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.