Thursday, March 26, 2009
It's time...
Did you know that your baby is considered full-term at 37 weeks. Well, I sure as hell know it. It's time to come on down, liitle man! Holy freakin cow. Eli has come up with ways to twist and stretch and basically create his own little version of the film "Aliens" in my belly. It hurts, alot.Even so, I'm scared to death of this whole labor thing. Go ahead and tell me women have been doing this for centuries. I dare you. Somehow that fact doesn't comfort me.

Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas waddle
Wow. I walk like a duck. It is pointless to try and stifle it. Certainly it is true that the pregnant woman emits a glow--a sort of luminosity that screams "I got a baby cooking in here!" It is also true that my back hurts most of the time, I burp, like, constantly, and my boobs have their own gravitational pull. I had no idea that this was going to be so difficult. I had no idea that just getting off the couch would involve strategic maneuvers. Things that are supposed to stretch are stretching. Ligaments that support "things" are causing crippling pain, mind-numbing, curling up into a ball on bathroom floor kind of pain. And the most frightening part is that I'm only 6 months in. I can't imagine what I'll be like two months from now. The only thing making it worth every second is that he's (yes it's a boy) constantly letting me know that he's in there and he's alright. He's flipping and kicking and it's freaking amazing. So here's to my first dry Christmas in like....forever. And here's to making my third batch of fudge. Hope you guys are happy and warm. Love you lots. Merry Christmas.

Currently listening:Don't Shoot Me SantaBy The KillersRelease date: 2007-12-04

Monday, July 28, 2008
ER...and the weekly top 40 Current mood: blank Category: Blogging
Can't sleep. Going to blog so I can vent and perhaps lull myslef back to bed. The big ER(egg retrieval) is tomorrow morning at 8:20. So I can't have a HUGE glass o'wata like I want. I'm not as anxious about this one. I am looking forward to the valium and getting knocked out. This week has completely sucked. My poor ovaries are slam packed with eggs and I've been on enough hormones via injections to kill a small animal. So needless to say, I'm ready to get the whole thing over with. Last night I cried when I realized that I couldn't take my migraine meds. I developed a HUGE -ass headacher after the HUGE-ass trigger shot in my bum. Which is hella sore, thank you. I put poor, sweet Nick throught the ringer as I lay sobbing like a 4-year-old on the couch preparing for the big stick in the butt. I have no idea why I lost it. Could be the exorbidant size of this needle and knowing that he had to stick it all the way in. (All sexual references, even the hilrarious ones, are falling on deaf ears, thank you). But it was finally done and I was able to watch ultimate fighting in relative peace with an ice pack.
The whole retriaval process is so odd. You show up at the offiice just like it was any other visit and then they lead you to the IVF suite--as if adding the word "suite" should made a person feel more pampered. I did not feel pampered last time. I do not feel pampered anyplace where I am not allowed to wear my bra. After donning the lovely gown and footies and fetching cap, I get to go and sit in this rock-a-billy chair so the nurse can: A. give me my fucking valium and B. give me a shot in the arm so she can connect my IV. I was worried about the IV. But the shot numbs things up rather nicely. Didn't feel a thing. It was only after noticing all the large drops of blood on the floor that I realized I had a needle in my vein. Felt kind of queasy then. Then we wait. I remember feeling annoyed that Nick and I weren't having any mind-blowing conversations about life at this point. It seems rather trite to be thumbing throught the Sarah Jessica Parker issue of Vogue while waiting for such a monumental event to take place. But I did it anyway. (Thinking of bringing along some deeper reading material this time. Anything by James Joyce should be sufficient) Finally the lovely anesthesiologist appears and leads me to the "room." Didn't like the room. It feels large and sterile and reminds me of that scene in "The Exorcist" where Regan has all those horrid medical tests before she loses it and goes all spider-feral. It's cold and one feels quite vulerable when placed on such an ugly chair/table/stirrup thingie. It's not an alluring positon, believe me. Thank God, she knocks me out relatively quickly. I was hoping for the whole big room getting dimmer and blurry experience as the "drugs take hold." Nope, I was out like a light. Then it was over and I was rambling about a trip to Spider-Skull island a la Scooby Doo. Kidding. I hang out for a while and then get rolled down to the car. Yes, I get to ride in a wheelchair. I can only surmise that I babble on and on while Nick drives me home and plops me promptly in the bed. Let's hope it's as smooth this time around.
Dammit. Not sleepy at all....

Monday, June 30, 2008
sweet nothing.... Current mood: dorky
I've been watching alot of Jane Austen shyte lately. You know what I'm talking about: empire waisted dresses, intellectually colloquial banter, women treated like horse shit, and finally Colin Firth. That man rocks a waist-coat. It's escapism pure and simple. I'm wanting to frolic in a frilly dress...with a drink, mind you--but frolic none the less.
Summer here. I'm feeling like a bitch. I've taken up running again. Like I said, I've been watching WAY too many period pieces and reading books about swinging (not on a tree), Sylvia Plath, and darn-you-to-hell...Nancy Drew. That girl was such a tease. Apparently , I've developed a wheat intolerence....I know, I know. This news has you in a flurry of excitement. Nick and I have had about 72, 000 fights--of both trivial and severe in significance. I've decided that: I need to go out dancing more, I need to switch to red wine, I have a girl-crush on EMO girls, I both like and despise having bangs, I think most, if not all, summer blockbusters are complete and utter crap, men seem to be less aggressive downtown (or maybe my looks are going), finding a bra that fits is no small feat, the popcorn at the Plaza really is better (I'm sure they re lacing it with something), my skin really is never going to get over this whole puberty thing, Nick's grill really is the bomb, my brother is a hell of alot cooler than I was at 18, I could die listening to the Velvet Underground, MOST doctors are completely unaware how fragile human beings are, I probably won't tell you the truth, I need to tell people the truth more often, and finally I really love Oh's cereal (why can't I find it at Kroger anymore)....even though I can't eat it anymore...sigh.




Currently listening:The Velvet Underground & NicoBy The Velvet UndergroundRelease date: 1996-05-07

reminescent blogs...

and the cold wind blows.... Current mood: blah JAnuary 23, 2008

So I suppose that's the way it goes. Such a bland statement seems to fit this time of year. The cruel wind taunts the girl in the skirt...I'm that girl. I feel cranky, sad, uninformed (presidential race be damned) and ugly. Winter steals the sun and makes me blue. I'm not the only one. Death seems a bit more cruel this time of year. Imagining the ones you love battling the cold whilst they battle that bitch winter is intolerable. Feel better folks. Keep warm.

Hustle and flow..... Current mood: contemplative Feb. 3, 2008
Alright folks. I have a brief month to let loose and say adios to my twenties-- too sad, too much water under the bridge. Say what you will: Thirty is the new twenty, Fifty is the new thirty. YOU can blow that out your derrie-terrie. I wanna be twenty-four. Oh, that golden age of, "buy me a drink and I'll thank you tomorrow" and "No, sir, you must be mistaken, I'm not the owner of those panties...." Sheesh. No, I was not that much of a slut. But I had a hell of a time wishing I was. So, I say so long and farewell to the time I finally figured out it was ok to dance and not worry, to drink and not be judged, and perhaps even get up the next day and go to work. I'm not really sad. I realize that's stupid. I'm simply doing what girls do: lamenting our youth. SO, my sweet fellas, tell us we're gorgeous and incredibly hot. And MEAN it.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008
super-trashy birthday pants.... Current mood: blustery March 4, 2008
So tomorrow I turn 30. No melt down's yet. But then again, I've been ill for the entire month February. So the fact that I have been out of bed for 3 hours straight is a HUGE deal. I'm swinging back and forth between feeling fucking proud of my years on this earth and trying to figure out how I change my DOB from 78 to 82. Those four years are immeasurable. I've been on mind-numbing pain-killers for the past 3 days due to a monsterous ear infection that will: " eventually rob you of your hearing in that ear if you don't do something about it...." Thank you pissed off ER doctor whose name shall remain written in my little black book of jerznerks. Sickness sort of quells the savage beast of self-reflection. When not hunched over the toilet or or cowering in an ER in severe pain, one can usually look toward the brightness of his/her own future and wave hello.
I'm also telling myself not to try so damn hard. I could party hardy til I dropped or threw up when I was 24. Now I'm lucky if I'm not curled up on somebody's couch by three. Lame, but true. Concerts mid-week, lets just say I'd have to adore the band. I'm lucky to have a guy that is game for whatever stupid-ass idea I want to undertake. With our professions, we're not afforded those days of, "shut your sass mouth, I was up until 4" attitudes. I imagine some sort of birthday induced funk will rear its ugly head by the weekend. We can only keep our fingers crossed right? I'll save that for Nick in Savannah.

The unappreciated horror fan's lament...

This girl is sick of crappy, how much viscera can we show, re-make happy, horror directors and their awful films. I'm no prude. I can take some blood and gore and still keep on tickin. But some subtlety and a little plot development is greatly appreciated. I know they can't all be Halloween or The Exorcist or The Haunting. Every now and then I'm suprised...So we watched "House of the Devil--" a lovely horror homage to the satanic cult movies of the eighties. Directed by Ti West in 2009, it was so completely reminicent of the frantic, "those Satanist are a livin just down the street" paranoia that I missed (because I was 5). I was hungry for a flick that scared me without showing me piano wire cutting things off or rabid, inbred hillbillies chasing after hoes with rusty pruning sheers. Thankfully, I got it. I added "House of the Devil" to the Netflix queue about 6 months before they even released it. Slow building tension, subtle horror clues, and just the right amount of gore made this girl a happy camper late one Thursday night. This is one that I'll be buying.

A few housekeeping notes...we had a pretty damn fine snow here about a week ago. Of course it occurred on a Saturday and nothing important was called off. Go figure. So after a few longing, amazed looks out the window I said "We gotta take the kid outside for some impromptou baby's first snow photos...you know!!" So we did and they are pretty spectacular. Of course, I can't forget Valentine's Day. My love and I have been, um, a little tired lately. So needless to say, we were both attempting to come up with something romantic, yet frugal, yet available in my little hometown (since we had to drop the little nipper off with my parents). I told Nick that I wanted that superb mixture of truly "us" along with a subtle edge of super-sappy. I think we achieved that. Without giving anything away, we found ourselves in one of our old haunts...snort-- Nick you can laugh--and drank a bottle of wine before heading out to one of G-town's finer eating establishments and then a crummy movie. Nothing says love like a spiked Diet Coke . This Valentine's Day had a bit of special meaning for us--the fact that we have survived having a child. After pro-creating a couple CAN go through a bit of a psychologically debiliating-ly exausted period time in which colors have no meaning and one's own personality morphs into that of a deranged hyena. Surving that, and still enjoying your guy's company is a feat. So let's move on, my friends. March approaches as does my 32 birthday --SHUT your mouth.

and the day is done....

Mama needs a drink. There's something about gently, yet firmly bringing to a parent's attention a child's possible issues--whether or not these issues are as serious as a possible learning disabilty or as benign as as "Little Roderick is having trouble keeping his hand out of his pants..." is inconsequential. Such statements can rock a parent's world. And frankly, I don't like rocking worlds. I like rocking chairs and rocking out and drinks on the rocks...I digress. Needless to say I am freakin exausted. And how does this girl unwind? By watching a lovely episode of Murder She Wrote thanks to my super-cool ROKU, thank you. There is something so calming and reassuring about 80's tv. The hair, the shoulder pads, the teased bangs, the soft jazz in the background. Jessica Fletcher: world traveler, aunt and college friend to thousands, and wearer of blouses I can only hope you're in town when I'm falsley accused of murdering the guy my mom grew up with that could be my father except he was supposed to be in Vietnam but lost his memory while serving with Jessica Fletcher's husband Frank...so I'm not sure. Anyway...

Hey there, Mister Man. ROWR. As we move toward Valentine's Day, I am reminded of that wonderful, horrible day I doned a pair of Spanks that squeezed my soul up into my brain (and made my boobs look hella great) and told my guy that I would love him forever . I did my own hair, sewed my own veil, and cried like a sad little weiner girl. I compare our wedding to every other wedding I attend--much, much nicer, more elaborate weddings with chocolate fountains and open bars, and various food stations. We wed and ate and drank and hopped into my little Saturn and drove drove drove to Atlanta for the night. The we hopped a plane to Maine in the dead of October. sigh. Love you, guy. You make bad things bearable and bad movies ....funny.

Meet me in Montauk...

"Do you ever shop at Barnes and Noble?"

Man, I love combative love stories. Give me a vengeful, messed-up girl and her sad, dismissive, ego-maniacal love anyday. I feel so much better when I realize how messed up everyone else is. I'm going to make some Valentines. I'm going to make some Valentines and think about all the "love" and hurt feelings and chalky candies.

Hey Valentine's Day. What's up? You finished making people feel like crap? If not, then you're not doing your job. I hate the fact that I can be enveloped in last minute Christmas shopping and still run into an end-cap full of conversation hearts. Bly me! Are you kidding? I'm a huge fan of painful, anxious love a la Mulder and Scully and Goren and Eames and Drake and Vasquez...You have to lament your very existance before you can love that morbid, sick, eccentric gun-wielding love of your life. Just one girl's opinion.

February....

It's been raining for weeks. It's Tuesday night, so Nick is helping with drama club. The wind is whipping through the carport and my father-in-law has just related the probability of trees falling on the house. My little love, Eli, has finally awoken from the best damn nap a kid could have: cold damp day, snuggly pajamas that his oh-so-cool mom let him wear to his babysitter's house, and the comforting aroma of soup cooking on the stove. I'm stuck in February just like you. I bedazzled the house today in true white-trash fashion. Take it from me, the coolest teacher ever, construction paper is your friend.

I've always hated this time of year. I have numerous comfort movies to get me through the bleakest of months--February. Today, it's no movie, but the bestest ghost hunters ever (sorry Jason and Grant--you guys are too damn serious) Ghost Adventures. Note for the day: must travel to Edinburgh to see the underground vaults (which are cursed).