August 30, 2005

August 30, 2005

NICU nurses are some of the most astounding people I will ever meet on
God’s green earth.  Maybe it’s because I grew up around
conservative left-wing fanatical’s, who generally  have a vaguely
suspicious attitude toward the rest of the world. Whatever the case, I
leave the NICU every night pretty much astonished with how nice people
can be.   It’s like Barbie meets Ronald Reagan, with a healthy
dose of Andy Griffith, but as comforting as your favorite
Grandmother.   I sheepishly admit I can get along with
anybody, but underneath it all I can be harshly critical. 
However, even the worst nurses are nicer and more competent
than…well  me ( not that I’m either of
those)..  Still, I find it somewhat frustrating, that just when I
get used to having one nurse, twelve hours later I get a new
one.   With one hundred and seventy five nurses, rotating
between sixty babies,  it’s rather improbable you’ll get the same
nurse for more than a couple times (if you’re lucky).   On the
bright side,  every single nurse has their own opinions about a
variety of things (burping, nursing, bottle feeding) it’s like a crash
course in parenting every twelve hours, so I’m not complaining.
By the time we take Jamie home, we should be experts (ha, ha)
A few the more memorable ones.
Rachel:   Cutest, most beautiful nurse you’ll ever meet.
Except for the missing white dress and hat, she was the stereotypical
nurse you’d picture in a Norman Rockwell painting.  Helpful, funny
and humble, I sincerely hope she wins some sort of medal.
Dahli:  Probably my least favorite nurse, but definitely one of
the wisest.   She was an ancient little Chinese lady, with
more tricks up her sleeve than….(I’m not sure what).   The
other nurses joked about how she’d been in the NICU for thousands of
years.  She rules the place in her own sort of way.  Even the
Dr.’s run terrified from her.   I don’t know if she didn’t
speak much English,  or if she just enjoyed repeating,  “You
no do right….you amateur mother”. all the time.   After
about two hours of nearly putting me in tears,  I discovered her
bite really wasn’t as bad as her bark. 
Paula:  Stands above the crowd for having no
personality.   Sometimes I had the evil desire to pinch her
and see if she was real, or just a realistic looking
droid.    I still have a sneaking suspicion she’s not
quite human, some how she was vaguely like Data from
StarTrek.   She did absolutely everything perfectly,
she was perfectly nice, perfectly competent, so I don’t have anything
to complain about,  it was just a little eerie.
Mark:   I never would have guessed that the gay, male nurse
from New Zealand would be more helpful than the lactation specialist
when it came to breastfeeding.    Oh well for
stereotypes.    He’s also the most intelligent nurse
I’ve had
yet, and if not the most intelligent, he was definitely the most
interesting conversationalist.   While most nurses discreetly
stand in the background keeping an attentive eye on your baby and
monitor,  Mark pulls up a chair and carries on a lively
conversation about any number of cool and fascinating
things.   It was a nice change.
Well I’m off to the NICU again.  I apologize for the lack of
diversity in blog entries.  When my life ceases to consist
entirely of eating, sleeping, or living in the NICU,  I’m sure
I’ll include fascinating things like, what diaper brand I like best, or
whether or not Carter’s or OshKosh makes the best baby
clothes.  
Until then…

August 19, 2005

August 19, 2005

was going to write a “real” entry but find I’m a little more exhausted
than I previously thought.  So many apologies, but I’m just going
to copy the update I just wrote.>
Jamie’s doing well all things considering. I’ve learned that there is
no such thing as normal in the NICU. It’s a progression of events…two
steps forward and one step back. Last weekend he was transferred to a
level 3 NICU due to GI tract “issues”. He couldn’t keep anything down,
gain any weight, or poop. Anyway, that was resolved (after a few
terrifying days) and the latest “crisis” is his blood sugar. Apparently
it’s normal for IUGR babies (Intrauterine Growth Restriction) to have
problems with their blood sugar dropping dangerously low, but it
normally resolves itself in a few days. Jamie’s however was
continuously dropping, resulting in a constant glucose IV. They sent
out blood tests to the lab to see if he has a hormone problem of some
kind. The results haven’t come back yet, but when the neo-natalogist
found out high metabolism’s run in the family, he felt that was most
likely the cause, so they upped his calorie intake by fortifying my
breast milk, and have slowly weaned him of the IV. yay!
To come home Jamie needs to be able to do four things consistently.
One, he has to breathe on his own (which he does well, he’s never had
any problems with his lungs). Two, maintain his body temperature
without the help of an isolette (they just moved him to an open crib
today, so we’ll see how he does with that). Three, he has to
consistently gain weight (which he is doing…finally) Four, he has to
get rid of his feeding tube, and be able to either nurse, or take a
bottle. (this is proving to be rather difficult, but we’re working on
it). He also has to avoid any more “episodes” as his nurse calls them.
That includes his blood sugar remaining stable, and any other
unexpected “issues” that may surprise us. All in all we’re quite
grateful he’s doing so well. Jim and I were holding him the other night
and marveling at how tiny he is, and his nurse
reprimanded us, telling us to look around the NICU and see that Jamie
is not “tiny”
he’s just “petite”. He’s surrounded by babies who are only barely a
pound and can’t breathe on their own, while he’s a whopping three
pounds and his lungs are perfectly fine.
Jim and I are doing fine. I don’t know where I got this head cold, but
it sure came at the worst time. You can pray I get better soon, as I’m
not sure how much longer I can stand not seeing Jamie. His daddy’s with
him now, and Jim promised me he’d say hello, so I guess I’ll have to
console myself with that.
Hope this didn’t bore you all…

August 19, 2005

August 19, 2005

August 11, 2005

August 11, 2005

I finally got Elizabeth’s laptop to connect to the wireless from my new room.  I contemplated sneaking back into my old room just to borrow the Internet, but I doubted how understanding the new occupants would be.

Jamie is here,  he arrived at 8:43 PDT.  He weighed 3 lbs. .4 oz (why the .4 is important I don’t know).   He was whisked directly to the NICU, which was fine with me.  He’s healthy and that was the truly important news. 

I have lots of questions, ramblings, and descriptions (which I’m sure most people will find disgusting), but I’ll save those for a later date.  Between the drugs and faulty wireless connection I’m completely incoherent.  I’ve had to stop writing this small update several times just cause I can’t for the life of me remember what I was going to say next, then before you can respond with the obvious, “How is that different from normal?” … I’m sound asleep.

Off to take more drugs…

An Update

Jamie's doing well all things considering. I've learned that there is
no such thing as normal in the NICU. It's a progression of events...two
steps forward and one step back. Last weekend he was transferred to a
level 3 NICU due to GI tract "issues". He couldn't keep anything down,
gain any weight, or poop. Anyway, that was resolved (after a few
terrifying days) and the latest "crisis" is his blood sugar. Apparently
it's normal for IUGR babies (Intrauterine Growth Restriction) to have
problems with their blood sugar dropping dangerously low, but it
normally resolves itself in a few days. Jamie's however was
continuously dropping, resulting in a constant glucose IV. They sent
out blood tests to the lab to see if he has a hormone problem of some
kind. The results haven't come back yet, but when the neo-natalogist
found out high metabolism's run in the family, he felt that was most
likely the cause, so they upped his calorie intake by fortifying my
breast milk, and have slowly weaned him of the IV. yay!
To come home Jamie needs to be able to do four things consistently.
One, he has to breathe on his own (which he does well, he's never had
any problems with his lungs). Two, maintain his body temperature
without the help of an isolette (they just moved him to an open crib
today, so we'll see how he does with that). Three, he has to
consistently gain weight (which he is doing...finally) Four, he has to
get rid of his feeding tube, and be able to either nurse, or take a
bottle. (this is proving to be rather difficult, but we're working on
it). He also has to avoid any more "episodes" as his nurse calls them.
That includes his blood sugar remaining stable, and any other
unexpected "issues" that may surprise us. All in all we're quite
grateful he's doing so well. Jim and I were holding him the other night
and marveling at how tiny he is, and his nurse
reprimanded us, telling us to look around the NICU and see that Jamie
is not "tiny"
he's just "petite". He's surrounded by babies who are only barely a
pound and can't breathe on their own, while he's a whopping three
pounds and his lungs are perfectly fine.
Jim and I are doing fine. I don't know where I got this head cold, but
it sure came at the worst time. You can pray I get better soon, as I'm
not sure how much longer I can stand not seeing Jamie. His daddy's with
him now, and Jim promised me he'd say hello, so I guess I'll have to
console myself with that.
Hope this didn't bore you all...

A baby!

I finally got Elizabeth's laptop to connect to the wireless from my new room.  I contemplated sneaking back into my old room just to borrow the Internet, but I doubted how understanding the new occupants would be.

Jamie is here,  he arrived at 8:43 PDT.  He weighed 3 lbs. .4 oz (why the .4 is important I don't know).   He was whisked directly to the NICU, which was fine with me.  He's healthy and that was the truly important news. 

I have lots of questions, ramblings, and descriptions (which I'm sure most people will find disgusting), but I'll save those for a later date.  Between the drugs and faulty wireless connection I'm completely incoherent.  I've had to stop writing this small update several times just cause I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to say next, then before you can respond with the obvious, "How is that different from normal?" ... I'm sound asleep.

Off to take more drugs...

Finally a plan

It's frustrating when the best OB's and Perinatalogist's also happen to
be the busiest.  Why can't they just sit around and answer my
questions, while waiting on me hand and foot.  After all, I am
paying around $40,000 for their services.
So...after much deliberation, confusion, and irritation (at least on my
part) The official news (likely to change at any given moment) is
c-section at 8:00 pm.
Until then....

Unexpected Waiting

Monday, (yesterday) was my first Perinatologist appointment,
and his diagnosis was not what I expected. 
Jamie is not only small, he’s abnormally small, and they can’t figure
out why.   Take that back, they know
it’s caused from a placental failure, but they can’t figure out why his
placenta failed or when exactly it started shutting down.   Whatever the case, they certainly had my
full attention when they started talking about “lack of oxygen” and
“stillborn”.  The specialist gave us two
options, come in for monitoring three times a week, or have a c-section and
deliver him now.   Obviously, the longer
he can stay in me the better, (considering he wasn’t supposed to make his debut
till September) however since his placenta seems to be deteriorating so rapidly
they can’t monitor him often enough to make sure he’s actually getting oxygen
(apparently even fetus’s need oxygen to survive).   Bottom line:  Jim and I
decided to go with the c-section.  

First stop: Amniocentesis to determine whether or not his
lungs were mature.   After everybody
thoroughly freaked me out with horror stories of how awful and painful it is to
have an eight-inch needle stuck in your belly,
I didn’t think it was bad at all.
It hurt less than an I.V. and took about 15 seconds.  It felt exactly like swallowing a long
spaghetti noodle and then pulling it out (or was I the only one who did that as
a kid?)

After that I was admitted into labor and delivery where my
“no-pain” trend was broken by two blown veins and a myriad of holes in my arms
(the result of unsuccessful I.V. attempts).
All pain however was quickly outranked by my impatience.   The results of the Amnio were supposed to
take an hour or two, which slowly turned into three to four hours, which
painfully turned into five almost six hours.
I was convinced the lab building had burned down, or some geeky lab tech
had spilled his Dr. Pepper on my results… The wait was driving me insane.  I would have paced the floor or climbed
walls, but I was chained to my bed via fetal monitors and I.V’s…bleh.   The results finally came back at nine p.m.
last night.   I should have been proud
of my non-comformist son, but instead I was excessively annoyed.    The results were supposed to be “yes” or
“no” but we got “transition” instead.
Jamie’s lungs are operating somewhere in no-mans-land; not immature enough
to give him steroids, and not mature enough to be considered full-term.  The perinatologist had to be consulted
again.  However he was celebrating his
daughter’s birthday and didn’t have his pager on. (stupid doctors, don’t they
know they’re not allowed to have a life?) . 

 So here I am at Grossmont Hospital Labor and Deliver, it’s eight a.m. and nobody will give me
breakfast.   I’m supposed to have a
c-section sometime today, unless Dr Schrimmer (the perinatologist) decides to
wait for another day.  Whatever the
case, I’m stuck here for the duration.
They’re not letting me go home until I have a baby.

 

August 9, 2005 part three

August 9, 2005

It’s frustrating when the best OB’s and Perinatalogist’s also happen to
be the busiest.  Why can’t they just sit around and answer my
questions, while waiting on me hand and foot.  After all, I am
paying around $40,000 for their services.
So…after much deliberation, confusion, and irritation (at least on my
part) The official news (likely to change at any given moment) is
c-section at 8:00 pm.
Until then….

August 9, 2005 part two

August 9, 2005

• Monday, (yesterday) was my first Perinatologist appointment,
  and his diagnosis was not what I expected.  
  Jamie is not only small, he’s abnormally small, and they can’t figure
  out why.   Take that back, they know
  it’s caused from a placental failure, but they can’t figure out why his
  placenta failed or when exactly it started shutting down.   Whatever the case, they certainly had my
  full attention when they started talking about “lack of oxygen” and
  “stillborn”.  The specialist gave us two
  options, come in for monitoring three times a week, or have a c-section and
  deliver him now.   Obviously, the longer
  he can stay in me the better, (considering he wasn’t supposed to make his debut
  till September) however since his placenta seems to be deteriorating so rapidly
  they can’t monitor him often enough to make sure he’s actually getting oxygen
  (apparently even fetus’s need oxygen to survive).   Bottom line:  Jim and I
  decided to go with the c-section.  

  First stop: Amniocentesis to determine whether or not his
  lungs were mature.   After everybody
  thoroughly freaked me out with horror stories of how awful and painful it is to
  have an eight-inch needle stuck in your belly,
  I didn’t think it was bad at all.
  It hurt less than an I.V. and took about 15 seconds.  It felt exactly like swallowing a long
  spaghetti noodle and then pulling it out (or was I the only one who did that as
  a kid?)

  After that I was admitted into labor and delivery where my
  “no-pain” trend was broken by two blown veins and a myriad of holes in my arms
  (the result of unsuccessful I.V. attempts). 
  All pain however was quickly outranked by my impatience.   The results of the Amnio were supposed to
  take an hour or two, which slowly turned into three to four hours, which
  painfully turned into five almost six hours. 
  I was convinced the lab building had burned down, or some geeky lab tech
  had spilled his Dr. Pepper on my results… The wait was driving me insane.  I would have paced the floor or climbed
  walls, but I was chained to my bed via fetal monitors and I.V’s…bleh.   The results finally came back at nine p.m.
  last night.   I should have been proud
  of my non-comformist son, but instead I was excessively annoyed.    The results were supposed to be “yes” or
  “no” but we got “transition” instead.
  Jamie’s lungs are operating somewhere in no-mans-land; not immature enough
  to give him steroids, and not mature enough to be considered full-term.  The perinatologist had to be consulted
  again.  However he was celebrating his
  daughter’s birthday and didn’t have his pager on. (stupid doctors, don’t they
  know they’re not allowed to have a life?) .  
  

   So here I am at Grossmont Hospital Labor and Deliver, it’s eight a.m. and nobody will give me
  breakfast.   I’m supposed to have a
  c-section sometime today, unless Dr Schrimmer (the perinatologist) decides to
  wait for another day.  Whatever the
  case, I’m stuck here for the duration.
  They’re not letting me go home until I have a baby.

  
  

August 9, 2005

August 9, 2005

So, I really do have a wonderful excuse for the long space
between this and the last entry. There is too much to write, so I’ll limit
myself to strict updates, without launching in to the long diatribes about
nothing that I so dearly love to write (or talk, if you’re unfortunate enough
to get stuck on the phone with me)

The main points…

Jim and I went to New Mexico to pick up windows for our
house.  We stayed with Ben and Kirsten
for five days and laid new tile in their entry.  They have no internet, and I was unsuccessful in any attempt to
break into somebody else’s wireless network.
Despite the internet withdrawals, we had a lot of fun. 

My sister Elizabeth decided to launch herself 50 ft off a
motorcycle without a helmet on. 
Although she looked like she lost a fight with a grizzly bear, her worst
injury is a sprained ankle; she also has cool Darth Maul eyes that completely
freak me out every time she glances my way.

My Great Grandmother died (better known to me as Grandmie)
at the ripe old age of 100.  She’d lost
touch with reality (which included recognizing me or anyone else) about nine
months ago, and had been going downhill ever since.  So it was expected, but it still felt like a kick in the solar
plexus.  In my more selfish moments, I
mourn the implications of not going to her house for roast beef, and homemade
applesauce.

Friday I had an ultrasound to check on Jamie and make sure
he was growing ok.   Apparently it’s not
normal to be eight months pregnant, still wearing your normal jeans and not
weighing an ounce more than you did a year ago.   Ultrasound saw hair (I was completely bald so Jamie definitely
gets that from his dad) and a big nose.
At least I thought it looked huge, the technician said it was just the
angle, but she probably says that to every hysterical mother freaking out over
whether Junior looks more like a monkey than a human (note to mothers: newborns
do look like monkeys).    After
the ultrasound showed an unusually small baby, we were whisked around
unceremoniously to a radiologist and then my OB, who promptly referred me to a
Perinatologist (I’m told “Perinatologist” comes from the Latin word pera
which means “danger” or “risk”, but don’t quote me on it)

Jim and I went to the airport to pick up some old guy (me,
being a complete basket case at this point in time).  The “old man” turned out to be my adorable sister-in-law
Lauren,  I was completely surprised and
promptly fell apart again.  She was
supposed to stay until Tuesday morning, but we got her ticket switched to Sat
instead.  We’ve had a ton of fun.

This week starts a whole new chapter, so I’ll start a
new entry. 

July 22, 2005

July 22, 2005

• Ha!  I discovered some info that makes the idea of breastfeeding a
  little more tolerable. No one told me that legally, a woman cannot be
  arrested or harassed for indecent exposure while she’s breastfeeding.
    This made my day.  Heck, I think I’ll breast feed just for
  that, so  I can flash whomever I want, wherever I
  want.   Also, knowing that Josh possesses such strong maternal
  instincts, is very comforting.  Maybe he’ll even come out here,
  slap on one of those rubber breast things they make for gay dads and
  join in the fun.  ( I can always hope).   Lastly, I
  discovered (via google) a rather hilarious mathematical formula for
  determining whether a restaurant is suitable for nursing.  Of
  course I discovered the formula before I learned that I can expose my
  breasts in whatever way I see fit as long as there’s an infant attached
  to it.   No matter, I still might apply the principle on days when
  I’m not feeling particularly rebellious.
    It is copy and pasted as follows:
  
  (C + A)(V + S)
  (M-Q) C = The cost in US dollars of steak frites at the restaurant
  Are we talking about the Olive Garden or Da Silvano? French Laundry or
  Orange Julius? ‘ The principle here is that a restaurant where steak frites
  costs zero dollars (because it has none) is probably not appropriate
  for breastfeeding, though a restaurant charging more than 30 dollars is
  also inappropriate. (It is acceptable, barely, if the dish is not
  identified by its French name.)
  A = The child’s age in months
  The age of the person-thing being breastfed is a concern. Obviously, a
  six-month-old infant may have a more pressing feeding need than an
  18-monther. Here we enter the tricky, judicially-inspired terminology
  of ‘community standards’ – in some communities, a fetus is a person,
  and may require a good suckle. Of course, much like breastfeeding a
  fetus would be grotesque, even more so might be the public suckling of
  a teenager. Age matters.
  V = A ‘hot-or-not’ rating of the breast’s voluptuousness
  Exposed in a room of businessmen clutching starched napkins, a proud
  breast the pale shade of Tilda Swinton’s arms can stop all discussion.
  Men have an untoward devotion to breasts, those quirky Darwinian
  phantasms. How they became so sexualized is a question best left to
  rabid teen feminists; to what extent they are appealing to the ‘average
  man’ is much more important. (We will ban lactation fetishists from our
  sample.) Rate your breast on this scale: 10 points for grotesque or
  surgically-altered in unpleasant fashion; 20 points for ‘eh’ breast, or
  a breast otherwise unappealing due to Debra Messing-esque smallness, or
  other real or imagined semi-deformity; 30 points for happy fun bosoms.
  S = The amount of slurping the child makes during feeding
  Public breastfeeding should be nearly silent. While a diner is happily
  encountering, say, the Savoy’s fantastic octopus appetizer, the
  soundtrack of an encephalopod-like milk-frenzy is not necessarily a
  super addition. Please rate your baby’s teat-adherence similarly to the
  voluptuousness scale: 10 points for ultra-squelchy piggishly loud
  Veruca Salt-type babies; 20 points for ‘some sucking noise’; 30 for
  babies who feed as if they were posing in stained glass with the Virgin
  Mary.
  M = The presence of men between the ages of 15 and 32
  Many think a man becomes more tolerant as he ages. Close – but really,
  as a man ages, he simply becomes more complacent. He cares less, and he
  cares less to rouse himself about what he might actually still care
  about; the old boarhogs of the world are degraded by long association
  with their own kind. In the testosterone years from mid-teen to
  early-30s, however, a man will butt his head against anything simply
  because his horns itch. The greater the number of such men present, the
  more likely you will hear comments about ‘bringing those funbags over
  here, baby.’
  Q = The number of obviously gay waiters
  The presence of a herd (in anthropological parlance, a ‘clutch’) of gay
  waiters means that you, clearly, are in a gay restaurant, and no one
  gives a damn if you breastfeed. Sure they’ll roll their eyes, but yell
  out, ‘Take a picture, ladies,’ and the gays will cackle and go back to
  ‘dishing the dirt,’ as their people say. A complete absence of gay
  waiters, however, means you are in a stuffy sort of place (perhaps the
  Friars Club?), and should proceed with caution. (Or, you’re at a
  lesbian separatist potluck commune meeting place, perhaps, in which
  case we imagine you have bigger issues to worry about.) The number of
  obviously gay waiters will be subtracted from the number of straight
  male diners.
  Again, our formula:
  
  (C + A)(V + S)
  (M-Q) Answer Key
  TOTAL = Any Negative Number: You’re good to go! Feed away!
  TOTAL = Greater than 1 but less than 30: Yo lady! Spare us your unsightly milktubes!
  TOTAL = Greater than 30: Go on, sister woman sister! Rock those puppies out!
  

July 21, 2005

July 21, 2005

I don’t know what it is I’m carrying in my uterus, but it sure as heck
can’t be a baby.   I will be less surprised if it’s some kind
of mutant tumor, than if it’s a real human with all its correct
appendages.  He (Jamie) weighs supposedly around 4 lbs right now,
but I don’t look pregnant enough to have a four pound anything in me,
which means he’s either going to be freakishly small, or I truly do
have some sort of alien in there.   Neither option is very
comforting.  
I’ve had seven months now to adjust to this parent/mom thing, and
frankly it isn’t going too well.  I seem to be cursed with the
juvenile tendency to desire to do the exact opposite of whatever I’m
told.  Moms gush about how in love they are with their babies and
I find it rather annoying and cliche’.   People have horror
stories about hospitals…I want to share horror stories about midwives
(I’m not even contemplating a home birth…ever).    I have
mountains of literature on why it’s best to breast feed, and yet there
is absolutely nothing in me that finds this appealing or desirable in
the least.  (yeah I know, in “mom circles” that’s tantamount to
confessing adultery). For most of my life, breasts were merely annoying
things to be covered and ignored;  now their usage is strictly
sexual, I can’t even fathom a baby sucking on it….it’s almost sacrilegious.
So there it is…I’m already a terrible mother to some alien who hasn’t even been born yet.

July 17, 2005

July 17, 2005

I’m the proud owner of a new cell phone, and although I was only one
month short of qualifying for a replacement Sprint
was kind enough to buy back the pieces of  my old phone for 50
dollars.   Although I’m skeptical of new phone’s alleged
stability,  it is cute,
stylish  (read: not a flip or candy bar phone) and Jim dutifully
and wisely bought insurance on it before I even opened the box, so I
can abuse it to my hearts content.
I monotonously put all the numbers from Jim’s cell phone into mine
(which had only a small fraction of what I lost),  while Jim
worked on consuming the new Harry Potter book at a lightening speed I’d
never before witnessed from him (normally, he prefers to enjoy his
books much the same way he enjoys a cigar or a glass of wine). 



…Jim is still finding young Harry’s adventures highly entertaining
(not deep or insightful, but entertaining nonetheless) so I’ve
regressed to surfing the web for nursery ideas.   I don’t
even have a house, and definitely not a nursery, but the baby shower
invitations are in the mail, which claim I’m registered at Babies R Us,
and although I may not have a nursery now, I’m told I need to decide on
colors and a theme so I can get a bunch of  the pastel garbage at
my party. (I’m not as ungrateful as I sound, I’m just still adjusting
to the whole mom world).  After searching through pages of “crib
bedding sets” on the Babies R Us website,  I almost had a
breakdown.   I was barely coping with the “brown is the new black”
in the fashion world,  and now I have to adjust to the news that
green is the new pink, frogs have replaced the teddy bear and toll
painting on cribs is the new “in” thing.  This solidifies the fact
that Jamie shall be fashion backward like his parents.  He won’t
be wheeled around in a savvy, hip Bugaboo stroller (which costs a mere
$800) nor will he rest his wee head on gingham striped sheets with a
coordinating frog themed quilt, however, we will ostentatiously
plaster our fridge with his picture, and we might even throw in an Aerosmith onesie for style. 
 

July 15, 2005

July 15, 2005

Hindsight is said to be 20/20 and should perhaps inspire you to be more
introspective, unfortunately it is most often just
embarrassing.   Jim decided it would be fun to go through
some stuff in my old room at my parents house.  I would have
stopped him with whatever force necessary had I known his evil plan,
but unfortunately I was sleeping and thus blissfully unaware of the
secrets he set about to uncover.   Later, he rather gleefully (much
too happy with his success) showed me the journals, CD’s and pictures
he uncovered which he had already gone through (much to my
chagrin).   Back when I was thirteen,  I was encouraged
by a mature, righteous, young lady (or so I thought at the time, now I
just make fun of her absurdity…and mine) to resist demeaning my journal
with trivial things like boys or drama, but rather give words of wisdom and
rhema’s from Scripture that would be a source of counsel and wisdom for
my children and grandchildren.   Now, as I endure endless
teasing from my husband, I wish I had just written about boys.
Goodness knows I obsessed about them enough back then whether or not my
journal commemorates that fact.   I considered burning the
silly journals (or something equally vindictive), but they really are
too funny, even if they are just a load overtly religious mumbo jumbo
(of course I thought it was modestly covert at the time ).
Moving on to the pictures Jim found…
    I’m barely eighteen, and new to the hell-hole better known as the
Riverfront Character Inn.   All the guys look funny with
their pleated, too-short pants, and their super short hair, and the
girls in their hideously awkward skirts (not that skirts are
hideous…just the ones we wore).  I can’t resist putting some of
the pictures in my blog even if I was a truly horrid photographer back
then.  I maintain it was largely due to my camera (it was one of
the first consumer digital cameras)  which took the picture about
three seconds after you pushed the button.

The dude looking at the camera is my husband (although I would have
dropped the camera I was holding if you had told me that when I took
this picture).   The girl on his left is Julie, who is still
tiny and cute.  The girl on his right is Liz, who was and is thin, beautiful and tall (we all called
her “Elizabeth” at the time).  It seemed like she spent most of
her life at Verity on those crutches, at least that’s what we teased
her about.   I shall continue the tradition (of teasing) and
wonder in horror what in the world she was thinking when she bought
that outfit.   Those were the good ol’ days, now
I’m told the only thing teasable about her is her elbows. 

The two people who terrified me most during the first half of the first
semester: Josh and Kevin.   Only thing missing is the evil yellow
legal pad Kevin sealed our fates with.

Just too cute.  Naomi and Liz, two girls I hung out with at
Verity.  The one I have nothing in common with is still a good
friend and the other one dropped off the face of the earth. Can you
tell which one is from the west coast and which is from Michigan?

July 13, 2005

July 13, 2005

In Memory Of The Nameless Phone
     My cell-phone and I had never been the best of
friends.  Despite its many bells and whistles, complete with
camera phone, Internet access and Tetris (my personal favorite), it
seemed to hate me from the beginning.   My husband has the exact
same phone and it is in the same pristine condition it was when he first
bought it.   He claims he just takes better care of his
stuff, but I am convinced my phone had a death wish.  Its sole
purpose in life was to commit suicide.   It’s not my fault, but my
husband now knows to always get the warranty for anything  I’m
going to be touching at all.
     I’m sad to say “it” doesn’t/didn’t have a
name.   We never got along well enough for me to refer to it
as anything other than a disgusted “it”.   Over the last nine
months “It” has slowly made it’s hatred of me clear.   First
the side of it cracked (“it” jumped out of my hand with no provocation
on my part) then the screen cracked giving it a “mirror, mirror on the wall…”
sort of appearance.   Eventually the screen died altogether,
and most recently the spring that holds it open decided to become
possessed.   I would be talking quite contentedly when it
would surreptitiously snap shut, sinisterly trying to catch my ear and
quite successfully scaring the crap out of me while convincing the
person on the other line I had hung up on them (I suppose technically I
had, I just had to explain to whomever, it wasn’t me who was upset…it
was “it” again).    Yesterday,  I picked it up to
make a call and I had barely hit “talk” before it snapped shut on my
fingers at which point half of it made a wild dash for the
floor.    Thus ended its short, frustrated life:
Death by decapitation.   Maybe it was actually middle aged,
I’m not really sure what the life expectancy of cell phones are.
Having killed two of them before, I’m afraid I’ve never reached
anything close to normal.
     I stared mournfully at the two halves this morning, not from any
affection for the phone, but with the comprehension that I had at least
fifty numbers on that phone and I only had about three of them
memorized.   I went to call Jim and complain, when I realized
I didn’t even know his number. 
I wandered around the trailer somewhat aimlessly,  wondering if I
had perhaps written it down somewhere….I hadn’t of
course.   So I got rather reckless and decided to just close
my eyes and punch in whatever numbers seemed natural.  I was
hoping my fingers could remember the number even if my brain
couldn’t.   They did, I got it on the second try.
However,  I don’t think that’s going to work again. (the irate
gentleman I got the first time persuaded me not to try)
     Hopefully the knowledge that I now have no phone numbers will inspire
some of you to call me, thus relieving me of the responsibility of
trying to find you.   hint…hint…

July 3, 2005

July 3, 2005

     All righty…in my
defense, I tried.  I really did, but
even my super patient, forgiving self can only take so much Christian crap
before I either spontaneously combust or stand up and start yelling at the
pastor. We’re visiting my childhood church (although now there’s a different
pastor) and right now I’m studiously writing away in my little notebook, which
I conveniently found in my purse.  Me,
who am almost never prepared for anything, actually had something useful when I
needed it. (this coming from the girl who can’t even remember to keep a tampon
in her purse)

    

     I’m getting
impressed looks from the people around me.
I’m sure they’re awed by the exhaustive notes I appear to be taking on
this sermon.  Truth is I couldn’t be
paying less attention. (go ahead, start throwing rotten fruit at me…at least a
self righteous gasp)   I was obediently
attentive for the first forty-five minutes (I swear I must have adult ADD and
forty-five minutes was pushing the limit).
However, when I realized we had only covered the first three points in a
twenty-point sermon, and we were digressing from your typical, boring sermon to
using scare tactics combined with “key” verses from Proverbs to produce some
sort of hysteria about our country’s safety (apparently terrorists are going to
kill us all…and…lets kill all the Muslims) I decided enough was enough.     I’m now humming la la la to myself and
trying to figure out how many skittles I can have…  if I have twelve skittles and church
supposedly gets out in an hour, then I can have one skittle every five minutes.    The distraction is not working, I
accidentally catch a snippet of what the pastor’s saying, “…It saddens me to
tell you that statistically, only 65% of Christians have ever led a person to
accept Christ” Aghh..!!  I’m about
to start mentally arranging the skittles in a pattern based on color ranging
from my least favorite to my favorite, when my husband leans over and whispers
in my ear “Arrogant bastard (meaning the pastor)…statistically speaking,
100% percent of Christians have never led anybody to accept Christ.  Last I heard, Christ did all the leading and
accepting”.  Ahhh…thank God for
Jim.   Knowing this one sermon will
provide at least an hour of entertaining conversation for us, I’m almost convinced
I can survive the experience.

    Up until now,
I’ve managed to combine humor, sarcasm and skittles to keep myself from being
truly bothered by what’s being said, but now church is over, people are
standing up to leave and I’m sitting here holding a little cracker and some
grape juice in my hand, wondering how I missed the most important part of the
service.   I look awkwardly around me
and see everybody else has already partaken of communion, how did I miss the
blessing?  I wonder, when my sister
informs me there is no blessing, no prayer…nothing.   I hastily swallow my grape juice on my way out the door and
humbly pray for God’s forgiveness.

It feels like blasphemy.

June 30, 2005

June 30, 2005

    I’ve realized with dismay that it’s been an entire
week since I last posted on here.   I’m on the verge of never
posting again (“never” probably means something closer to “A very long
time).  I’m also on the verge of a complete funk, which I’m told
by people, (in a very patronizing tone) it’s just me being a hormonal
pregnant woman.  I want to slap them or at least let forth a
string of very un-lady like vocabulary.  Hopefully it would shock
them into silence, but then I really would be a hormonal pregnant woman, so I settle for the most withering, disdainful stare I can muster up and retreat to my trailer.
     I went shopping
with my mom today.  I just needed a few things but Jim wouldn’t
let me go without someone to help me (or spy on me to make sure I don’t
do anything remotely interesting) so Mom volunteered and ended up
shopping
for what seemed like hours while I sat at Starbucks and waited for her
.
Aghh…it’s frustrating, although there were a few funny moments.
My belly is
starting to pop out a little bit and even though all my pants still
fit, my shirts don’t cover my tummy so it kind of sticks out.  I think
it looks cute, and I’ve just been letting it hang out. There are no
stretch marks (yet), my tummy’s tan and Jim totally think it looks
adorable,
so I see no reason to buy maternity clothes (yet).  My
wonderful-but-rather-conservative parents haven’t
said anything, but today while we were shopping my mom suggested we
look in a maternity shop. Sounded fun to me (I can be naive sometimes
and I had no idea what she was really trying to imply). I didn’t really
see anything I wanted.  I tried on a few things but even the extra small’s
were
huge in the belly so nothing fit.  My mom however, had a different
agenda. She said she wanted to buy me something.  I graciously
declined,
but she persisted. We finally found something that “fit” by her
standards, but it made me feel like I was wearing a big sack over my
head.  I was still trying to talk her out of it when she clarified and said she felt
really bad that Jim couldn’t afford to buy me maternity clothes,
forcing me to let my tummy stick out of my normal clothes.  It caught me
completely off guard.  I didn’t tell her we have plenty of money to buy maternity clothes,
I just don’t like them.  In a moment of impulsiveness, I swept up the
shirt in question, marched up to the counter and bought it.
Now I’m home, staring at this stupid shirt trying to figure out what
to do with it.  Which reminds me of another
predicament.   I spent Tuesday at the beach for my
cousin’s birthday “picnic”.   Much to my dismay, none of my
swimsuits fit, so like it or not I was left with a two
piece as my only option  (not being concerned enough with modesty
to resort to something like a t-shirt and shorts).   I
dubiously wondered whether or not it’s acceptable to wear a bikini when
your pregnant.  I know it’s supposedly the latest chic thing, but I’m
not sure how many normal people actually read Vogue and think it’s ok for people other than Reese Witherspoon to sport a bare pregnant belly.
  
So I’m still wondering, is it disgusting, defrauding or cute to see a pregnant woman with her tummy showing?

June 22, 2005

June 22, 2005

It’s a beautiful thing when you can sit on the beach in La
Jolla and be on the internet at the same time (compliments of UCSD’s wireless
network) .  Of course it’s not so nice
when it’s six thirty in the morning and you’d much rather be surfing, but life
could be much harder than sitting in a lounge chair on the beach so I shall
shut my lips lest I jinx my fate and thwart God’s will for my life.

Proverbs says, “Even a fool when he shutteth his mouth is
considered wise” (or something like that). 
As a certified, talkative person, I have gone great lengths to prove
this true…sometimes I succeed more than other times.   However Solomon isn’t quite as wise as I thought (of course I’m
not even positive he wrote that particular proverb) as I’m pretty sure I’ve managed
foolishness without even opening my mouth. 
Of course wisdom and foolishness are entirely relative.   If you asked my Mom what wisdom was, and
then posed the same question to my husband you would get vastly different
answers (Juan would say the one with the Holy Spirit is obviously right…but both
of them claim to know Him so that doesn’t help me much). So whether or not you
want to equate criticism (or gossip) with wisdom or foolishness would determine
your reaction to me.  Although beware,
if you decide I’m too critical I hope you’re comfortable with the title
yourself.

I was introduced recently to a guy named Bob, and if it were
possible to put a Jr. High girl in a 45 year old male body, then you’d know
exactly what this guy’s like.   I’ve
been around my fair share of gushing females (they’re normally found in the
general proximity of Mr. Gothard) but it’s a little more astonishing when it’s
not accompanied by soft curls gently framing the face, but rather graying hair
and a pot belly (I was going to say beer belly but I don’t think he
drinks).   I thought my dad held the
uncontested title for most-long-winded-person (I can’t even come close
to matching his skill) but this dude took the cake.   With surprising agility he managed to interrupt every conversation
in the room (there were three or four going at once), change the subject to
some story about himself and then look utterly hurt and offended when you tried
to politely finish the exchange you were previously having, making everybody
else feel rude and uncomfortable.   That
takes some mad skill…but being particularly annoying can come in handy, so I’ll
have to tuck it away for future reference.

And yes, my life is really so incredibly boring I’ve been
reduced to writing about annoying people in my blog.   Of course I was supposed to be surfing with my husband right
now, but I had some unconfessed sin in my life which led to my becoming sick,
which resulted in imposed bed-rest by my OB, so technically I’m being punished
by God right now.  Open theism looks
brighter everyday…

June 11, 2005

June 11, 2005

Ok so I lied…

It isn’t Campylobacter or any other kind of food poisoning.  The full results came back from the lab and apparently it’s some kind of parasite causing a bacterial infection in my intestines, colon and stomach… I won’t even pretend to be able to spell it or pronounce it, but it was caused by an allergic reaction to antibiotics.  The problem now is I need antibiotics to stop the UTI, to stop the pre-term labor, but the pre term labor is caused by being so sick which is caused by the antibiotics. bleh…it’s a vicious circle. 

I had to be admitted to the hospital yesterday for pre-term labor which turned out to be pre-term contractions (I guess there’s a big difference).  I was having contractions every five minutes and that apparently is not acceptable.   Good news is I wasn’t in labor, but they didn’t want the contractions to start labor so they gave me this super powerful medication that felt like I just had five shots of espresso. Wow…that was some potent stuff.   Jamie thought so too, he was bouncing around like a pinball for hours, and my highly irritated insides were not amused.  Thankfully they don’t think I’m predisposed to a pre term delivery. (I’d really like to keep Jamie in me for a little longer) so they didn’t put me on bed rest.  Just told me to take it easy for the next couple of weeks.  What do they think I’ve been doing for the last week?

When we were leaving the hospital  the nurses said “See you in ten to twelve weeks”…holy crap! is it really that soon?

I want a hamburger and strawberry milkshake so bad I really don’t care if it kills me. 

June 10, 2005

June 10, 2005

Warning: not for weak stomachs or drama-queen-haters.

For some people writing is an effortless show of brilliance, I unfortunately am not one of those people, nor can I be depended on for the more hair-pulling, pencil chewing, intelligent narratives. My writing either consists of awkward “real” sentences or rambling diatribes about myself.  (My self being the only subject I can coherently expound upon)  If the usage of the word “I” were any indication of a persons vanity, I would currently have to be living out the rest of my days studying Confucius to make up for a life-long ego binge.   Instead I’m sitting here on the floor of my miniscule bathroom, praying Jim never saw the mass of spiderwebs behind the toilet, and wildly hoping that writing will distract me from the demon in my stomach and intestines.   I’ve been avoiding my blog for days, because a person who only writes about herself can’t say much when all she does is lay in bed planning her funeral.  My need to whine however has overcome my dignity…  

       What started out as a mild case of stomach indigestion last Thursday, quickly turned into a night spent in the bathroom expelling unmentionable fluids, accompanied with a raging fever, and chills.  No problem, I pride myself on a high pain tolerance, which is a good thing considering you can’t have anything but Tylenol when you’re pregnant.  I put in my twenty-four hours of living hell (as everybody knows that’s how long the typical flu is supposed to last) and thus felt utterly betrayed by life when Saturday found me sicker than ever.   Of course I would never portray any wimpish behavior by calling the doctor, but my husband’s concern for his wife and unborn son won out over my stubbornness (that, and my growing desire for drugs…anything but Tylenol).   No luck though, the doctor assured me we would both be fine, it was probably just a virus, drink lots of fluids…yadda, yadda, yadda.  Gee thanks…

     Somehow I survived the weekend, and Monday I succeeded in convincing my doctor that my writhing in bed doubled over in pain was not just a cute act, but a desperate attempt to stay alive…and another plea for drugs.   The great medical minds in charge of Jamie and me discovered (a little late) that I had a raging bacterial infection caused by food poisoning better known as Salmonella or its close cousin Campylobacter.   Not that naming it helped any.   Mr. Gothard always said people will treat you with more respect if you show attentiveness and learn their name, but no matter how many times I say “Campylobacter” I couldn’t get him to leave me alone for even five minutes, I tried murdering him with massive doses of Tylenol but he just laughed (with that super-villain-evil-laugh).

     Here I am a week later, no change except I’ve now had the pleasure of reading Reader’s Digest advertisements in the middle of the night (Viagra can do some seriously weird things to guys, and a ten-hour woody isn’t the worst of it).   I also discovered Jim’s car magazine so I now know the new Porsche Cayman is neither a 911 nor a boxter…even if it looks like a cross between the two.   The 05 Mustang can stop faster and accelerate faster than the RSX and the Eclipse is more expensive than them both…apparently you have to pay extra for the bubble butt.   

   I went to the doctor’s today for blood tests and what not, and left with four collapsed veins and a various array of band-aids on both arms, I took a picture in the desperate hope that maybe with photographic proof, the next time somebody tries to give me an IV they’ll actually believe me when I tell them I have really small veins that roll.   They did deliver more wonderful news.  The infection spread to my bladder giving me an obnoxious UTI, and they also gave me a bottle of pills (which I gleefully and naively thought were pain meds) to stop pre-term labor. (what!?!?)  I patiently explained I knew the difference between my uterus and my stomach and my uterus definitely wasn’t causing all the problems.  Nonetheless, I went in for another round of tests that proved my son is indeed perfectly fine, and I left with stern orders to admit myself to the hospital if the braxton-hicks I’d been having got any closer together, and to please get better because the stress isn’t good for the baby…thanks, I didn’t know, and yes I’m working on getting better, but my new body-mate Campylobacter doesn’t seem too keen on leaving.

So that’s it, all this melodrama, and I’m not sure any of it sounded even halfway cognitive…It must be the Tylenol cuz they still won’t give me drugs.

June 1, 2005

June 1, 2005

Surreptitiously…

     The word rolls around in my head like a broken record.  My brain has taken a break from the normal “two-lines-of-song” that changes periodically (but is always stuck in my head), it has instead found great pleasure in repeating “surreptitiously” over and over.  For the most part it hasn’t escaped, but this morning the receptionist at the mechanic asked me how many miles were on my car and out-slipped “Surreptitiously” before I could stop it.  She gave me one of those polite but confused looks and I was supremely grateful that my one demonstration of Tourette’s syndrome features a word like “Surreptitiously” instead of …something else.  

     I’m not really sure of its meaning or definition.  I associate it closely to secrecy, but it’s somehow more vague and deep at the same time….It’s sneakier.   I rarely use words correctly, so I try to steer clear of actually using them in a sentence (unless of course I’m trying to amuse somebody).    I don’t know which is more pathetic, to have a fairly large vocabulary which you’re too stupid to use (nor inspired to improve) or have no vocabulary to begin with.   I shall vote for the former as it provides the small comfort of being surreptitiously more elite.  (hmmm…I don’t think that works, I’ll try again)  I surreptitiously use books to avoid arguments.    It’s my secret weapon. (and I sincerely hope nobody I actually need to use this on ever sees this)

     One would hope that I would get something far more valuable from reading: Typical things like, knowledge, wisdom…or vocabulary. Instead I find myself using it to hide behind when someone is vehemently trying to prove rock music has the same effects on my brain as heroin (don’t let them read the first paragraph…although I’m pretty sure heroin can’t cause Tourette’s, that’s some other drug of which I will claim ignorance of). For some reason people ignorantly assume they can “convert” me if they give me propaganda…I mean literature  “…if you’ll just read this book ” they earnestly plead.  I’m more than happy to oblige. They have no way of knowing that I can consume it in less time than it takes them to drink a cup of coffee (ok, ok…gross exaggeration) and the poor book has more hope of convincing a gecko (hey gecko’s are pretty smart) than me.  Good thing too, otherwise I’d have been a Buddhist by twelve and an Atheist by fifteen.

        As a kid, people would severely underestimate my reading capability and when they discovered I was fairly adept at consuming the written word, they’d promptly launch into a narrative like  “this one time, at band camp….I knew this kid who could read faster than you”   It probably would have insulted my pride more than it did, if it weren’t for the fact I was already acclimated to that sort of thing via my curly hair (and I definitely had no control over that).  I don’t know why people felt obligated to exclaim how curly my hair was while assuring me they knew somebody else with curlier hair.   My five-year-old self thought it must be a grown-up thing, but my twenty-one-year-old self is still clueless.   Maybe I have an exalted ego that is so obviously absurd people think they are doing me a favor by assuring me I’m less spectacular than I allegedly think I am.   It’s not working.    

The good news is, I currently have books on Dispensationalism, Quantum physics and Christian Science that I would not otherwise have thought to read.  The people who so faithfully believe I will read them and “turn from the error of my ways,” are content with the knowledge they’ve done all they can…and I’ve happily fed my addiction and avoided confrontation at the same time…It’s a beautiful system.

May 23, 2005

May 23, 2005

     My husband thinks I’m certifiably insane for what I’m about to confess. However, I don’t make him eat brussel sprouts, or watch the Lifetime Channel and I regularly run around our trailer in my birthday suit, so he has absolutely no reason to complain.

    I’m not the type of person who writes notes to herself in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, nor did I have a childhood imaginary friend (although that was probably because I lived in holy terror that Jim Logan would come cast demons out of me if I did).  I do talk to myself occasionally and I most definitely talk to my dog, but I figure everybody does that.

    My besetting sin (or schizophrenic tendency) is assigning gender and personality to inanimate objects. Before you think that’s rather odd (it gets better) I also do the same thing for numbers, months, the alphabet and sounds (like notes on the piano).  Most of the time I’m content to tell “A” (a matronly woman who’s married to “B”) to stop feuding with “M” (the town gossip) about whether or not “T” (imagine the character “Buster” from Arrested Development) should be allowed to attend the letter reunion.  As exhausting as it is to manage all these different worlds (the Notes are an especially rebellious group. In high school I tried to tell my mom they were the reason I couldn’t play that Debussy piece, but somehow a note rebellion didn’t rank very high on her list of reasonable excuses) at least they can’t die, be sold, or move out of your life.  Cars for instance:  Jim owned a Suburban while we were at school.  Lots of different memories memories in that car (truck technically) lots of good ones and a few bad ones. I spent a good couple hours in the suburban crying one time when a friend got sent home. You’d think that in a big hotel there would be one safe corner to hide in and sob, but actually the safest place was in that suburban in a remote corner of the parking lot. When Jim sold it last fall, I felt like a family member had died.  I could grudgingly admit the GTI got better gas mileage, and was a faster, more fun car to drive (unless you count the awesome donuts you could do in the Suburban), but it was awhile before I could extend the offer of friendship to her. Now I dread the day when our family will be too big to fit in the GTI and we’ll have to buy a bigger car (I assuage my guilt by promising the GTI never to replace her with a minivan)

     I had to say goodbye to another friend this weekend; a certain red Acura who carried me safely and stylishly from my wedding to my honeymoon. Unfortunately I was influential in her demise, but I swear I was just following orders.

May 18, 2005

May 18, 2005

Happily vacationing in Texas, but sometimes things happen that need recording, even if you probably won’t forget them anytime soon.

Took a quick trip to Blockbuster (not five miles from Kevin’s house) and passed exactly seven cops along the way….seven cops. And one of them was a motorcycle cop who told us to slow down (with his hands….he didn’t actually pull us over).  We were going 43mph in a 40….What the heck?   Well at least Kevin doesn’t have to worry about what I’ll do to his car.  I solemnly swear to drive the speed limit while I’m here, with utmost caution and diligence.

I’m thinking it was just a random freak of nature….either that, or they have an extremely low crime rate here in Pflugerville and all the police have to do is torture poor motorists.

May 13, 2005

May 13, 2005

     The pinkie and ring finger on my left hand are the only members of my
rather lazy body to be employed doing anything useful right
now.   My fingers type on in happy rhythmic oblivion (they may
not be the fastest fingers out there, but they certainly don’t require
any supervision) while the aforementioned appendages randomly and
sporadically leap off the beaten path to hit Ctrl-S.   My
newly repaired computer decided I got off too easy with the last bill
and has consequently punished me by ordering the screen to go on strike
(darn the union).   Which finds me with my laptop balanced
precariously in that “just so” position while I hold my mouth a certain
way and don’t breathe….and hit ctrl-s often enough to insure a
salvageable section of this entry should an “episode” occur.


     The above paragraph should be proof enough of what
I’m about to confess.  I am utterly and completely
lazy.   I could be doing a number of useful things (like
feeding starving children in Uganda), but instead I’m lounging happily
on the couch writing nonsense.   I’ve been told enough times
in my life that busy-ness is next to Godliness (or maybe that’s
supposed to be “cleanliness”), but refuse to believe it’s anything
other than an American myth…right up there with “White-mans-burden”
and “War on Terrorism”.   If Moses wasn’t even allowed to
pick up sticks on the Sabbath and Jesus apparently found it worthwhile
to sit around in the temple hanging out, then I think we’ve taken the
“idle hands are evil” mantra just a little too seriously.  


      Don’t think it was easy for me to become lazy.  It
wasn’t and isn’t.  It’s  been a rather long process of
re-thinking my values and priorities.   I’ve now been
learning and studying laziness for almost two years, although I’m
getting a forced graduation sometime in September.  I prefer to
see it as a promotion, I will then be the Master teaching my young
padawan the mysteries of laziness (side note: I must also dig out my old
homemade light saber, but I suppose my star wars legos will have to
wait until they don’t present a choking hazard to my young son).  


   Say what you may, but I find no proof that having a
frenzied schedule brings any more validation to life than sitting in an
old bookstore doing nothing but sneezing and perusing titles for an
entire day.  When a friend
lectured me on the importance of being
a working member of the body of Christ,  I defensively asked why I
can’t be the gallbladder or tonsils…heck I’d be perfectly happy being
the little flap of skin that keeps your pee from backing up into your
kidney’s (don’t ask me how I know that).  Not everybody can be the
brain or the heart so don’t rain on my parade.


    I feel quite satisfied with my life…and this day (as
satisfied as one can be…if you’re too satisfied with life then you’re
guilty of a much deeper sin: Lack of self-evaluation).  The house …I mean trailer…
isn’t
completely clean, but I’ve read a book, talked on the phone, chatted on
IM, read two magazines (one about parenting and the other about
Christian Science).  I’ve bandaged my husband’s thumb, unleashed
another Internet search for bras, and gotten my
daily dose of frustration from TheCrossings.  However, with that
dizzying schedule, I think the most important think I accomplished was
sitting in the sun doing absolutely nothing.  Unless you count
day-dreaming as something…in which case I was frightfully
busy.  

May 11, 2005

May 11, 2005

Ahhh… I breathe a sigh of relief as I settle myself in the drivers
seat.  The smell of leather, the comfortable feeling of the clutch
beneath my left foot, and my hand on the gear stick welcome me with
heartwarming normalcy.  No more heart stopping moments when the
diesel F350 decides to shift from second to third,  making me
think a cat just died in the muffler.  There’s a reason cars
weren’t originally invented to make decisions on their own…who the
heck invented automatic transmissions anyway?   I remind
myself to thank Jim for replacing the clutch, granted it did take him
two weeks, but I’ll let it slide considering practically everything had
to come out of the car (including the engine and transmission) before
he could replace it.  (“yes honey, I had the utmost confidence
you could put it all back together again…no I wasn’t surprised it actually worked”)
    Adjust the mirrors, pop ACDC (don’t tell Jim I
actually do listen to his music) into the CD player and I’m on my
way.   I look in shock at my speedometer when I realize I
haven’t even reached the top of the interstate on-ramp and I’m already going
95.  What the heck. I think. Oh well, it’s been too long… as the needle
climbs steadily toward 100mph.
    Crap! I spoke too soon…why the heck didn’t I plug
in the radar detector?  Dreaded blue and red lights are flashing
in my rearview mirror.  Next I check my reflection in the mirror,
darn it, I forgot to put any makeup on, that combined with the pigtail
braids, I look about 15 and I’m thinking I’ll have to go for the
innocent angle “uh yes officer, I had no clue my daddy’s car could
drive that fast”…that’s when I realize I forgot my wallet.  This
is not good.  I make a quick check of my location: I’m about a
mile out of Puetz Valley,  and  decide to make a run for
it.  Puetz Valley contains some of the most twisty roads in San Diego
county.  I may not be able to out-maneuver a cop on the
interstate, but I can lose anybody on mountain road…especially when
that “anybody” is a cop driving a chevy blazer.   With plenty
of tree coverage, I decide no helicopter would ever be able to see me, let
alone follow me,  and with that thought I make a hard left off of
Alpine blvd.  I drop it into fourth, taking advantage of the
miraculous surge of power that makes it’s appearance when the rpm hits
3500.  The first mile is an easy test for what’s to come, I easily
keep it at 70mph, but when I round the next corner I see the yellow
marker labeling the next curve at 20mph.  I jam it into third, hit
the gas and pull up on the e-brake….whew, I made a beautiful,
expertly successful, sliding turn accomplished at a mere 65mph. 
God bless the engineers at Audi who are genius’s with suspension and
handling, and God bless the men (or women) who managed to put such a
powerful engine in a small car, no wonder Mercedes had to
steal….*cough* I mean buy the concept from VW.  I drive on for a
few more miles, I lost the flashing lights a long time ago, and now I
can’t even hear a siren, I pull up a dirt road and round the corner out
of sight. It’s a beautiful day.
….I suddenly realize I have to merge onto the freeway (don’t want to
be one of those people who expect everybody to merge around
them).  My heart is beating furiously, and my leg is shaking from
the adrenalin rush.  I check and double check my mirrors…no
police in sight, no lights…nothing.  I sheepishly look around
the semi-empty interstate…no Puetz Valley.  Highly relieved,
and slightly disappointed, I dutifully plug in the radar
detector….just in case.

May 8, 2005

May 8, 2005

Things They Never Tell You…
   Before you are pregnant, you dubiously wonder how bad it
can be.  It’s a well known fact there are mothers everywhere
who would be happy to share their frightening horror stories from
pregnancy and childbirth (whether or not you wanted to hear them), and
yet somehow, when we picture it, we still manage to build an imaginary
world where we’re this slender beautiful woman with this adorable
basketball shaped tummy swathed in fashionable maternity clothes, while
our handsome husband solicitously waits on us hand and foot (your
husband can of course afford to to this because he’s independently
wealthy).  While I thought I had an advantage over some,  I’m
finding I
really haven’t any idea what can happen while you’re
pregnant.   Besides the common
I-feel-like-my-freaking-stomach-has-joined-the-union, and the constant
need to go pee, or the spacey I’m-going-to-pass-out-any-minute feeling
(thanks to all the extra blood you suddenly acquire),  combined
with utter,  mind numbing fatigue that makes pushing the clutch
down in your car seem like an intense work out;  here are a few
things nobody ever told me to possibly expect during
pregnancy.   You generally find out about one of these
strange symptoms from one of the thousands of pamphlets than suddenly
inundate your mail box, or the casual comment from your doctor (“I see
your breasts haven’t got purple stripes on them yet?”).  The
stranger ones include but are not
limited to:

• Hairy Tummy. apparently
  we’re not supposed to be shocked if our midsection suddenly looks like
  we’re related to Chewbacca. and we’re also supposed to be grateful it
  “most likely” will disappear after we deliver the baby.
• Stretch Marks, 
  while many of us know these are a possibility, they’re  actually
  a  90% probability and not limited to your stomach.  They’re
  also likely to appear on your breasts, butt, thighs…ok just about
  anywhere.
• Spreading Nose.  Yep,
  your nose actually gets wider and/or longer when you’re pregnant.
  Something to do with the onslaught of foreign hormones.  At least
  that’s what they say…
• Expanding pelvis and/or Ribcage.  Blamed
  on another hormone (Riga-something) your ligaments relax allowing your
  bones to actually move (hey, at least now you can do Gumbi
  impersonations, just be thankful you’re not green also…yet). You may
  never see your size two jeans again, no matter how much weight you
  lose…can anyone say, “horse hips”?
• Poor Eyesight.
  Your eyes may cease to focus, you may become nearsighted (if you’re
  already nearsighted then you may become legally blind), and you will
  probably be forced to give up your contacts.  This too will
  pass  after you are no longer pregnant.
  

These may all seem weird or farfetched (I swear I didn’t make them up)
but I saved my most recent discovery for last.  Quoted from a
medical pamphlet given to me by my doctor.  “…during the second
trimester, female genitalia may become swollen,  sometimes
resulting in a loss of erection in partner during sexual
intercourse”   ….What the freakin heck?!?!?

May 7, 2005

May 7, 2005

I survived the last three days;  No DUI’s, reckless driving
tickets, or felony’s. No food poisoning, although I think my
brain may be poisoned from an overdose in mediocre action movies.

       Ok, so it wasn’t really that
bad.   I suppose I should have been used to it.  I did
it often enough in Verity, except this time we didn’t have to look
furtively over our shoulders for Michael err…I mean Dean Canciglia. Yeah, and minus the CLEP test in the morning, or the time spent
scrubbing toilets when all I really wanted was sleep, but what I needed
was study.  All right, so I admit it, maybe I’m just too soft
now…cuz good grief!…I used to be able to survive on three hours of
sleep every night, what the heck is wrong with me?   
*ungluing my contacts from my eyes,
and dragging my tired body off to watch Euro-trip and who knows what
else between now and 4:00am*
btw Liz, if you’re reading this:  Ethan swears both of us together
couldn’t bring him down during a certain tackle football game, at a
certain lake , a certain few summers ago.  He seemed to enjoy the
fact that he had two hot girls trying desperately to keep him from
scoring a touchdown. …Surely he’s hallucinating.  I recall no
such thing…do you?

May 2, 2005

May 2, 2005

A Dissertation On Breasts:

Or

 The Great Bra
Journey

Warning: nudity implied.
Tender consciences best not proceed.

     My twelfth birthday found me the proud owner of set of small
but nicely made breasts, perched upon the top of my ribcage (much to the envy
of all my friends) Being one of the lucky few who actually had them this early,
I relished all the attention they got me, although in retrospect I now know Jr.
High boys find just about anything attractive.  

     Early teens saw me at a nice, cute, perky 32 B, I needed to
wear a bra, but barely.  And at that
size they come in all sorts of cute designs and colors. Gingham, leopard print,
demi-cups edged in eyelet…all two hook, spaghetti strap, colorful bits of
fabric.  Yep, my breasts were happily
ensconced in such frivolity.

     Tragedy struck around the time I was sixteen.  My breasts, which had been my friends up to
this time, unhappily betrayed me.   They
wouldn’t stop growing.   My mother
grimly marched me to the department store to buy 32 C’s, only to come back a
few months later to buy 32 DD’s.   The
unfortunate thing about 32 DD is that they no longer come in happy colors and
styles.  It was as if girlhood had been
rudely slammed shut in my face.  I now
faced the grim life of a woman.  With
horrific bras that come with frightening descriptions attached like, “3 section
cup”, “Minimizer”  “Triple support”,
“Rigid Structure”, along with a painfully modest mother who had never made it
past an A-cup…I simply sat in the dressing room and cried. 

      There are few things worse in this world, than to be
seventeen years old with huge knockers…in ATI.
And thus anchoring my rack had become deadly serious business.   Good-bye leopard print…hello 4-hook, wide
strapped, tan monsters.  Despite my
severe, utterly modest bras, Mothers glared suspiciously if I happened to dare
talk …I mean tempt…  their sons.  I
became the slut without a home; not allowed to actually enjoy the benefits of a
perky, firm, porn-star rack, not even permitted to ignore them.  I was instead punished.  It was as if conservative mothers everywhere
were taking out their long, ill-concealed hatred of “defrauding” girls, on
me.  I was a nice girl with big breasts,
but all mothers know that nice girls don’t come with big breasts. 

      It was either the disheartening lectures of a twenty-something
year-old, flirty, cute, blonde haired Barbie, (a modest 32 A of course) who
consistently sent me back to my room to find a looser shirt, or the fact that
despite my massive, womanly bras, I seemed to be leaking out the bottom of my
heavily engineered and underwired cups, like overrisen bread dough. On top, my
cleavage was breathtaking. On bottom, half my breast was making a break for
it.    This was not good.  Wearily I dragged myself to the department
store only to find they didn’t sell anything remotely big enough to support my
awesome shelf.  After trying on every
size they carried, I asked the saleslady if they could special order anything
bigger “…No” she replied in awed wonder (in a tone I didn’t particularly care
for).   It was obvious my 32 DD would no
longer suffice, so I madly threw constraint to the wind and bought what was
available. Rather flimsy looking 34 DD.
Granted, they wouldn’t stay around my ribcage, but I precariously
marched around in them anyway’s.

      Thankfully time brought a wonderful boyfriend into my life
and the discovery of a custom bra shop.
He generously dished out the money required to buy a few cute, well-made
32 F’s (comparable to a down payment on a house) (seeing that it was either
that or listen to me complain about the misfortunes of large boobs for the rest
of his life).  For the last few years
I’ve held steady, after acquiring a voracious appetite for expensive bras.  They come in colors, and have cute patterns,
but they cost the earth.  On any given
day, my bra costs more than the rest of my outfit put together, but it’s a
small price to pay for faultless support and a pleasing shape.

      My troubles have revisited as I again find myself on a
desperate search for bras…cute nursing bras.
Not even my beloved custom bra shop sells anything less than monstrous,
tan, support systems, that look like the equivalent of Auschwitz for breasts,
instead of the comfortable stylish Ritz Carlton they’re used to.
 

In other words, I am truly and completely screwed.

April 29, 2005

April 29, 2005

Dear Diary,

    I’m officially at the halfway mark.  I’m here to put in my stats, and record the
milestone with a picture.
    
    I sort of look a
little pregnant if I’m wearing a tight t-shirt.  I’m told I don’t look obviously pregnant, just a little overweight.  I don’t really feel pregnant, although Jim
would perhaps disagree sometimes.  I think I’ve been pretty easy on him, so far I haven’t made him go out at midnight
to buy me pickles and ice-cream (or anything like that).  For posterity’s sake I will include a few of my more bizarre cravings.  Last
month it was tomato juice and chocolate, this month it’s pickle juice and
donuts. Something about the combination of sweet and sour/salty…maybe I should
just eat Chinese food.  Truthfully I’ve
been craving sushi and margaritas like nothing else (actually straight up
tequila would be better), but unfortunately they’re forbidden fruit when
you’re pregnant. 

    I’ve gained two
pounds so far, and all my normal clothes still fit me (which is fine with me,
as I can’t really imagine myself in that cutsy stuff women wear when they’re
pregnant). 

   I’m not looking forward to being a mother (I can already
hear the outraged cries of mothers all over the world)  I am excited about having a
baby,  I’m just not doing the whole baby
factory-psychotic worrier-mini-van owner thing.   Jim is already exhibiting great father skills by playing the
baby plenty of Guns’n’roses, Eric Clapton, Metallica and a variety of other
classic music.

   In closing, I’m including
the promised pictures (compliments of Lydia who may turn out to be a famous
photographer someday).  It seems rather
vain to include pictures, but what the heck…I can totally admit I’m vain.

So long for now,

                      
Ez

April 26, 2005

April 26, 2005

Just a bit of random observations and ramblings.  There are many
things I tell myself I ought to write down and I never do.  Maybe
someday I’ll actually have a bonified journal (leather bound and
everything) but for now this neglected blog will have to serve in its
place.
We found out last Tues. the kid I carry in me is  a wee little
lad.   I’m  still in shock.  How can I possibly
have a person in me?  A person complete with a name.  James
Ramsey IV…aka Jamie (until he decides he’d rather be called something
else)
Julia keeps popping into my trailer saying things like,  “Can you
take the baby out so I can play with  it? …I promise I’ll put it
back in your tummy when I’m done” and “Jim won’t teach me how to kiss”
or “Jim won’t let me dress your baby in girl clothes!…but I saw a guy
yesterday who was wearing girl clothes.”
Somebody stop me from getting on the Crossings…it depresses me.
Somebody stop me from using Google.  It takes worries like
preeclampsia, placenta previa, and premature labor right out of the
doctors office and directly at my fingertips.  Google is like fast
food hysteria when you’re pregnant.
We’re all celebrating today because Uncle Vern lost his job (something
he’d been hoping for)  I find that mildly amusing.   He
was supposed to  retire this year, but because they’re selling the
ship he works on as an engineer (the Exxon Valdez) he was hoping
he’d be laid off before he had to retire, so he could get  a
severance package and his retirement.
I need to talk to people more often.