Friday, May 29, 2009

Clearly, now...

Three guys were standing around my office chatting about someone and, since I missed half the conversation, I piped up with: "Who?"

And just the way it came out, I knew... sure enough one wise guy mocks, "Hoo! Hoo! What are you - an owl?" (and they all rolled with laughter)

And the second wise guy says, "Maybe we should ask if she shits through suspenders!"

And it was silent. Dead silent, because, really, what does taking a crap through suspenders have to do with a nocturnal bird?

** After further investigation it was determined second wise guy had actually said, "Maybe we should ask if she sheds lots of feathers." This is an example of why it's important to enunciate.

Get a clue!

If you reek of alcohol at 2:00 in the afternoon - EVERY afternoon - you drink too much.

If you have alcohol oozing from your pores and you haven't even broken a sweat - you drink too much.

If you ask for cologne for your birthday and people give you bottles of scotch because that's what they think you wear - you drink too much.

Thank you, Mr. Drunk Guy, for entertaining me this afternoon. It almost made me forget about Ms. Inconsiderate who hacked in my face - no worries; she stated she wasn't sick. She just has allergies and coughs a lot. I think she should have just apologized, but apparently when you explain your allergic-cough condition it absolves you from following proper health and hygiene ettiquette. But I digress....

I was thanking you, Mr. Drunk Guy, for coming in and taking the time to slobplain (that's my made up word for "pathetically slobbering through an explanation") that you have to park your green cadillac in our municipal lot because your driveway is now too short ever since the public works guys came and paved your street. I didn't try to help you much not because I didn't like you, but because I figured you wouldn't kill that many families drunk-walking home. While you were talking I secretly wondered how many times you'd fall wandering back home... I also secretly wondered how many times you'd fall while attempting to stand on the opposite side of my desk. I started getting dizzy watching you sway from side to side and your fumes were making me nauseous... but luckily you left...

After I Lysol the hell out of the office and open the windows to allow some fresh air in, I may just go let the air out of your tires so you can't come back and drive... although given your condition, I doubt you'll recall where you left your car, let alone why.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

water... please...

While cleaning at my grandmother's house I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. More than likely the result of going up and down a step ladder attempting to wash shelving and walls, and the ever enlarging offspring hanging out in my womb, cutting off vital circulation. I'd pause for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and continue on. But then it got to a point where I literally felt the walls closing in on me and the floor started to slip beneath my feet. Clawing my way to the living room, I did my best to mimic the whole head between your knees thing (yeah, right...). Luckily I was not alone:

Bean: What's wrong ma? Are you okay?

About to Pass Out Mother: I need water... get me water...

Bean: What's wrong with you?

APOM: (struggling to breath) ... I just need some water.... please....

Bean: (sitting down comfortably in the cozy chair across from me) It's kind of hot in here, don'tcha think? Great-gramma should open some windows.

APOM: (head still dropped between legs, hands on head) ... water...

Bean: So how long are we going to be here cleaning?

APOM: ... please... water... get Grandma... someone...

Bean: I'll go see if I can find Nana. [note: Nana is the nickname she gave my sister many moons ago, who, at the time, was outside painting.]

As I continued to sit hunched over, pleading with God to puh-lease stop the room from spinning, and to stop the blinding light from taking over my brain function, I was able to hear Bean & Nana conversing outside. Keep in mind that Nana was busy on the exterior scraping & painting crew...

Bean: Hey, Nana. My mom wants some water.

Nana: Well, there's this thing that every house has -- it's called a faucet.

Meanwhile I sat wishing someone, anyone would please come in and find me. I was getting clammy, sweating, yet cold, my head hurt, I couldn't breathe, and I did not want to pass out since I have this fear that if I pass out I'll lose all control of my bodily functions and who wants to be found by their never-let-it-drop cousin on the floor in soiled shorts?

Bean: yeah, Nana wouldn't help me....

APOM: jesus christ! just get me some water!

(yeah, I found some renewed strength for that one.) And just like that Big V was at my side!

V: Are you okay?

APOM: (now actually crying; head still as far between the knees as I could stick it) No. I'm not. I feel dizzy and I want some water! I just want some water!

V: Okay. I'll go get you some.

After waiting a few minutes my mom came in, took one look at me, asked if I was ok, ran back to the kitchen and brought back the most refreshing glass of tap water ever brought to my lips. I sat up and was able to see Big V in the car... exiting the driveway...

Ten minutes later he returned with a bottle of water he purchased from the nearest gas station.

I can not wait until I go into labor.

[As a disclaimer, V wants you all to know he is not an idiot. He was simply concerned that the country well water was not potable, and therefore the safest option was purchasing safe drinking water from a gas station. He does love me and cares very deeply about my health, as well as the safety and well being of our child. Besides, while there he only bought a few dollars worth of PowerBall tickets, and had we actually won the $230 million jackpot, we would have enough bottled water to share with an entire third world country, and then no one would think poorly of him at all.]

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

What happens at 23?

I am 23 and one-half weeks pregnant today. That means 16 and one-half weeks to go... unless, for some reason, Cletus the Fetus is intent on remaining in my womb until s/he feels willing to exit, or until I convince the Scheduling Gods to bless me with an injection of the synthetic form of oxytocin, used to induce and augment labor (commonly referred to as pitocin, for those of you wondering).

So far, Cletus has shared with me the wonderful world of Extreme Heartburn. I'm sure there's a maximum consumption limit of Tums, but I simply cannot get enough to allow me to sleep through the night without holding on to the fire extinguisher - I'm convinced the burning will reach levels conducive to spontaneous combustion.

The little fetus (who I'm told is about 11½ inches long and weighs 1 pound, or about the length and weight of a Harry Potter book) delights itself on hanging out on my nerves, sending shooting pain through my stomach, down my leg, out my feet, where it apparently finds its way back in. This cyclical pain process is enough to tempt me to pray for a premature birth - but I'm not that selfish, and, yes, would put up with the pain for the sake of my child's health. This makes me feel good about myself for approximately three seconds until the piercing pain shoots through me again.

The active alien has taken over my abdomen full force. Rearranging organs and creating a workout room large enough for dancecapades that leave my belly moving in mysterious waves. (I'm waiting for someone at work to glance over during a meeting and scream, "Oh my gawd! There's something trying to ESCAPE!" as if a live gremlin really would emerge.)

Of course, Big V is ecstatic over the entire situation and has already signed his male heir up for football. Gently reminding him the baby could possibly emerge with a fully intact vagina, he simply shrugged and announced, "then she'll be a tom-boy!" I asked him if he'd be comfortable with a boy that wanted to pursue something considered less macho and more feminine, like dance ballet, to which he proudly declared, "then he just better be the best damn ballet dancer he can be!" (This is yet another reason why I love V. Because he means it.... it doesn't matter your choices, as long as you try your absolute hardest.)

I have also been wonderfully blessed with the Art of Massage that V graciously bestows upon me. After a particularly grueling weekend was closing with the most magnificent massage a woman could ask for I actually uttered the words, "... if I could get massages like this every night I was pregnant - I'd have twelve kids!" I'm wondering how many nights of massages I let pass before I tell him I wasn't really serious....

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Oh, What a Nasty Webb!

Dear Mrs. Webb,

I understand you're upset. For what particular reason, I can only guess. Understanding your position that the Sate of Wisconsin requires municipalities to conduct certain inspections to your property for the purpose of ensuring it is safe to live in is asinine, unnecessary and a waste of tax payers money, I invite you to consider something a little different....

What if these required inspections catch a construction error that saves your 4-year old granddaughter from getting her head stuck in between the deck railings and strangling herself? Or catch a wiring error and your home doesn't start on fire causing the smoke inhalation death of your husband of the last 43 years?

From your cuss-laden tirade on the phone this morning I understand that safety is not really a priority to you, but - and this may come as a surprise to you, sitting on the receiving end of your angry and ignorant (and unbelievably loud) commentary is not exactly MY priority. So, it was with due respect that I hung up on your crabby ass. Yes, that's right. I hung up. Cut you off. On purpose, even. No accident there, I can assure you. I do think it was a nice gesture on my part to forewarn you with "I apologize that you will find this offensive --" and look forward to you contacting my boss. (But I'm not really that scared because you yelled at our Treasurer for twelve minutes before she was able to transfer you to me... you've got quite the reputation among our office.)

Day 8 of my Sabbatical

I bet you think that by 8 days into my domestic sabbatical I'd be sneaking around the house at two in the morning putting things back in their proper places... but NO! I have stayed strong. In an effort to pull the blinders off Big V's eyes and show him that indeed, my role in the household is a lot more difficult than "it only takes twenty minutes to do the dishes" I have refrained from conducting any sort of domestic duty (except for once when I dusted, but that was because he reaminded me - over and over and over again - that he helped me when I was the one in charge).

This past Memorial Day weekend my extended family and I went to my 91-year old grandmother's house to perform a mini extreme home makeover. It was necessary it so many ways. I personally spent two days scrubbing every nook and cranny in her house, including a much neglected bathroom. (Look, I'm not judging - my time will come, but it was SO GROSS!) Big V did manly macho stuff like shoveling landscaping and dismantling an unused satellite dish. Dotter helped pick up paint chips that were being scraped and had floated to the ground (nothing like a little lead paint to build up some immunities) and even picked up a small roller to paint the worn out home. Jelly Bean... well, you know, she's too cute too work. It would have messed up her hair. She did kindof, sortof watch the little kids when she was interested.

Driving home after the second day of the mini makeover Big V announced that he had lots to do at home still, and it sucks working all day and then having to come home to even more work at home. I nodded with faked empathy.

Once home he tried in vain to get the girls to pick up a few things and help him out... asking Bean to sweep, her complaining she was so tired and it wasn't fair and why did she have to do all the work around here? His temper flaired, she ran into her room in her obligatory huff of teen angst and slammed the door, he did it himself. Dotter whining that she was hungry and didn't want a frozen pizza, she wanted good food - like McDonald's. V explaining he wasn't going to McDonald's that we had food here -- but it's so gross!

Collapsing into bed he said he was now getting to see what I was up against and what I went through each day. That he certainly had a better appreciation for the stress I had to handle each and every day. And, like the loving partner I am, I turned to him, kissed him gently, and said, "Thank you. That's all I wanted. And in 22 more days we'll figure out a way to make it more balanced."