier about decorating for the holidays because there's no time of year that makes me happier and I want to revel in that feeling as long as possible. I'm that person. I'm the person who doesn't skip past the Christmas carols when they come on my mp3 player in July. I'm the person who doesn't bitch when stores put out Christmas decorations in August. I'm the person who gets their Christmas shopping done way before Thanksgiving (this year I set my own personal record and finished before Halloween). I'm the person most people probably hate. I can't help it, and I'm not ashamed of it. It makes me so sad to hear other people complain about Christmas or other winter holidays as being commercialized, or that they hate Christmas carols or that Thanksgiving just doesn't have a chance because of consumer craziness. WHATEVER, SCROOGE. You don't have to like Christmas, but do you have to try and ruin it for the people who look past all that media-driven madness? And for the record, I do enjoy Thanksgiving very much, but in my mind I kind of lump it in with Christmas in terms of decorating and well-wishing. Don't like it? Blame the pilgrims. They shouldn't have chosen such a close date to Christmas for slaughtering the Indians and conducting witch hunts.
I once read somewhere that Christmas is a child's holiday. I'm not sure what the author of that sentiment meant, and come to think of it, they probably meant it as an insult, but I agree for other reasons. When I remember being a child at Christmas, I can't think of any time in my life that made me happier. Not because of presents--even as a little girl I loved shopping for other people and watching someone open a gift I picked out for them was the greatest thrill of my life. Still is. There is a sense of wonderment not entirely related to Santa Claus that possesses children around Christmas. Snowflakes, sugar plum fairies, hot cocoa... what's not to love about that? I hope that I never lose that sense of wonderment and warmth that comes back to me during the winter holidays, and I can only hope that I can pass that on to my daughter, along with the decorating tradition.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cat Lady
I have been teased by my friends for a long time about being a crazy cat lady. This is fairly justified, as I have always had cats, and I talk to them all in special voices. I don't know why, I just feel like they understand me better when I sound more like them, and it's totally true. To this day, my cats know their names and come when I call them in the special voices. But anyway. I love cats. As cliche as it sounds, my pets are more than just pets; they are family.
My mom's house is crawling with cats because of her asshole neighbors who don't think they need to spay or neuter their animals. There are constantly kittens in the backyard, with new ones showing up every few months. Sometimes I try to befriend the kittens. There was one little in particular that I bonded with, 4 orange tabby cats who I named after the Marx Brothers. Shortly after they were comfortable enough with me to let me pet them, a new kitten showed up from the neighbors' house. I tried to chase him away, but he didn't give a damn and stayed put. He eventually became best friends with Groucho, the bravest of the orange tabbies. I named him Bosco Hollingsworth.
When we bought and moved into our new house, we brought Groucho and Bosco with us. This was new for them because they had always been outdoor, borderline feral cats. After the first two days in the house, Groucho disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, and it makes me sad every time I think about it. Bosco was pretty depressed as a result, and Eric and I decided to adopt a cat from the shelter to keep him company.
When I went to look at cats, I fully intended on getting an adult cat, because most people only want kittens and the older ones end up being put down more often than not. It also had to be a female, because Bosco can be territorial and I didn't want him spraying in response to a new boy.
Walking through the kennels, one of the first cages I passed had this teeny little kitten that was part tabby, part calico with gorgeous markings and gigantic eyes and ears. She was the only kitten that was in a cage all by herself; everyone else had a friend. When I passed her cage, she climbed up the door and reached her paw out towards me. I knew I had to hold her, and as soon as I did, she scurried up onto my shoulder and started furiously rubbing my face with hers. I was sold. I named her Minnie-May.
I was almost 8 months pregnant when I brought Minnie home and she became my constant companion. She would sleep for hours on my belly and on my chest and at night she would tuck herself under my chin and lick my nose to wake me up. When the baby kicked, she would poke at my stomach with her paw and purr like mad. She was kind of crazy sometimes, running up and down the hallway and break-neck speeds, climbing the curtains, and it was impossible to keep her off the counters and table. But I loved her. She kept me company during the end of a very hard pregnancy and I began to think of her as my other baby. I got to pour my love into her until I had my daughter to take care of, and in a lot of ways Minnie helped me make it through the last month.
After Clara was born, I felt really guilty about neglecting my cat duties. Minnie would constantly run across my lap when I was holding Clara, and she always wanted to climb on top of her while she was eating. She wanted to snuggle up with both of us and most of the time I just shoved her off my lap because I didn't want her licking the baby's face. She would always sneak into Clara's crib and cuddle up with her blankets, and even though it was cute, I would get exasperated because then I would have to re-wash all the bedding. I eventually started putting her outside to help her burn off some energy, and she seemed to like it.
Today the cats were constantly underfoot. They literally have this method of getting my attention that consists of them galloping past me and then flopping down on the floor right where I'm about to step so that I can't ignore them. Minnie learned this from Bosco, and today it just pissed me off. Clara had had a bad time the night before and I had hardly any sleep. Today was an early morning rehearsal followed by me feeling feverish and sick, and I just wasn't in the mood to put up with energetic cats, so I kicked them outside. I usually bring Minnie in around dusk, because she's still a baby and I don't want her getting eaten by racoons or anything, but tonight I was distracted doing laundry and dishes. For some reason I had been thinking of vets and had a fleeting thought of, "If anything happened to the cats on the weekend, where would I take them for emergency treatment?"
I asked Eric to go to the grocery store for me. He came back inside a few minutes after leaving and he looked really upset. He said, "I'm totally not joking, but..."
A million thoughts ran through my head. The first was that the car had been broken into or stolen. The second was that he lost the car key (something we went through last week). I wasn't expecting what he said next.
"....I think Minnie's dead. She's laying in the street with blood on her, and I don't think she's breathing."
I couldn't even formulate a sentence, I just put Clara down and put my shoes on. By the time I got outside, Eric had moved Minnie onto the hood of the car. I couldn't even look at her face to see how much blood there was, I could tell by the way she was curled up that she was dead. She appeared to have been hit by a car, and whoever it was just left in the middle of the street directly in front of our house. It's not that surprising that she was hit because she liked to run underneath parked cars and stalk people as they walked down the sidewalk. But it is inconceivable to me that someone would hit an animal and then not go to at least one house to see if it was someone's pet. I realize that California law doesn't mandate this for cats, but... come on.
Anyway, Eric and I spent the better part of the evening crying and feeling miserable. I'm sad for a lot of reasons, but mainly I can't reconcile the fact that I have been kind of mean to my little kitty for the last two months, and it breaks me heart. All she wanted was love and attention, and I never seemed to have the time. It may seem ridiculous to some people that I'm so emotional over a cat, but I have really never experienced a severe loss of a loved one in my life. Even my other cats that died weren't as hard at this because they were adults, and I never had to see their dead bodies. Minnie was my little angel kitty, and I wish I had treated her better. It really blows that it takes a dead cat to give me some perspective on life, but there it is.
I love you, Minnie-May.
(photo courtesy of www.kmillerphotographs.com)
My mom's house is crawling with cats because of her asshole neighbors who don't think they need to spay or neuter their animals. There are constantly kittens in the backyard, with new ones showing up every few months. Sometimes I try to befriend the kittens. There was one little in particular that I bonded with, 4 orange tabby cats who I named after the Marx Brothers. Shortly after they were comfortable enough with me to let me pet them, a new kitten showed up from the neighbors' house. I tried to chase him away, but he didn't give a damn and stayed put. He eventually became best friends with Groucho, the bravest of the orange tabbies. I named him Bosco Hollingsworth.
When we bought and moved into our new house, we brought Groucho and Bosco with us. This was new for them because they had always been outdoor, borderline feral cats. After the first two days in the house, Groucho disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, and it makes me sad every time I think about it. Bosco was pretty depressed as a result, and Eric and I decided to adopt a cat from the shelter to keep him company.
When I went to look at cats, I fully intended on getting an adult cat, because most people only want kittens and the older ones end up being put down more often than not. It also had to be a female, because Bosco can be territorial and I didn't want him spraying in response to a new boy.
Walking through the kennels, one of the first cages I passed had this teeny little kitten that was part tabby, part calico with gorgeous markings and gigantic eyes and ears. She was the only kitten that was in a cage all by herself; everyone else had a friend. When I passed her cage, she climbed up the door and reached her paw out towards me. I knew I had to hold her, and as soon as I did, she scurried up onto my shoulder and started furiously rubbing my face with hers. I was sold. I named her Minnie-May.
I was almost 8 months pregnant when I brought Minnie home and she became my constant companion. She would sleep for hours on my belly and on my chest and at night she would tuck herself under my chin and lick my nose to wake me up. When the baby kicked, she would poke at my stomach with her paw and purr like mad. She was kind of crazy sometimes, running up and down the hallway and break-neck speeds, climbing the curtains, and it was impossible to keep her off the counters and table. But I loved her. She kept me company during the end of a very hard pregnancy and I began to think of her as my other baby. I got to pour my love into her until I had my daughter to take care of, and in a lot of ways Minnie helped me make it through the last month.
After Clara was born, I felt really guilty about neglecting my cat duties. Minnie would constantly run across my lap when I was holding Clara, and she always wanted to climb on top of her while she was eating. She wanted to snuggle up with both of us and most of the time I just shoved her off my lap because I didn't want her licking the baby's face. She would always sneak into Clara's crib and cuddle up with her blankets, and even though it was cute, I would get exasperated because then I would have to re-wash all the bedding. I eventually started putting her outside to help her burn off some energy, and she seemed to like it.
Today the cats were constantly underfoot. They literally have this method of getting my attention that consists of them galloping past me and then flopping down on the floor right where I'm about to step so that I can't ignore them. Minnie learned this from Bosco, and today it just pissed me off. Clara had had a bad time the night before and I had hardly any sleep. Today was an early morning rehearsal followed by me feeling feverish and sick, and I just wasn't in the mood to put up with energetic cats, so I kicked them outside. I usually bring Minnie in around dusk, because she's still a baby and I don't want her getting eaten by racoons or anything, but tonight I was distracted doing laundry and dishes. For some reason I had been thinking of vets and had a fleeting thought of, "If anything happened to the cats on the weekend, where would I take them for emergency treatment?"
I asked Eric to go to the grocery store for me. He came back inside a few minutes after leaving and he looked really upset. He said, "I'm totally not joking, but..."
A million thoughts ran through my head. The first was that the car had been broken into or stolen. The second was that he lost the car key (something we went through last week). I wasn't expecting what he said next.
"....I think Minnie's dead. She's laying in the street with blood on her, and I don't think she's breathing."
I couldn't even formulate a sentence, I just put Clara down and put my shoes on. By the time I got outside, Eric had moved Minnie onto the hood of the car. I couldn't even look at her face to see how much blood there was, I could tell by the way she was curled up that she was dead. She appeared to have been hit by a car, and whoever it was just left in the middle of the street directly in front of our house. It's not that surprising that she was hit because she liked to run underneath parked cars and stalk people as they walked down the sidewalk. But it is inconceivable to me that someone would hit an animal and then not go to at least one house to see if it was someone's pet. I realize that California law doesn't mandate this for cats, but... come on.
Anyway, Eric and I spent the better part of the evening crying and feeling miserable. I'm sad for a lot of reasons, but mainly I can't reconcile the fact that I have been kind of mean to my little kitty for the last two months, and it breaks me heart. All she wanted was love and attention, and I never seemed to have the time. It may seem ridiculous to some people that I'm so emotional over a cat, but I have really never experienced a severe loss of a loved one in my life. Even my other cats that died weren't as hard at this because they were adults, and I never had to see their dead bodies. Minnie was my little angel kitty, and I wish I had treated her better. It really blows that it takes a dead cat to give me some perspective on life, but there it is.
I love you, Minnie-May.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Life Choices
I've been a mother for one month. When I was pregnant, my friend's mother told me that once the baby was born, it would feel like she had always been with me. This is true, I have a hard time remember what it felt like to not have a 10 pound meatloaf attached to me at all times. But it's still completely bizarre at the same time.
I've heard that there is nothing like motherly wisdom and I have to agree, I have learned a lot of things in this relatively short period of time. Not all of them apply to outside life or anyone who hasn't had a newborn baby, but I've decided to keep track as I accumulate them for my own amusement.
Primarily, becoming a mother means having all new choices in life. Having a baby who only sleeps for short periods of time during the day means having to allot every day tasks into time slots. For example, during her morning nap I have about 20 minutes. I can choose to do laundry or take a shower. Afternoon nap is anywhere from 10 minutes to three hours. I can choose to clean the house or take a nap and, if I'm lucky, poop. Laundry and poop usually win out over all others.
Every day is a lesson in feeling guilty about something. Either it's not getting the laundry done and having your husband left with no clean clothes, or feeling guilty about laughing at the baby's cries when they sound like a goat.
You can much longer without eating than you think. All it takes is a baby attached to your arm before you realize that it's 4pm and you haven't eaten anything all day and still don't feel hungry. It also makes it harder to eat anything substantial because you have no time, so sometimes all you can eat is a couple cookies. No wonder my ass is getting bigger.
Poop is not nearly as disgusting as you think it is. At least not as disgusting as I thought. Seriously, I lost sleep during my last month of pregnancy because I was worrying about being grossed out by poop diapers and not wanting to change them or anything, and it's not bad at all. It stinks, sure, and I wouldn't want to use it as a face mask or anything, but it's no big deal. It also helps that my formula-fed baby only has one or two poop diapers on an average day.
Other mothers are both the kindest and bitchiest people in the world. I don't know what it is about motherhood that makes you think you need to impart all sorts of advice on other people, especially new mothers, but I kind of hate it. I have had so many people act like it's so precious that I don't always know what I'm doing or that the decisions I'm making for my daughter are questionable, and they have a kid that's only a few months older than mine. While some women have been wonderfully encouraging, all others can take their shitty advice and shove it.
The TV really can freak out a baby. I generally don't like to have the TV on while my daughter is awake because I want to take in as much time with her as possible before I wake up and she's 30. However, in the middle of the night sometimes I have to watch TV in order to stay awake and avoid dropping my child onto the cat curled up in my lap. She seems to enjoy shitty smut TV like Millionaire Matchmaker and Teen Mom, but she despises anything with a ton of flashing lights or explosions. Just like her mama.
I've heard that there is nothing like motherly wisdom and I have to agree, I have learned a lot of things in this relatively short period of time. Not all of them apply to outside life or anyone who hasn't had a newborn baby, but I've decided to keep track as I accumulate them for my own amusement.
Primarily, becoming a mother means having all new choices in life. Having a baby who only sleeps for short periods of time during the day means having to allot every day tasks into time slots. For example, during her morning nap I have about 20 minutes. I can choose to do laundry or take a shower. Afternoon nap is anywhere from 10 minutes to three hours. I can choose to clean the house or take a nap and, if I'm lucky, poop. Laundry and poop usually win out over all others.
Every day is a lesson in feeling guilty about something. Either it's not getting the laundry done and having your husband left with no clean clothes, or feeling guilty about laughing at the baby's cries when they sound like a goat.
You can much longer without eating than you think. All it takes is a baby attached to your arm before you realize that it's 4pm and you haven't eaten anything all day and still don't feel hungry. It also makes it harder to eat anything substantial because you have no time, so sometimes all you can eat is a couple cookies. No wonder my ass is getting bigger.
Poop is not nearly as disgusting as you think it is. At least not as disgusting as I thought. Seriously, I lost sleep during my last month of pregnancy because I was worrying about being grossed out by poop diapers and not wanting to change them or anything, and it's not bad at all. It stinks, sure, and I wouldn't want to use it as a face mask or anything, but it's no big deal. It also helps that my formula-fed baby only has one or two poop diapers on an average day.
Other mothers are both the kindest and bitchiest people in the world. I don't know what it is about motherhood that makes you think you need to impart all sorts of advice on other people, especially new mothers, but I kind of hate it. I have had so many people act like it's so precious that I don't always know what I'm doing or that the decisions I'm making for my daughter are questionable, and they have a kid that's only a few months older than mine. While some women have been wonderfully encouraging, all others can take their shitty advice and shove it.
The TV really can freak out a baby. I generally don't like to have the TV on while my daughter is awake because I want to take in as much time with her as possible before I wake up and she's 30. However, in the middle of the night sometimes I have to watch TV in order to stay awake and avoid dropping my child onto the cat curled up in my lap. She seems to enjoy shitty smut TV like Millionaire Matchmaker and Teen Mom, but she despises anything with a ton of flashing lights or explosions. Just like her mama.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
A little story about birth
I gave birth one week ago today.
It was not the beautiful, earth-shattering flight of fancy that many people led me to expect.
I've already written about it in detail on my Facebook page, so chances are you've probably read it, and I won't bother repeating it all here. In summary: I was induced. Induction failed after two and a half days of being pumped full of medication. I had a c-section. C-section did not go as planned. I had a seizure on the operating table immediately after my baby was removed from my body. I spent two days in the ICU being pumped full of more medication and was eventually given a blood transfusion. I got to see my baby for about two minutes and didn't see her again until she was almost three days old. I had to spend another three days in the hospital until they finally let us go home. Now my arms are covered in bruises and poke holes from all the IVs and blood draws they did and I look like a grade-A heroin addict. It was pretty much the worst experience of all time, but I have the most perfect little girl to remind me of why I'm still here.
All that being said, my first few days of motherhood have been...interesting. My little girl, Clara, is an absolute doll. She is snuggly and was lucky enough as a c-section baby to avoid that alien look that most newborns have, so she is a pure delight to gaze at during her many, many feedings. She doesn't cry all that much unless she has tummy trouble (which she apparently inherited from her mother) and she loves to be held. I feel fortunate to not have been plagued by a colicky baby who cries non-stop, at least thus far, but I still feel so, so drained.
My husband went back to work the day we were discharged from the hospital. He works very hard and very long hours. He needs his sleep. Therefore I pretty much take care of the nighttime feedings, which are sometimes only twice a night and sometimes as many as four. I also take care of Clara during the day while he's at work. All day. So I'm pretty much on the baby punch clock 24 hours a day, except for the two hours or so that my husband spends with her between getting home and going to bed. That's a lot of time to be taking care of a baby, especially when they wake up every two or three hours and then take about an hour and a half to fall back to sleep.
My husband tries to be extremely helpful and sends me out of the house in the evening for Mommy Time. He does everything I ask him to do when he's home and is always asking how he can be more helpful. The crazy thing is that most of the time I have nothing to tell him to do. Blame it on my over-achiever nature that hasn't showed itself since high school, but I feel like I should be doing everything that needs to be done. Laundry, cleaning, organizing, all of it is my responsibility because I feel like it should be. Today he offered to watch the baby while I went and took a nap. I'm exhausted but I can't go to sleep because I know that I'm just going to have to wake back up in an hour and I'd rather stay awake and try to accomplish something, even though I usually just end up crying over the sink and a plate of half-eaten food that someone else was kind enough to drop for us because God knows I'm not cooking until this child is 10 years old.
Why is it so hard for me to accept help? I have a wonderful baby who isn't even that much of a handful and I still find myself being constantly exhausted and crying every time another adult enters the room. It's like my hormones are on overdrive and they make me in love with my baby when we're alone and then I feel like I'm playing the victim card as soon as I have someone to talk to who can actually speak back. Ugh. I feel like I have nothing to complain about. Postpartum depression at its finest, I suppose.
Anyway, I love my baby. Motherhood is exhausting. Use condoms if you ever want to sleep again. The end.
It was not the beautiful, earth-shattering flight of fancy that many people led me to expect.
I've already written about it in detail on my Facebook page, so chances are you've probably read it, and I won't bother repeating it all here. In summary: I was induced. Induction failed after two and a half days of being pumped full of medication. I had a c-section. C-section did not go as planned. I had a seizure on the operating table immediately after my baby was removed from my body. I spent two days in the ICU being pumped full of more medication and was eventually given a blood transfusion. I got to see my baby for about two minutes and didn't see her again until she was almost three days old. I had to spend another three days in the hospital until they finally let us go home. Now my arms are covered in bruises and poke holes from all the IVs and blood draws they did and I look like a grade-A heroin addict. It was pretty much the worst experience of all time, but I have the most perfect little girl to remind me of why I'm still here.
All that being said, my first few days of motherhood have been...interesting. My little girl, Clara, is an absolute doll. She is snuggly and was lucky enough as a c-section baby to avoid that alien look that most newborns have, so she is a pure delight to gaze at during her many, many feedings. She doesn't cry all that much unless she has tummy trouble (which she apparently inherited from her mother) and she loves to be held. I feel fortunate to not have been plagued by a colicky baby who cries non-stop, at least thus far, but I still feel so, so drained.
My husband went back to work the day we were discharged from the hospital. He works very hard and very long hours. He needs his sleep. Therefore I pretty much take care of the nighttime feedings, which are sometimes only twice a night and sometimes as many as four. I also take care of Clara during the day while he's at work. All day. So I'm pretty much on the baby punch clock 24 hours a day, except for the two hours or so that my husband spends with her between getting home and going to bed. That's a lot of time to be taking care of a baby, especially when they wake up every two or three hours and then take about an hour and a half to fall back to sleep.
My husband tries to be extremely helpful and sends me out of the house in the evening for Mommy Time. He does everything I ask him to do when he's home and is always asking how he can be more helpful. The crazy thing is that most of the time I have nothing to tell him to do. Blame it on my over-achiever nature that hasn't showed itself since high school, but I feel like I should be doing everything that needs to be done. Laundry, cleaning, organizing, all of it is my responsibility because I feel like it should be. Today he offered to watch the baby while I went and took a nap. I'm exhausted but I can't go to sleep because I know that I'm just going to have to wake back up in an hour and I'd rather stay awake and try to accomplish something, even though I usually just end up crying over the sink and a plate of half-eaten food that someone else was kind enough to drop for us because God knows I'm not cooking until this child is 10 years old.
Why is it so hard for me to accept help? I have a wonderful baby who isn't even that much of a handful and I still find myself being constantly exhausted and crying every time another adult enters the room. It's like my hormones are on overdrive and they make me in love with my baby when we're alone and then I feel like I'm playing the victim card as soon as I have someone to talk to who can actually speak back. Ugh. I feel like I have nothing to complain about. Postpartum depression at its finest, I suppose.
Anyway, I love my baby. Motherhood is exhausting. Use condoms if you ever want to sleep again. The end.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Honesty vs Manners
Everyone has probably seen or experienced the time-old tale of someone with food stuck in their teeth, and the following dilemma of which is more rude; telling someone they have food stuck in their teeth or NOT telling them and letting them go around in public looking like an animal. The same scenario can be applied to any kind of bodily faux pas; a booger hanging out of the nose, food stuck on the face, one tuft of hair sticking straight up, mascara pooling under the eyes, and my personal favorite, farting.
Farting, as gross as it is, is perfectly natural, and not usually something to be ashamed of. Unless you are doing it on purpose to try and poison the people around you, like my husband did one time on a car trip back from Vegas, you don't have to feel like a bad person for farting. However, I think very few people can do it in public without feeling embarrassed. I certainly can't.
The reason I pose this karmic question is because today at work, someone walked by my desk and was literally farting with every step they took. It was hilarious. However, I didn't feel it would be in good taste to laugh, so I tried my hardest to pretend like I heard nothing. It was really, really hard. I mean, people fart, it's ok. I've had bad bowel days, especially since being pregnant. I'll never forget the first time I sneezed and farted at the same time, and I'm just grateful everyone around me was wearing headphones at the time.
Being an empathetic person, I feel very strongly that when people fart in public, the best thing to do is to pretend like you didn't hear it and save them the embarassment of calling attention to it. However, shouldn't the person at least say "excuse me" and acknowledge they did it? I realize there is a thread of hope that I think everyone hangs onto when they fart in front of someone else, namely, "Oh... maybe they didn't hear it." Nope. We heard it. I personally will try to play it off like it's my shoes making weird squeaky noises, or my stomach being particularly raucous, (TOOT!! "Oh man, my stomach is out of control today! It must have been that [insert food] I had earlier.") which rarely works but makes me feel less disgusting.
In any case, I'm torn between really wanting someone to own up to their flatulance and clearing the air (both literally and figuratively), and being totally ok letting us both pretend like nothing happened, even though we are both clearly aware of the truth. I think there's something very admirable about someone who is willing to accept that nature happens, and just say, "Excuse me!" and move on. It takes courage and I find that level of integrity worth striving for. For he who smelt it doth not always dealt it, but he who doth deny it most likely hath supplied it.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Last Day Blues?
As I prepare for my maternity leave (which officially starts today at 4:45, woot!), I’m reflecting on my workplace with the same amount of nostalgia and disgust that someone would if they were leaving for good. I’m not leaving for good, unfortunately, because we really can’t afford for me to not be bringing in a mediocre paycheck, which makes me sad. But I like being able to afford satellite television and delicious snack food, so I put up with it. It can’t all be my husband’s responsibility, and I recognize that.
In any case, I was inspired to compile the following lists.
Things I will not miss about work:
-Working
-The lady who hacks up copious amounts of phlegm and lung tissue every 10 minutes
-Listening to the incompetent guy who was hired to replace me give incorrect instructions to coworkers
-Being woken up by people who are incapable of recognizing what a breakroom nap looks like
-The annoying, TMI lady who is always, always, always in the breakroom at the same time as me
-Pretending to be busy
-Getting contradicting instructions from my supervisor and lead
-Dealing with the stupidity of people I am forced to share existence with
-Using a public restroom that, more often than not, smells like the monkey house at Chicago's Brookfield Zoo
Things I will miss about work:
-A paycheck
-Having the opportunity to listen to music or audiobooks while getting paid
-Having a special drawer in my desk that is filled with snacks
-Some of the truly awesome people I get to work with
-Emailing snarky remarks to my sister and her co-worker
-Observing remarkable examples of human stupidity in the form of subscriber and doctor names
-Having air conditioning that I don’t pay for
-Vending machines. Seriously, when I have to drive to the store rather than walk down the hall to satisfy my chocolate cravings, life is going to seem so bleak.
-Unlimited access to office supplies. Sometimes you just need a Sharpie.
-Creating elaborate fictional stories about the co-workers I can’t stand
-Department potlucks
-Human interaction
I was just in the process of typing out that part of me really will miss coming to work and interacting with people (who, for the most part are very kind and supportive and make working for an insurance company more than tolerable), and then I received an email from my lead telling me I made a mistake on a claim that he personally walked me through. All feelings of nostalgia have flown out the window. Hulk Smash is back. So now I’m all pissed again, and thinking that 4:45 can’t come fast enough.
In any case, I was inspired to compile the following lists.
Things I will not miss about work:
-Working
-The lady who hacks up copious amounts of phlegm and lung tissue every 10 minutes
-Listening to the incompetent guy who was hired to replace me give incorrect instructions to coworkers
-Being woken up by people who are incapable of recognizing what a breakroom nap looks like
-The annoying, TMI lady who is always, always, always in the breakroom at the same time as me
-Pretending to be busy
-Getting contradicting instructions from my supervisor and lead
-Dealing with the stupidity of people I am forced to share existence with
-Using a public restroom that, more often than not, smells like the monkey house at Chicago's Brookfield Zoo
Things I will miss about work:
-A paycheck
-Having the opportunity to listen to music or audiobooks while getting paid
-Having a special drawer in my desk that is filled with snacks
-Some of the truly awesome people I get to work with
-Emailing snarky remarks to my sister and her co-worker
-Observing remarkable examples of human stupidity in the form of subscriber and doctor names
-Having air conditioning that I don’t pay for
-Vending machines. Seriously, when I have to drive to the store rather than walk down the hall to satisfy my chocolate cravings, life is going to seem so bleak.
-Unlimited access to office supplies. Sometimes you just need a Sharpie.
-Creating elaborate fictional stories about the co-workers I can’t stand
-Department potlucks
-Human interaction
I was just in the process of typing out that part of me really will miss coming to work and interacting with people (who, for the most part are very kind and supportive and make working for an insurance company more than tolerable), and then I received an email from my lead telling me I made a mistake on a claim that he personally walked me through. All feelings of nostalgia have flown out the window. Hulk Smash is back. So now I’m all pissed again, and thinking that 4:45 can’t come fast enough.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Hometown Hobbies
I work for a health insurance company as a claim processor. The company is actually pretty great to work for, which people are always surprised to hear. I've been referred to as a "soul-sucking beurocrat" by over-zealous liberals, even though they don't even know what company I work for or anything. Oh well. I have come to realize that people generally suspect the worst about any kind of entity that costs them money.... which is why I don't understand the blind acceptance of government agencies by these same people, but whatever. Discussion for another time.
My company is a not-for-profit company and is very focused on community involvement and volunteer work. They encourage the formation of a bajillion employee committees to improve charitable activites and volunteerism, and they want to bring it into the workplace as much as possible without affecting productivity (naturally). One of the things the employee involvement committee in my area has decided to is give everyone a sheet of paper to write about what we do in our spare time and include a photo or two. Then they hang these papers on a bulletin board in the center of the department so people can stop and learn things about their co-workers they wouldn't otherwise have known.
I thought this was a pretty good idea, if for no other reason than it gave me a way to kill 15 minutes of time that I otherwise didn't want to spend working. Seriously, the prospect of maternity leave is so delightful that it's making me really not care so much about the quality or quantity of my work. It's pretty bad. I've been spending extensive time mocking the stupid names that people pick for their children (like two people in the same family with the legal first name of "Sweetheart") and dancing in my seat to the Newsies soundtrack. Really, what's better than Christian Bale singing about the joys of "Sante Fe"? Nothing, that's what.
There's nothing like the prospect of 5 months of vacation to make you loathe your job and fantasize about getting fired.
Anyway, on this sheet of paper I wrote about my involvement in music. I wrote that I sing opera at the community college, jazz with friends from another town's college, that I play piano on my own time (sparingly, but they don't need to know the details of my laziness). I also posted some pictures that I may or may not have printed out using the company copy machines. Whatever. I'm the only who knows how to replace the toner in those damn machines so I deserve special priviliges. Right? Right. My page was hung up with the others that showcased news clippings about peoples' children or pictures of them at concerts of their favorite country artists, or photos of them at the rodeo. .....Most of the people at my work are a little bit country.
So as people walk by this board they are all stopping and reading my page because it's the most recent addition, and they walk away looking completely confused. I can't figure it out, there's nothing confusing about my narrative or my photos, nothing inappropriate or anything.
Finally a lady stops at my desk and inquires about my music hobbies.
"So.... you sing opera? Like.... viking helmet kind of opera? That's so interesting. But I didn't think there was anybody in Redding that did that kind of thing. And I didn't think you could sing both opera and jazz. That's so interesting."
Sigh. Sometimes I forget that the little city I live in is completely unaware of what happens in the outside world.
I politely explained to her that you can, in fact, sing as many different types of music as you want, and that the local community college has a great opera program that does a show every year and that opera isn't nearly as boring as people think. And that it doesn't always involve viking helmets. She seemed receptive, but I was still getting weird looks from people all day. Maybe if the viking helmet was replaced by a cowboy hat they'd be less likely to find my hobby so strange. I could write an opera that featured a romance between a middle-aged country woman and a young, shirtless and obviously ripped ranch-hand with a penchant for classic rock. I could call it "Getting' Randy and Livin' Rowdy: A country woman's passion" or something.
I have made it my mission to expose these people to as much new culture as possible. I hope they're prepared. But it'll have to wait until December because I'm out of here as of tomorrow. I will then be spending glorious time at home trying to recreate Christina Bale's cowboy dance from the "Sante Fe" scene of Newsies.
My company is a not-for-profit company and is very focused on community involvement and volunteer work. They encourage the formation of a bajillion employee committees to improve charitable activites and volunteerism, and they want to bring it into the workplace as much as possible without affecting productivity (naturally). One of the things the employee involvement committee in my area has decided to is give everyone a sheet of paper to write about what we do in our spare time and include a photo or two. Then they hang these papers on a bulletin board in the center of the department so people can stop and learn things about their co-workers they wouldn't otherwise have known.
I thought this was a pretty good idea, if for no other reason than it gave me a way to kill 15 minutes of time that I otherwise didn't want to spend working. Seriously, the prospect of maternity leave is so delightful that it's making me really not care so much about the quality or quantity of my work. It's pretty bad. I've been spending extensive time mocking the stupid names that people pick for their children (like two people in the same family with the legal first name of "Sweetheart") and dancing in my seat to the Newsies soundtrack. Really, what's better than Christian Bale singing about the joys of "Sante Fe"? Nothing, that's what.
There's nothing like the prospect of 5 months of vacation to make you loathe your job and fantasize about getting fired.
Anyway, on this sheet of paper I wrote about my involvement in music. I wrote that I sing opera at the community college, jazz with friends from another town's college, that I play piano on my own time (sparingly, but they don't need to know the details of my laziness). I also posted some pictures that I may or may not have printed out using the company copy machines. Whatever. I'm the only who knows how to replace the toner in those damn machines so I deserve special priviliges. Right? Right. My page was hung up with the others that showcased news clippings about peoples' children or pictures of them at concerts of their favorite country artists, or photos of them at the rodeo. .....Most of the people at my work are a little bit country.
So as people walk by this board they are all stopping and reading my page because it's the most recent addition, and they walk away looking completely confused. I can't figure it out, there's nothing confusing about my narrative or my photos, nothing inappropriate or anything.
Finally a lady stops at my desk and inquires about my music hobbies.
"So.... you sing opera? Like.... viking helmet kind of opera? That's so interesting. But I didn't think there was anybody in Redding that did that kind of thing. And I didn't think you could sing both opera and jazz. That's so interesting."
Sigh. Sometimes I forget that the little city I live in is completely unaware of what happens in the outside world.
I politely explained to her that you can, in fact, sing as many different types of music as you want, and that the local community college has a great opera program that does a show every year and that opera isn't nearly as boring as people think. And that it doesn't always involve viking helmets. She seemed receptive, but I was still getting weird looks from people all day. Maybe if the viking helmet was replaced by a cowboy hat they'd be less likely to find my hobby so strange. I could write an opera that featured a romance between a middle-aged country woman and a young, shirtless and obviously ripped ranch-hand with a penchant for classic rock. I could call it "Getting' Randy and Livin' Rowdy: A country woman's passion" or something.
I have made it my mission to expose these people to as much new culture as possible. I hope they're prepared. But it'll have to wait until December because I'm out of here as of tomorrow. I will then be spending glorious time at home trying to recreate Christina Bale's cowboy dance from the "Sante Fe" scene of Newsies.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Pimple Juice and Life
Over the last few years (ever since I briefly used Proactive. Evil product.) I have developed two spots on my chin where I consistently get cystic pimples. If you don't know what those are, they are basically a giant buildup of pimple juice under the surface of the skin that turn into cysts, or hard masses that need to be drained, but mine always come back. If my sister is reading this, she's probably gagging by now. Sorry, Christina.
I have a bad habit of trying to pop these pimples, which is pointless because they are so far under the surface of the skin that all it does it create a giant scab on the surface where I have damanged the skin trying to squeeze out the toxins. And no matter how long they last or how good I am at not touching them, they always come back in the exact same places.
Since being pregnant I haven't gotten them until this week. I guess the hormones are good for something other than inducing Hulk-like rage at the drop of a hat, or at least they were for awhile.
I have this device that I purchased from Sephora (cue angels playing harps in heaven). It's a "blemish extractor with lance". Basically, you use one end to push out blackheads, and the other end you use to stab white heads and drain them. Glamorous, I know, but it works pretty darn well. I decided to use it on one of my cystic pimples last night, which I have only tried once before.
I have been letting these things sit, unmolested, on my face for about two weeks now. I haven't tried to squeeze them once. They suddenly got very red for no apparent reason other than the sickening heat that has descended upon the north state. Apparently all they needed was a good stab.
It hurt, as stabbing yourself in the face tends to do, but as soon as I did it there was an audible release of fluid, air and blood, and the asshole pimple automatically started to drain. Again, sorry Christina. It was glorious. There was an immediate feeling of release of pressure in my face and I got that sick satisfaction that I always had as a child when I would pick off scabs. Maybe I should have been a dermatologist, I don't know.
Seeing as I have been super lazy and haven't unpacked all my bathroom stuff yet, I had no pimple salve to put on my newly excavated pore, so I used hand sanitizer. It burned like hell, but today I am left with a smooth, slightly pink spot that should heal by the end of the week.
Why am I talking about pimples? Because people will read anything. I bet you thought there was a point to this. Well ok, there kind of is. I was reading a fellow blogger's post about her life being filled with ghosts of her past, and for some reason it made me think of my nasty skin conditions. So I guess my point is that if my friend could just find a life lance and stab her metaphorical pimple ghosts with it, all the nasty shit would probably just drain out on its own. And then she could douse it with some 98% alcohol solution and they would just shrivel and die.
........Don't judge me for this post. I'm pregnant and therefore slightly mentally crippled.
I have a bad habit of trying to pop these pimples, which is pointless because they are so far under the surface of the skin that all it does it create a giant scab on the surface where I have damanged the skin trying to squeeze out the toxins. And no matter how long they last or how good I am at not touching them, they always come back in the exact same places.
Since being pregnant I haven't gotten them until this week. I guess the hormones are good for something other than inducing Hulk-like rage at the drop of a hat, or at least they were for awhile.
I have this device that I purchased from Sephora (cue angels playing harps in heaven). It's a "blemish extractor with lance". Basically, you use one end to push out blackheads, and the other end you use to stab white heads and drain them. Glamorous, I know, but it works pretty darn well. I decided to use it on one of my cystic pimples last night, which I have only tried once before.
I have been letting these things sit, unmolested, on my face for about two weeks now. I haven't tried to squeeze them once. They suddenly got very red for no apparent reason other than the sickening heat that has descended upon the north state. Apparently all they needed was a good stab.
It hurt, as stabbing yourself in the face tends to do, but as soon as I did it there was an audible release of fluid, air and blood, and the asshole pimple automatically started to drain. Again, sorry Christina. It was glorious. There was an immediate feeling of release of pressure in my face and I got that sick satisfaction that I always had as a child when I would pick off scabs. Maybe I should have been a dermatologist, I don't know.
Seeing as I have been super lazy and haven't unpacked all my bathroom stuff yet, I had no pimple salve to put on my newly excavated pore, so I used hand sanitizer. It burned like hell, but today I am left with a smooth, slightly pink spot that should heal by the end of the week.
Why am I talking about pimples? Because people will read anything. I bet you thought there was a point to this. Well ok, there kind of is. I was reading a fellow blogger's post about her life being filled with ghosts of her past, and for some reason it made me think of my nasty skin conditions. So I guess my point is that if my friend could just find a life lance and stab her metaphorical pimple ghosts with it, all the nasty shit would probably just drain out on its own. And then she could douse it with some 98% alcohol solution and they would just shrivel and die.
........Don't judge me for this post. I'm pregnant and therefore slightly mentally crippled.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Baby blah blah.
There are many wonderful aspects of being a woman. It's amazing to get free drinks just for wearing a low-cut top, and the potential for getting out of speeding tickets by crying is always nice. It's also great to be an intelligent woman who is able to prove herself and shock the hell out of anyone who thinks women are the lesser sex. I am incredibly proud to be a woman and love many of the things that come with the territory. That being said, I gotta say... being pregnant kind of blows.
I was always really excited to be pregnant. I facetiously (but semi-seriously) begged my husband for a long time to just "knock me up" so that I could have 9 months escape from mind-numbing cramps and could have an excuse to eat whatever and however much I want. Also, I wanted an excuse to buy baby clothes, and God knows my sister's daughters don't need anymore dresses. Auntie spoils them. Unfortunately, pregnancy has not turned out to be all I wished for.
When I actually found out I was pregnant it was the day after Thanksgiving. It was a very unexpected surprise, but I was elated. I cried for about 15 minutes, called my husband to tell him, and then called my sister to confirm that the 3 beers I had drank the night before weren't going to make my baby grow up stupid. This euphoria lasted for about two weeks, and amid a bit of other drama where my doctor thought I might have miscarried (everything turned out to be fine, they just misjudged how far along I was), the symptoms started.
I first thought I might have been pregnant because I was getting dizzy all the time. After it was confirmed, the nausea started. I have to say, both my sisters experienced morning sickness with their pregnancies and I always sympathized, but secretly thought that it wouldn't happen to me or that I could handle it if it did. Uh, no. I called in to work several times and when I did make it in I frequently had to just sit with my head down on my desk. The only food I could tolerate was Ginger Ale and Smuckers Uncrustables. I threw up every morning and then spent the rest of the day with such horrifying nausea that I could barely function.
The worst part? MOST people only experience this crap the first trimester. Three months is definitely long enough of a punishment, but mine goes beyond that. The nausea eventually tapered off around week 15, but I still continued to barf in the sink every morning until my third trimester. That is roughly 6 months of barf. Now that I'm in my 7th month, I puke maybe once a week or so. I can handle it, but when I have to hear stories from my mother and mother-in-law about how they were never sick a day of any pregnancy, I have to control my rage. Seriously, my mother had four kids and my mother-in-law had SEVEN, and neither of them had ANY morning sickness? That's just not fair. If I didn't love them, I would hate them.
Speaking of rage, the pregnancy hormones have basically made me a psycho. I live on a soapbox in my normal every day life, but I usually don't approach strangers with these thoughts. Pregnancy hormones take you to a whole new level where you no longer care about hurting people's feelings, because they are doing something stupid to endanger your child. I've told a stranger that he "parked like an asshat" for almost hitting my car in a parking lot. I've confronted a guy at work who was tailgating me on the freeway at 80 mph and told him to "stop driving like a piece of crap". I recited California law to some girls who were smoking in front of a restaurant and called them out for being rude, stinky, jerks. It's been kind of liberating, but honestly feeling angry all the time is mentally exhausting. I miss being passive and quietly cynical.
The other aspects of pregnancy that I've experienced have been equally pleasant. You don't think anything could be worse than throwing up every single day until you pee your pants while you do it. Seriously. I am not someone who has a great history of bladder control (stories for another time), so it just seems cruel that pregnancy would naturally lower my ability even further. I've peed my pants because of puking, laughing, sneezing, and bending, and I totally almost crapped my pants in the car on the way home one time because the baby was doing a dance on my intestines. It is so NOT RIGHT.
You also fart a lot more, and at unexpected times. I sneezed at work and it totally made me fart at the same time, and I was hardly even embarrassed by it because I was so tired. Because babies make you tired. Even though you could just be sitting there, doing nothing, you're growing a frickin' person inside of you and it is exhausting. Oh, and the eating whatever I want? No. Not quite. When everything, including water, gives you heartburn and gut rot, there really is no pleasure in eating, and chances are it will just make you smelly and cranky. Why my husband still wants to sleep with me is a mystery at this point.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am fully appreciative of the miracle of life going on inside my body, and feeling the baby move is pretty much the coolest (and weirdest) thing I've ever experienced... until she punches me in the bladder and makes me pee on my couch. But I just feel really betrayed by how many people I know who have been pregnant and didn't make stronger attempts at conveying the difficulty of the whole process.
I'm not even a mom yet and I'm mentally exhausted. When I'm not being kept awake by back pain and "practice contractions", I'm worrying about whether my baby is going to be born disfigured or with a shitty attitude. The idea of the birth itself absolutely terrifies me, too. As if pushing a human being the size of a watermelon out your vagina isn't already a horrifying thought, you also have the delightful possibility of pooping on the delivery table in front of a room full of people, and developing hemmorhoids the size of golf balls. The pain involved is the least of my worries, strangely enough.
Point being that this is no cake walk. More complaints to come later. I still have two months left, after all.
I was always really excited to be pregnant. I facetiously (but semi-seriously) begged my husband for a long time to just "knock me up" so that I could have 9 months escape from mind-numbing cramps and could have an excuse to eat whatever and however much I want. Also, I wanted an excuse to buy baby clothes, and God knows my sister's daughters don't need anymore dresses. Auntie spoils them. Unfortunately, pregnancy has not turned out to be all I wished for.
When I actually found out I was pregnant it was the day after Thanksgiving. It was a very unexpected surprise, but I was elated. I cried for about 15 minutes, called my husband to tell him, and then called my sister to confirm that the 3 beers I had drank the night before weren't going to make my baby grow up stupid. This euphoria lasted for about two weeks, and amid a bit of other drama where my doctor thought I might have miscarried (everything turned out to be fine, they just misjudged how far along I was), the symptoms started.
I first thought I might have been pregnant because I was getting dizzy all the time. After it was confirmed, the nausea started. I have to say, both my sisters experienced morning sickness with their pregnancies and I always sympathized, but secretly thought that it wouldn't happen to me or that I could handle it if it did. Uh, no. I called in to work several times and when I did make it in I frequently had to just sit with my head down on my desk. The only food I could tolerate was Ginger Ale and Smuckers Uncrustables. I threw up every morning and then spent the rest of the day with such horrifying nausea that I could barely function.
The worst part? MOST people only experience this crap the first trimester. Three months is definitely long enough of a punishment, but mine goes beyond that. The nausea eventually tapered off around week 15, but I still continued to barf in the sink every morning until my third trimester. That is roughly 6 months of barf. Now that I'm in my 7th month, I puke maybe once a week or so. I can handle it, but when I have to hear stories from my mother and mother-in-law about how they were never sick a day of any pregnancy, I have to control my rage. Seriously, my mother had four kids and my mother-in-law had SEVEN, and neither of them had ANY morning sickness? That's just not fair. If I didn't love them, I would hate them.
Speaking of rage, the pregnancy hormones have basically made me a psycho. I live on a soapbox in my normal every day life, but I usually don't approach strangers with these thoughts. Pregnancy hormones take you to a whole new level where you no longer care about hurting people's feelings, because they are doing something stupid to endanger your child. I've told a stranger that he "parked like an asshat" for almost hitting my car in a parking lot. I've confronted a guy at work who was tailgating me on the freeway at 80 mph and told him to "stop driving like a piece of crap". I recited California law to some girls who were smoking in front of a restaurant and called them out for being rude, stinky, jerks. It's been kind of liberating, but honestly feeling angry all the time is mentally exhausting. I miss being passive and quietly cynical.
The other aspects of pregnancy that I've experienced have been equally pleasant. You don't think anything could be worse than throwing up every single day until you pee your pants while you do it. Seriously. I am not someone who has a great history of bladder control (stories for another time), so it just seems cruel that pregnancy would naturally lower my ability even further. I've peed my pants because of puking, laughing, sneezing, and bending, and I totally almost crapped my pants in the car on the way home one time because the baby was doing a dance on my intestines. It is so NOT RIGHT.
You also fart a lot more, and at unexpected times. I sneezed at work and it totally made me fart at the same time, and I was hardly even embarrassed by it because I was so tired. Because babies make you tired. Even though you could just be sitting there, doing nothing, you're growing a frickin' person inside of you and it is exhausting. Oh, and the eating whatever I want? No. Not quite. When everything, including water, gives you heartburn and gut rot, there really is no pleasure in eating, and chances are it will just make you smelly and cranky. Why my husband still wants to sleep with me is a mystery at this point.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am fully appreciative of the miracle of life going on inside my body, and feeling the baby move is pretty much the coolest (and weirdest) thing I've ever experienced... until she punches me in the bladder and makes me pee on my couch. But I just feel really betrayed by how many people I know who have been pregnant and didn't make stronger attempts at conveying the difficulty of the whole process.
I'm not even a mom yet and I'm mentally exhausted. When I'm not being kept awake by back pain and "practice contractions", I'm worrying about whether my baby is going to be born disfigured or with a shitty attitude. The idea of the birth itself absolutely terrifies me, too. As if pushing a human being the size of a watermelon out your vagina isn't already a horrifying thought, you also have the delightful possibility of pooping on the delivery table in front of a room full of people, and developing hemmorhoids the size of golf balls. The pain involved is the least of my worries, strangely enough.
Point being that this is no cake walk. More complaints to come later. I still have two months left, after all.
Ah, young love
I was friends with this kid in 6th grade who was a "skater", a rollerblader to be exact (a distinction that would later become vital to social standing). He was cute and funny, shorter than me and a little crude, which is probably why I was so drawn to him. I considered myself a good kid, I never got detention or turned my homework in late or anything like that. So hanging out with this short, quirky boy was fun, especially when I was able to shock him by cursing or by trying rollerblading tricks. We were really good friends and hung out and talked on the phone almost every day after school and during the summer. One day he asked me a supposedly hypothetical question that would turn out to be one of the first of what I considered romantic sentiments in my life.
"So, what would you do if you really liked a girl and she was really awesome to hang out with, but she was pretty much a total dog? And what if all your friends said it didn't matter and that you should just go for it but that you just couldn't get over how much of a dog she was?"
I was no fool. I knew that he didn't hang out with any other girls as much as he hung out with me, so I was pretty certain that he was talking about me. I had harbored a crush on him for the entire school year, so I pushed aside my emotions and tried to ignore how stung I was that he thought I was ugly.
"Well," I said, "I would go for it. If you get along with someone it shouldn't matter if they're a dog or not. For example, I like you a lot, even though you're so short."
Ok, so perhaps I didn't manage to push aside ALL my emotions.
I don't remember exactly how he responded, but we kept being friends and he never asked me out so I imagine he wasn't flattered at my pointing out his height deficiency. However, the point of this memory is that I was actually flattered that a good looking boy was considering asking me out even though he thought I was ugly. It didn't occur to me to be angry or hurt, I just accepted his appraisal of me and that was that.
Yes, he may have called me ugly directly to my face, but it seemed like such a nice thing at the time that a 12 year old boy would consider dating someone who wasn't pretty. At that time in life (and ever after, I would come to find out) boys just went for the cutest girls with the prettiest hair or the biggest boobs and "dated" for a week before breaking up and finding a new crush. So to my line of thinking, it was touching that he was actually attracted to my personality.
Yes, he may have called me ugly directly to my face, but it seemed like such a nice thing at the time that a 12 year old boy would consider dating someone who wasn't pretty. At that time in life (and ever after, I would come to find out) boys just went for the cutest girls with the prettiest hair or the biggest boobs and "dated" for a week before breaking up and finding a new crush. So to my line of thinking, it was touching that he was actually attracted to my personality.
And, for the sake of posterity, I wasn't even really a dog, I just had glasses that were too big for my face and I didn't understand how to dress to accommodate my changing body. This was proved to me when, later that year, I got contact lenses and started wearing tighter shirts and got asked out by three boys in one week, two of whom later got into a fist fight at a roller-rink over who got to hold my hand in the couples' skate.
Is it any wonder that we are all so screwed up regarding relationships and self-esteem?
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