So ever since American Idol came around I have had people ask me the same general question when they find out I sing: "Oh, really? Have you ever thought about audition for American Idol or something?" And the answer is always "No, not really." There are a few reasons for this. One is that I don't appreciate that most of the talent shows on television purposely put people who are not talented on and exploit them for entertainment's sake. It's both cruel and a waste of time for anyone truly talented who went to the audition and got turned down. The other reason is that, while I know that I'm a good singer and that people (generally) enjoy my voice, I am not Christina Aguilera. I'm not a pop singer. I can't sing Mariah Carey notes without tapping into some serious operatic vibrato. I have a pleasant voice and I am a good musician, but I don't really know if anyone would buy a record of me singing. But then along came The Voice, a tv show that didn't put on terrible singers and embarrass the crap out of them.
A friend of mine had a friend who was a casting agent for the first season of this show, and I was all prepared to audition for it... and then I found out I was pregnant. So not only would I have not been allowed to compete, my stupid morning sickness wasn't really conducive to auditioning for anything (I actually missed two other really big auditions that fall because of my damn morning sickness). Ever since that first season, my good friend has been harassing me to audition for it. This year was the first time I really considered it. Eric and I talked about it and ultimately we figured that it was something I needed to at least try before dismissing it. So I did. I flew down to Los Angeles and auditioned. It went a little something like this:
First of all, can I just say that fat people get the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, but none so much as when they have to fly on an airplane. I'm not so huge that I have to buy myself two seats or anything, but I know I'm a hefty lady. I know that people are about as eager to sit next to me on a plane as they are to sit in front of a screaming, kicking toddler. But these fears are unfounded, people! I almost always cross my arms or am reading a book on top of my tray so the arm rests are all yours. I am terribly polite and would NEVER make you feel bad about getting up to use the bathroom. I never recline my seat because those extra two inches are a joke. And I don't smell. At least not usually. So if you happen to be sitting in the aisle seat of a very crowded plane and a very polite albeit fat person asks if they could sit in the middle seat next to you, do not scoff and be a rude bitch about it, otherwise you MIGHT find that the Chanel handbag you left in front of your seat gets stepped on. Just sayin'.
I got there a day early so I would have a day to rest and get prepared. And rest. I. did. I spent almost an entire day in my hotel room lying on a giant bed with a bajillion pillows, reading The Hunger Games (I did my best to hold out on this trend, but I caved when I burned through the book I brought halfway through the plane ride down). Then I spent the night with one of my old besties and her girlfriend who is, honestly, pretty damn rad. We probably stayed out a little too late and I had a kink in my neck from plane, but I still went to sleep earlier than I usually do.
The next morning I woke up at 5am. The audition was at 7 and my friend was coming to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to downtown LA. When we got there at 6:10, there were already a few hundred people in line. The way they formatted the auditions was four major cities, three days in each city, two major time slots on each day. I was in the first slot of the second day in the last city. I showed up almost an hour early and there was already that many people in line? Ugh. I knew I had a long day ahead of me. All in all there HAD to have been at least a thousand people that showed up for the first time slot, let alone the second.
I stood in line outside the building for over an hour, inching forward here and there. It was freezing outside and I didn't bring a coat because I'm one of those idiots that assumes southern California is always warm. I was surrounded by people doing their makeup, wearing insane outfits and teenagers with their parents. There were people trying to cut here and there and the stage parents were not having it, which was pretty amusing. There was a girl behind me who was 17 and with both her parents. They seemed friendly enough but very, very confident. By "confident" I mean "arrogant." Their conversation went a little like this:
Dad: Ok baby girl, when you get in there just focus on your singing. You know that your voice brings so much joy to people so just focus on the joy, baby girl, and you'll get it.
Girl: Oh, I KNOW I'm going to get it, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to make it through.
Dad: Just don't make a fool of yourself, otherwise they'll put that clip on TV and make you look like a damn fool.
Mom: Whatever makes her famous.
Yeah. This is the kind of crap I had to listen to for several hours. There was another girl who I wanted to kick directly in the teeth. She was 19 but looked 30, was from San Francisco (which probably accounted for at least half of her annoying factor), had short, bleached blonde spiky hair, and was wearing a tank top, zebra print hoodie with a zebra head on the hood, and a crap load of chains. Seriously. Chain wallet (because apparently it was 1996 at the audition), chain necklaces, leather dog collar with spikes coming out of it, and somehow she made it through the metal detector. And THAT wasn't even what made her so annoying. She kept asking everyone around in a very condescending manner, "What's your genre?" When she asked me I informed her that I didn't have a genre, I sang a lot of different things. She didn't even bother to respond and then ignored me. When I asked her what her genre was she replied, "Oh, I'm singing Madonna." Because apparently Madonna IS her own genre. Crap genre.
The other thing I noticed was that every single person I heard talking about themselves was talking about their previous audition experiences. I think I must have been one of the only people in my general vicinity who hadn't previously auditioned for American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent or The Voice. On one hand I really admire these people for tenaciously pursuing their dream of singing. And on the other hand it's pretty sad that they apparently spend so much of their life trying out for these stupid shows.
Once I actually got to the audition room (around 9:30), they took us in 10 at a time and had is sit in chairs in front of a single judge who I assume was a casting agent. He called people randomly to stand in the center of the room and sing about a minute of the song we prepared. Some of these people sounded awesome, some of them were terrible. Like this one girl who sang a Mariah Carey song that I couldn't even recognize because it was so lacking in melody and, um, pitch. Until the end. Good lord, this girl pulled out two, bonafide dog-whistle level notes and she was so proud of herself. I was trying really hard not to crack up. When it was my turn, I got up, said where I was from and went into my song. I had been really worried about what I would sing because sometimes your song choice can make or break your audition, regardless of how well you sing it. I ultimately went with "Make You Feel My Love" in the style of Adele. I probably shouldn't have picked an artist who just got a shitload of grammies because I'm sure they heard a million of her songs all weekend, but I wanted to sing something that I emotionally connected with and that made me happy. I sang this song at the wedding of my best friend who was urging me to audition, so I felt like it was appropriate. I did pretty well although at one point I spaced out and started singing in kind of a different key, and if I hadn't been the seasoned pro that I am *cough* I would have stopped and asked to start again. I kind of figured I blew it and sat down feeling angry at myself.
The 17 year-old girl who had been behind me in line with her parents was in my group, and she sang right before me. She chose "At Last", which I kind of rolled my eyes at because it's so overdone by people who try to sound older than they are. She sounded okay, but she kept changing keys, and not intentionally. However, after everyone had finished their songs, the judge asked her to come back up and sing a second song. She chose, "Listen" from Dream Girls in the style of Beyonce. It. Was. Bad. She was basically shouting and doing vocals runs that she had no business trying to do. The tone of her voice was nice but that's about all I can say. There were at least three people in our group who sounded 10 times better than she did, but lo and behold, they asked her to stay behind for a callback. That's when I started feeling really heated and I wanted to lash out and say that they only picked her because she was cute and young and it makes for good TV. And that's probably true, but I was not about to be one of the people in the lobby crying because they didn't make it. Seriously, there were people sobbing and saying things like, "They didn't hear me at my best, I have a sore throat! This isn't faaaaaaaair!" And I had to laugh.
It's true, that girl probably was chosen for television purposes rather than musical merit, but I wasn't the only person that got snubbed in that audition. I know for a fact that I am a good singer, I know even better singers than me who have been turned down for TV competitions. I didn't leave feeling defeated because I had approximately 45 Facebook comments from people wishing me good luck and sending me votes of confidence on my ability. I have performed too many times and heard too many good things to let ONE audition make me feel inadequate.
And after all that, I got to spend the rest of the day and night with friends who I hadn't seen in years, drinking during the day and shopping without a child barfing down the front of my shirt. We went to the ocean, we ate Indian food, we played card games and word games and even sang Christmas songs from high school. It was a total nerd's weekend and I had an amazing time, whether I became a TV star or not.
On the plane ride home I sat next to a young Asian guy who looked apprehensive at sitting next to a fat lady... until I offered him some of my licorice. See? There are perks to being polite to the fatties.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
An aversion to all things poopy
Anyone who thinks they had a worse day than I had is wrong. ....Okay, maybe yours was worse if you lost a family member or had to have a foot amputated or something of that nature, but otherwise I win. Or lose, depending on how you look at it.
The last 7 months have been wrought with minor meltdowns on my part. Lack of sleep, frustration with a baby who just don't understand what you're saying (because she's, you know, a baby), dealing with feelings of loneliness in the transition from socializing adult to home-bound hermit. There has been crying, yelling, throwing of things, screaming into pillows, and a general stank attitude on many occasions. Plenty of meltdowns to be had. Yesterday was probably the worst one.
So Clara has been teething which isn't fun, for her or me. She has been generally crabby and inconsolable for the last few days and I am reaching the end of my rope. I always hear from people that "some babies have a harder time with teething than others", and if I ever meet someone whose child wasn't at all phased by teething I will seriously kick them in the shins. And why are baby teeth so painful anyway? They're just these teeny tiny little bone spurs, essentially, and they fall out in 5 to 10 years. What a friggin' waste. Anyway. She was really cranky yesterday and I was frustrated.
Her newest move is the alligator roll. Whenever I try to change her diaper, as soon as I take off the dirty diaper and go to put a new one on, she rolls onto her belly. This is not easy to deal with on a changing table because she almost always nearly falls off. When she has a poop diaper this is particularly problematic because she rolls and the poop gets eeeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyywwwwwwwhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrreeeeeeee. On her, on me, on the changing table, on her clothes, on the new diaper. It's awful and it's one of the most frustrating things I've ever dealt with. I've tried giving her things to hold while I change her diaper but she just holds them and rolls with them so she ends up lying on them. I've tried keeping her attention upward with a mobile, with things on the wall, with singing, nothing works. This scene is simply destined to repeat itself. Yesterday she had two awful poop diapers that this happened with. Two outfits, two changing table covers, two baths, two shirts for me. And that wasn't the end.
Clara was playing in the living room and I thought I smelled poop, so I checked her diaper and it was clean. A few minutes later I look down at my feet (I had been sitting on the couch because sitting on the floor hurts my back after a few minutes), and Clara was sitting in front of a big pile of glop. She held her hand up in pure delight and I saw that she was grasping a huge hunk of something green. I looked down and saw that it was poop. She was holding a chunk of poop. Then I looked at the glop and realized it was poop, too. And none of it was hers. Eventually I surmised that it belonged to one of my cats. He must have gotten sick and had a huge, disgusting accident right in front of me and I didn't even realize it, and now my daughter was playing in it. I scooped her up and put her in the sink and washed off her hand, then put her in her crib so I could clean up the mess without her getting into it again. Only since she was so cranky, as soon as I walked out of the room she just sat up in her crib sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs. I cleaned the poop mess up the best I could, gagging the whole time, and brought her out into her hair chair, hoping that she would be happier if she could see me.
At this point I wanted to vacuum the rest of the floor because I had discovered a second pile of poop. Our carpet is shaggy and brown so things that I don't want to step have a tendency to just blend in. I wanted to vacuum and make sure there were no other surprises.
As I put Clara in her high chair, I saw a very large gathering of ants underneath it. Great. I strapped her in, grabbed the Swiffer Wet Jet and got started on killing and cleaning up the piles of ants. Unfortunately, some of Clara's toys that were on the floor had ants on them (curse me and my laziness for not picking them up the night before!), so I brushed them off and gave them to her to play with while I kept cleaning. When I was done with the floor I looked at her and saw that her whole food tray was covered in ants, and there were a bunch crawling on her, too.
Are you sympathizing with me yet? No? Then get out.
I stripped her down, cleaned her off, cleaned the chair off, all with her shrieking and screaming and being generally upset with me, and I decided I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to call the husband.
Eric knows how stubborn I am and he knows that I only ask for help about 3 seconds before I am about to literally fall into a heap on the floor, so he came straight home and took over for me while I lay on the bed crying. He walked up and down the hall with Clara, looking at photos and talking quietly, changed her next diaper and got her dressed to go to her grandpa's house, and he even offered to let me have some beers with dinner, which is a VERY generous offer in our household. So I guess that I can take comfort in the fact that my day at least ended in a nice note, even though most of it was shitty. Pun intended.
The last 7 months have been wrought with minor meltdowns on my part. Lack of sleep, frustration with a baby who just don't understand what you're saying (because she's, you know, a baby), dealing with feelings of loneliness in the transition from socializing adult to home-bound hermit. There has been crying, yelling, throwing of things, screaming into pillows, and a general stank attitude on many occasions. Plenty of meltdowns to be had. Yesterday was probably the worst one.
So Clara has been teething which isn't fun, for her or me. She has been generally crabby and inconsolable for the last few days and I am reaching the end of my rope. I always hear from people that "some babies have a harder time with teething than others", and if I ever meet someone whose child wasn't at all phased by teething I will seriously kick them in the shins. And why are baby teeth so painful anyway? They're just these teeny tiny little bone spurs, essentially, and they fall out in 5 to 10 years. What a friggin' waste. Anyway. She was really cranky yesterday and I was frustrated.
Her newest move is the alligator roll. Whenever I try to change her diaper, as soon as I take off the dirty diaper and go to put a new one on, she rolls onto her belly. This is not easy to deal with on a changing table because she almost always nearly falls off. When she has a poop diaper this is particularly problematic because she rolls and the poop gets eeeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyywwwwwwwhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrreeeeeeee. On her, on me, on the changing table, on her clothes, on the new diaper. It's awful and it's one of the most frustrating things I've ever dealt with. I've tried giving her things to hold while I change her diaper but she just holds them and rolls with them so she ends up lying on them. I've tried keeping her attention upward with a mobile, with things on the wall, with singing, nothing works. This scene is simply destined to repeat itself. Yesterday she had two awful poop diapers that this happened with. Two outfits, two changing table covers, two baths, two shirts for me. And that wasn't the end.
Clara was playing in the living room and I thought I smelled poop, so I checked her diaper and it was clean. A few minutes later I look down at my feet (I had been sitting on the couch because sitting on the floor hurts my back after a few minutes), and Clara was sitting in front of a big pile of glop. She held her hand up in pure delight and I saw that she was grasping a huge hunk of something green. I looked down and saw that it was poop. She was holding a chunk of poop. Then I looked at the glop and realized it was poop, too. And none of it was hers. Eventually I surmised that it belonged to one of my cats. He must have gotten sick and had a huge, disgusting accident right in front of me and I didn't even realize it, and now my daughter was playing in it. I scooped her up and put her in the sink and washed off her hand, then put her in her crib so I could clean up the mess without her getting into it again. Only since she was so cranky, as soon as I walked out of the room she just sat up in her crib sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs. I cleaned the poop mess up the best I could, gagging the whole time, and brought her out into her hair chair, hoping that she would be happier if she could see me.
At this point I wanted to vacuum the rest of the floor because I had discovered a second pile of poop. Our carpet is shaggy and brown so things that I don't want to step have a tendency to just blend in. I wanted to vacuum and make sure there were no other surprises.
As I put Clara in her high chair, I saw a very large gathering of ants underneath it. Great. I strapped her in, grabbed the Swiffer Wet Jet and got started on killing and cleaning up the piles of ants. Unfortunately, some of Clara's toys that were on the floor had ants on them (curse me and my laziness for not picking them up the night before!), so I brushed them off and gave them to her to play with while I kept cleaning. When I was done with the floor I looked at her and saw that her whole food tray was covered in ants, and there were a bunch crawling on her, too.
Are you sympathizing with me yet? No? Then get out.
I stripped her down, cleaned her off, cleaned the chair off, all with her shrieking and screaming and being generally upset with me, and I decided I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to call the husband.
Eric knows how stubborn I am and he knows that I only ask for help about 3 seconds before I am about to literally fall into a heap on the floor, so he came straight home and took over for me while I lay on the bed crying. He walked up and down the hall with Clara, looking at photos and talking quietly, changed her next diaper and got her dressed to go to her grandpa's house, and he even offered to let me have some beers with dinner, which is a VERY generous offer in our household. So I guess that I can take comfort in the fact that my day at least ended in a nice note, even though most of it was shitty. Pun intended.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A lesson in love
So today is Valentine's Day. Or, as my husband and I call it (because we purposely mispronounce words all the time.... I hope my daughter doesn't grow up stupid), Balentime's day. There seem to be two camps on this day every year since I can remember: for or against. Love is great or love stinks. Happy couples or bitter single people who feel like the world is out to get them for being single. I have always kind of been in the middle. I think love is wonderful, but I also know how shitty it feels to be single, not wanting to be, and having to see everyone around you going on dates and getting chocolates and whatever just because it's February 14th. Personally, I've never really understood what the big deal is either way.
I mean sure, my junior high boyfriend and I proclaimed our "anniversary" to be on Valentine's day, and if I happened to have a boyfriend at that time later in life it was always nice to get a card or a present or something. But otherwise I don't get it. Why is it so important on this ONE day of the year to feel like your significant other loves you? What about all the other days? I don't think forced frivolities or guilt-ridden gifting is especially meaningful. But I also don't understand why people feel like they need to crawl into a hole and die just because they're single.
A friend of mine always tells me how lucky I am to be married. And she's right, I am lucky, but not for the reason she thinks. She said I'm lucky to be married because I can stop looking for the right guy and that I always have someone there for me. That's true. She also mentioned how it must be nice to never have to worry about someone asking me out for a date or getting me a birthday gift or a Christmas gift and that I'll always have something special for Valentine's day. Uh.... well... in theory.
Let me preface this by saying that my husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. He works his ass off to provide for our family. He always listens to my bitching, and when I'm feeling depressed he lets me cry on his chest until I calm down, and he never judges me for it. He tells me every single day that I'm beautiful (even though I'm like 75 pounds heavier than when we started dating and usually only get to shower two or three times a week since Clara was born) and how much he appreciates me. He is a great husband. But he doesn't give a shit about holidays. And that's ok, because I love them enough for the both of us. However, I've never gotten a birthday, Christmas, anniversary or Valentine's gift in the nearly 5 years we've been together. He has financially supported me through pretty much that entire time, and he's always generous in every day life (with me AND my family... pretty much everything I've ever asked for he's gotten me at some point), so a present on a holiday doesn't really mean anything to me, so it's no big deal. But my point is that marriage doesn't automatically make Valentine's day more magical.
The myth:
A husband will send his wife a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He will have picked out some lavish gift, probably jewelry, and planned an elaborate scheme for her to discover it, like having it tied to the dog's collar and having the dog deliver it to her feet. He will take her out for an expensive and romantic dinner where they will hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes and, after sharing a dessert sprinkled with edible gold dust, go home and have crazy passionate sex featuring a special lingerie number the wife picked out, because that's her gift to her husband.
My truth:
A wife will spend the day taking care of a sick baby who not once, not twice, but three times had poop diapers that leaked into the wife's lap. Her husband comes home bearing a box of Girl Scout cookies he bought from the daughter of a guy he works with. Thin Mint, of course. He kisses the wife on the cheek and then takes over baby duties from the wife. She then cooks a half-assed dinner of steak and zucchini, does a half-assed cleaning job and starts a half-assed load of laundry. The couple then argues about who will change the latest poopy diaper. The wife wins. The husband goes to bed. The wife stays up with the baby until the baby falls asleep. Then she watches "Dance Moms" while eating Thin Mints and drinking coconut milk, trying to figure out what the big deal is about this holiday.
I think a friend of mine really put it best:
"
I mean sure, my junior high boyfriend and I proclaimed our "anniversary" to be on Valentine's day, and if I happened to have a boyfriend at that time later in life it was always nice to get a card or a present or something. But otherwise I don't get it. Why is it so important on this ONE day of the year to feel like your significant other loves you? What about all the other days? I don't think forced frivolities or guilt-ridden gifting is especially meaningful. But I also don't understand why people feel like they need to crawl into a hole and die just because they're single.
A friend of mine always tells me how lucky I am to be married. And she's right, I am lucky, but not for the reason she thinks. She said I'm lucky to be married because I can stop looking for the right guy and that I always have someone there for me. That's true. She also mentioned how it must be nice to never have to worry about someone asking me out for a date or getting me a birthday gift or a Christmas gift and that I'll always have something special for Valentine's day. Uh.... well... in theory.
Let me preface this by saying that my husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. He works his ass off to provide for our family. He always listens to my bitching, and when I'm feeling depressed he lets me cry on his chest until I calm down, and he never judges me for it. He tells me every single day that I'm beautiful (even though I'm like 75 pounds heavier than when we started dating and usually only get to shower two or three times a week since Clara was born) and how much he appreciates me. He is a great husband. But he doesn't give a shit about holidays. And that's ok, because I love them enough for the both of us. However, I've never gotten a birthday, Christmas, anniversary or Valentine's gift in the nearly 5 years we've been together. He has financially supported me through pretty much that entire time, and he's always generous in every day life (with me AND my family... pretty much everything I've ever asked for he's gotten me at some point), so a present on a holiday doesn't really mean anything to me, so it's no big deal. But my point is that marriage doesn't automatically make Valentine's day more magical.
The myth:
A husband will send his wife a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He will have picked out some lavish gift, probably jewelry, and planned an elaborate scheme for her to discover it, like having it tied to the dog's collar and having the dog deliver it to her feet. He will take her out for an expensive and romantic dinner where they will hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes and, after sharing a dessert sprinkled with edible gold dust, go home and have crazy passionate sex featuring a special lingerie number the wife picked out, because that's her gift to her husband.
My truth:
A wife will spend the day taking care of a sick baby who not once, not twice, but three times had poop diapers that leaked into the wife's lap. Her husband comes home bearing a box of Girl Scout cookies he bought from the daughter of a guy he works with. Thin Mint, of course. He kisses the wife on the cheek and then takes over baby duties from the wife. She then cooks a half-assed dinner of steak and zucchini, does a half-assed cleaning job and starts a half-assed load of laundry. The couple then argues about who will change the latest poopy diaper. The wife wins. The husband goes to bed. The wife stays up with the baby until the baby falls asleep. Then she watches "Dance Moms" while eating Thin Mints and drinking coconut milk, trying to figure out what the big deal is about this holiday.
I think a friend of mine really put it best:
"
Monday, January 30, 2012
Cave man food and vengeful bats
So I have taken a rather long hiatus from blogging. Unintentional. My sweet little girl has turned into a baby who sleeps like a dream most nights but does not nap at all during the day. She also has reverted back to newborn neediness regarding being held. So basically I have no free time. Add that to the fact that I am performing in an opera that has been in production since September, and I don't have a lot of energy to blog, let alone come up with something witty to say. Here's a break down of the last, mm, 3 months.
Clara had her first plane ride. We went to Minnesota to visit my sister and her family. My mom came with, which is the only reason I even considered taking a baby on a plane. Clara did great. Aside from the first 10 minutes on the plane to Minnesota, she didn't cry at all. It made me feel very smug to be able to glare at all the assholes who saw my adorable child and thought, "Oh, great. Another damn baby that's going to ruin my flight." Also, to the TINY woman who found it necessary to recline her seat into my mom's lap for a super luxurious 2 inches of extra room... you are a terrible person. I hope you get an incurable case of athlete's foot.
Also, in Minnesota I got to meet my sister's two youngest sons and see her two oldest for the first time in about 4 years. They are hilarious and frighteningly energetic. My favorite quote of the trip was from my 3 year-old nephew, Drew, who tried sparkling cider for the first time: "Thith tickleth meeee!" (he has a little lisp at the moment)
I am singing one of the lead roles, Rosalinda, in the opera Die Fledermaus. It's a really funny opera, and it's the biggest role I've ever had. I'm probably not as nervous as I should be, but considering that last year I had pregnancy brain and couldn't remember any of my music AND was trying not to barf from "morning" sickness right before I went on stage, this year has been much more pleasant. The awkward part is that I have to kiss two different guys, and I'm pretty sure both of them feel really, really uncomfortable with it. It's not that big a deal, it's just stage kissing, but I can't help but feel bad that they don't get to kiss a hotter girl. Although my chin acne and ever-growing nose hair is quite seductive, I'm sure.
Recently I've started following the Paleo diet. Basically, you don't eat any grains or processed foods, particularly anything with refined sugar in it. I've cheated here and there, but in the first week I lost 9 pounds and as of right now I'm down 11 pounds. It's a lot easier than I expected it to be, you just have to be prepared to cook more (at least I do). It's also really interesting to see how your body reacts when you DO eat crap again. I had cake and ice cream at my in-laws last night, and after a few minutes I had a really intense headache. Tomorrow I will be getting back on track with my favorite smoothie recipe. Mmmm, strawberry-coconut-date smoothie.
I am officially a stay-at-home mom. While describing what it's like to a friend, I decided this is the best way to put it: It's awesome because I get to wear pajamas all day and never have to leave the house. It kind of sucks because I sometimes have to wear pajamas all day and never get to leave the house. Still way better than processing health insurance claims, a job that I was teeeeeerrible at.
My child is growing like a weed. She's basically the size of a 1 year-old, which strangers never fail to point out to me. "How old is she? 5 months?! My GAWD, she's HUGE!!!" Thanks, asshole. I couldn't have figured that out from my chiropractor bills.
I have been avidly following Project Runway: All Stars, and I have to say that I am really, really excited to see who wins. I'm pulling for Rami or Michael, although I love Mondo, too. Austin is great but his clothes are a little too flouncy for me.
That's all for now. I will blog again when I find something interesting....or not.... to share. Hope all is well out there on the interwebs.
Clara had her first plane ride. We went to Minnesota to visit my sister and her family. My mom came with, which is the only reason I even considered taking a baby on a plane. Clara did great. Aside from the first 10 minutes on the plane to Minnesota, she didn't cry at all. It made me feel very smug to be able to glare at all the assholes who saw my adorable child and thought, "Oh, great. Another damn baby that's going to ruin my flight." Also, to the TINY woman who found it necessary to recline her seat into my mom's lap for a super luxurious 2 inches of extra room... you are a terrible person. I hope you get an incurable case of athlete's foot.
Also, in Minnesota I got to meet my sister's two youngest sons and see her two oldest for the first time in about 4 years. They are hilarious and frighteningly energetic. My favorite quote of the trip was from my 3 year-old nephew, Drew, who tried sparkling cider for the first time: "Thith tickleth meeee!" (he has a little lisp at the moment)
I am singing one of the lead roles, Rosalinda, in the opera Die Fledermaus. It's a really funny opera, and it's the biggest role I've ever had. I'm probably not as nervous as I should be, but considering that last year I had pregnancy brain and couldn't remember any of my music AND was trying not to barf from "morning" sickness right before I went on stage, this year has been much more pleasant. The awkward part is that I have to kiss two different guys, and I'm pretty sure both of them feel really, really uncomfortable with it. It's not that big a deal, it's just stage kissing, but I can't help but feel bad that they don't get to kiss a hotter girl. Although my chin acne and ever-growing nose hair is quite seductive, I'm sure.
Recently I've started following the Paleo diet. Basically, you don't eat any grains or processed foods, particularly anything with refined sugar in it. I've cheated here and there, but in the first week I lost 9 pounds and as of right now I'm down 11 pounds. It's a lot easier than I expected it to be, you just have to be prepared to cook more (at least I do). It's also really interesting to see how your body reacts when you DO eat crap again. I had cake and ice cream at my in-laws last night, and after a few minutes I had a really intense headache. Tomorrow I will be getting back on track with my favorite smoothie recipe. Mmmm, strawberry-coconut-date smoothie.
I am officially a stay-at-home mom. While describing what it's like to a friend, I decided this is the best way to put it: It's awesome because I get to wear pajamas all day and never have to leave the house. It kind of sucks because I sometimes have to wear pajamas all day and never get to leave the house. Still way better than processing health insurance claims, a job that I was teeeeeerrible at.
My child is growing like a weed. She's basically the size of a 1 year-old, which strangers never fail to point out to me. "How old is she? 5 months?! My GAWD, she's HUGE!!!" Thanks, asshole. I couldn't have figured that out from my chiropractor bills.
I have been avidly following Project Runway: All Stars, and I have to say that I am really, really excited to see who wins. I'm pulling for Rami or Michael, although I love Mondo, too. Austin is great but his clothes are a little too flouncy for me.
That's all for now. I will blog again when I find something interesting....or not.... to share. Hope all is well out there on the interwebs.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Scrooge McGrump.
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.
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.
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.
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
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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