Yesterday should have been the greatest day of my life, a day surpassing getting engaged, married, or having Baby. Yesterday, The Simpsons Movie opened. I've been a fan of The Simpsons since early on. I didn't watch The Tracy Ullman Show, but I remember one day, in fourth grade, coming home and telling my parents that we needed to start watching America's Funniest Home Videos and The Simpsons. That's what a lot of the kids in my class were doing, and I was just starting to realize that I wasn't, in any form, cool. I grew out of America's Funniest Home Videos and never got into its subsequent incarnations, but The Simpsons stuck. I've been more committed to that television show than I've ever been to anything else in my life, and The Simpsons has been part of my life longer than Catholicism or Husband. A large chunk of my master's thesis was devoted to religious themes in that particular animated television show. Rumors of a movie have floated around for years; I remember discussing this with friends in college.
I should have been there yesterday for the first showing. I should have driven to the closest 7-11 that's been turned into a Kwik-E-Mart. I should have posted a review of the movie and all it's greatness (or crapiness) on my blog.
I have a baby, and when babies come around, life changes. I'm not going to be the mama taking a baby into a movie theatre. I think the noise would likely scare him, and seeing as how I hate going to movie theatres because people always talk and ruin the experience for me, I'm not going to do it to someone else. Nor do I think seeing a movie is the best thing for Baby. So I'll have to wait a few days, until my mom can babysit, before seeing this movie. Had the movie come out a year ago, I would have been there on opening day. But it didn't, and my priorities have changed.
28 July 2007
25 July 2007
The Price of Being Laid-Back
I'm the most uptight laid-back person I know. By that, I mean that while I'm completely anal about things like drawers being closed all the way and pillows facing the correct way (that's the open end facing out, in case anyone was wondering), and I worry incessantly, I'm completely laid back about most other things. In some ways, being laid back is really good. I'm not concerned about not having make up on when I leave the house, and I think that's something about me that's really great. I acknowledge that I look way better with make up on than without, but I'm not going to fuss and fret if I can't put my eyeliner on. I don't especially like dirt or clutter, but, as evidenced by the state of my house, I often can't be bothered to clean, especially when there's a Moving Up marathon on TV. I know cleaning will get done when we get around to it, just like I know I'll cut my hair when I get around to it (or, more likely won't have to since it's falling out so dramatically).
Yesterday was Baby's four month check up, and he was supposed to get another round of shots. I called Anthem last week to find him a pediatrician, since we weren't going to drive an hour every time he needed to see a doctor. Anthem gave me the name and number of a pediatrician here in town, and I called and set up an appointment for this morning. I was a little worried because I knew that at least part of the street where the doctor's office was located was in a less than desirable area of town. I wasn't too worried, however, because this is a town which goes from really nice to really crappy really quickly. We looked at one house, for example, which was on what our realtor called a "transitional" street. From the backyard of that house, we could see mansions that cost upwards of $600,000. So I wasn't too concerned on our way to the doctor's when we stopped passing mansions and started driving through an area that closely resembled the Bronx. Husband started making comments like, "Why the hell would someone put a doctor's office here?" or "Why the fuck would Anthem send you here?" but I tried to ignore the ball of dread that grew as each block reminded me more and more of Tremont Avenue. The dread didn't go away as we approached the doctor's office. The doctor's office was a huge two-story brick building that hadn't been landscaped or had any type of aesthetic appeal ever. We had a hard time figuring out which door to go in, since they were all covered in greenish blinds and had no sign directing one where to go. Our first attempt at finding the pediatrician's office led us to an attorney's office. The receptionist at the lawyer's office told us how to find the pediatrician, so we walked out the door, around the building, through a set of double doors with the greenish blinds on them, up a set of greenish stairs, and into a room with about 20 blue, plastic chairs lining the walls. In each plastic chair sat either a sick child, a sibling of a sick child, or a parent/relative/caretaker of a sick child. While I went to check in, Husband and Baby went and claimed the only empty seats left in the room. It was about 11:10, and our appointment was at 11:15. I wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that we'd be seen at 11:15.
I took the clipboard and form and sat down next to Husband. He was nervous and kept glancing at me and fidgeting. He also seemed to be trying to stay calm, and played with Baby a bit, while I wrote down insurance information.
Then a Small Child wandered over to Baby. Baby was sitting calmly in his carseat, staring at the toys we'd attached. He had three toys on his carseat, Multicolored Lion, Baby Keys, and Yellow Cow. Small Child, who seemed to be about two years old and not much bigger than Baby, decided she wanted Yellow Cow. She'd take a few steps, stop, then take a few more steps, until she was within reach of Yellow Cow. She extended her arm and wrapped her tiny fist around Yellow Cow. Small Child's mother jumped out of her seat and yelled, "Small Child! You get away from that toy! You're going to get that baby sick!" As soon as Small Child's name was called, and she, her mother, and four siblings went through the door to see the doctor, Husband took Yellow Cow off of Baby's carseat and told me not to let him have it. Yellow Cow has now had it's first visit through the washer and dryer.
I brought the form and clipboard back to the receptionist, a frazzled looking older woman with papers stacked high up on her desk. While I was waiting for her to take my form and copy my insurance card, I noticed the doctor's rules, one of which was "Cash or check only. We do not accept credit cards." Husband and I never carry cash, and we use our checkbook even less. I explained to the receptionist that we didn't have cash or checks with us, and asked if she'd like to reschedule. She directed me to the pharmacy downstairs and said they had an ATM. Husband sighed and ventured downstairs, only to return two minutes later without cash. The pharmacy downstairs did not, in fact, have an ATM. I informed the receptionist that the pharmacy downstairs did not have an ATM and offered to leave and reschedule. She told me that really wasn't necessary and I could just go downstairs to the ATM. I reminded her that Husband had just discovered that downstairs did not have an ATM. She said that was fine and she could either give me an envelope to mail in payment or we could run to the bank. I conferred with Husband, who appeared to be about to start twitching, and he said, "Let's 'run to the bank.'" He picked up the carseat and sprinted out the door. I told the receptionist we were running to the bank and would return shortly. She commanded me and Baby to stay and let Husband run to the bank on his own. I told her I'd try to catch them, walked out the door, and did not return.
On the drive home, between various combinations of swear words, Husband and I decided we'd spend some time finding a doctor for Baby that was in an area where we felt a little more comfortable. We tried putting in the zip code for my school (a fairly affluent zip code) and found a group practice with high patient satisfaction rating. After about an hour of phone calls to Anthem, our old pediatrician's office, and the new pediatrician's office trying to get his medical and immunization records send in time for today's appointment, we finally decided it would just be faster to drive the hour to the old pediatrician's office, get the records ourselves, and drive home. So that's what we did. In the future, I might consider being a little more proactive when it comes to stuff like this and not let Anthem decide what's best for my baby.
Yesterday was Baby's four month check up, and he was supposed to get another round of shots. I called Anthem last week to find him a pediatrician, since we weren't going to drive an hour every time he needed to see a doctor. Anthem gave me the name and number of a pediatrician here in town, and I called and set up an appointment for this morning. I was a little worried because I knew that at least part of the street where the doctor's office was located was in a less than desirable area of town. I wasn't too worried, however, because this is a town which goes from really nice to really crappy really quickly. We looked at one house, for example, which was on what our realtor called a "transitional" street. From the backyard of that house, we could see mansions that cost upwards of $600,000. So I wasn't too concerned on our way to the doctor's when we stopped passing mansions and started driving through an area that closely resembled the Bronx. Husband started making comments like, "Why the hell would someone put a doctor's office here?" or "Why the fuck would Anthem send you here?" but I tried to ignore the ball of dread that grew as each block reminded me more and more of Tremont Avenue. The dread didn't go away as we approached the doctor's office. The doctor's office was a huge two-story brick building that hadn't been landscaped or had any type of aesthetic appeal ever. We had a hard time figuring out which door to go in, since they were all covered in greenish blinds and had no sign directing one where to go. Our first attempt at finding the pediatrician's office led us to an attorney's office. The receptionist at the lawyer's office told us how to find the pediatrician, so we walked out the door, around the building, through a set of double doors with the greenish blinds on them, up a set of greenish stairs, and into a room with about 20 blue, plastic chairs lining the walls. In each plastic chair sat either a sick child, a sibling of a sick child, or a parent/relative/caretaker of a sick child. While I went to check in, Husband and Baby went and claimed the only empty seats left in the room. It was about 11:10, and our appointment was at 11:15. I wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that we'd be seen at 11:15.
I took the clipboard and form and sat down next to Husband. He was nervous and kept glancing at me and fidgeting. He also seemed to be trying to stay calm, and played with Baby a bit, while I wrote down insurance information.
Then a Small Child wandered over to Baby. Baby was sitting calmly in his carseat, staring at the toys we'd attached. He had three toys on his carseat, Multicolored Lion, Baby Keys, and Yellow Cow. Small Child, who seemed to be about two years old and not much bigger than Baby, decided she wanted Yellow Cow. She'd take a few steps, stop, then take a few more steps, until she was within reach of Yellow Cow. She extended her arm and wrapped her tiny fist around Yellow Cow. Small Child's mother jumped out of her seat and yelled, "Small Child! You get away from that toy! You're going to get that baby sick!" As soon as Small Child's name was called, and she, her mother, and four siblings went through the door to see the doctor, Husband took Yellow Cow off of Baby's carseat and told me not to let him have it. Yellow Cow has now had it's first visit through the washer and dryer.
I brought the form and clipboard back to the receptionist, a frazzled looking older woman with papers stacked high up on her desk. While I was waiting for her to take my form and copy my insurance card, I noticed the doctor's rules, one of which was "Cash or check only. We do not accept credit cards." Husband and I never carry cash, and we use our checkbook even less. I explained to the receptionist that we didn't have cash or checks with us, and asked if she'd like to reschedule. She directed me to the pharmacy downstairs and said they had an ATM. Husband sighed and ventured downstairs, only to return two minutes later without cash. The pharmacy downstairs did not, in fact, have an ATM. I informed the receptionist that the pharmacy downstairs did not have an ATM and offered to leave and reschedule. She told me that really wasn't necessary and I could just go downstairs to the ATM. I reminded her that Husband had just discovered that downstairs did not have an ATM. She said that was fine and she could either give me an envelope to mail in payment or we could run to the bank. I conferred with Husband, who appeared to be about to start twitching, and he said, "Let's 'run to the bank.'" He picked up the carseat and sprinted out the door. I told the receptionist we were running to the bank and would return shortly. She commanded me and Baby to stay and let Husband run to the bank on his own. I told her I'd try to catch them, walked out the door, and did not return.
On the drive home, between various combinations of swear words, Husband and I decided we'd spend some time finding a doctor for Baby that was in an area where we felt a little more comfortable. We tried putting in the zip code for my school (a fairly affluent zip code) and found a group practice with high patient satisfaction rating. After about an hour of phone calls to Anthem, our old pediatrician's office, and the new pediatrician's office trying to get his medical and immunization records send in time for today's appointment, we finally decided it would just be faster to drive the hour to the old pediatrician's office, get the records ourselves, and drive home. So that's what we did. In the future, I might consider being a little more proactive when it comes to stuff like this and not let Anthem decide what's best for my baby.
20 July 2007
I'm sad...
Husband and his brother just left. It's 11:48 p.m., and they went to Wal-Mart to purchase the final Harry Potter. My job is to miss out on buying Harry Potter at midnight and stay home with Baby. Earlier today I seriously debated taking Baby and going with them. I had visions of Husband's brother taking a picture of me, Husband, and Baby outside of Wal-Mart holding Harry Potter 7, and years later telling Baby "we took you to get the last Harry Potter book as soon as it was released. I really wanted to go, especially since I've gotten the last two at midnight. In the end, I knew it wasn't the best thing for him. Sigh.
My job tomorrow is to watch Baby while Husband and Husband's brother read Harry Potter. We've already discussed how they will not be discussing plot points around me. We're doing our best to avoid spoliers, but I think Husband might be going slightly overboard. A few minutes ago, we were watching Adult Swim on Cartoon Network, and he mused, "You know, maybe we should go ahead and turn the TV off now." I reminded him that we are watching cartoon Network, not MSNBC.
So I'm sure that Baby and I will have all sorts of fun adventures tomorrow. We might go explore the neighborhood some or go to Short Pump to spend my gift card.
When I got pregnant, I should have considered how having a baby would affect my Harry Potter reading. I'm not a huge fan, but I'm the type who will get the book as soon as it's released and spend all day and night reading it. But like a lot of other things in my life, it's just not a possibility right now. Husband, however, has graciously agreed to take over all parenting (except feeding) once he finishes, so I can read. I can wait a day or two.
My job tomorrow is to watch Baby while Husband and Husband's brother read Harry Potter. We've already discussed how they will not be discussing plot points around me. We're doing our best to avoid spoliers, but I think Husband might be going slightly overboard. A few minutes ago, we were watching Adult Swim on Cartoon Network, and he mused, "You know, maybe we should go ahead and turn the TV off now." I reminded him that we are watching cartoon Network, not MSNBC.
So I'm sure that Baby and I will have all sorts of fun adventures tomorrow. We might go explore the neighborhood some or go to Short Pump to spend my gift card.
When I got pregnant, I should have considered how having a baby would affect my Harry Potter reading. I'm not a huge fan, but I'm the type who will get the book as soon as it's released and spend all day and night reading it. But like a lot of other things in my life, it's just not a possibility right now. Husband, however, has graciously agreed to take over all parenting (except feeding) once he finishes, so I can read. I can wait a day or two.
18 July 2007
Double Standards?
Husband and I have a game we play with Baby a lot. It's called "Up in the Air Baby!" To play, one of us holds Baby under his arms so he's facing us and standing on our lap. We bounce him and say, "One, two, three, up in the air baby, up in the air!" and thrust him up into the air so he's horizontal. Baby thinks this is great and will occasionally pout until we play it with him. I learned pretty early on not to play this game immediately after Baby's eaten. I usually wait about 30 minutes or so. I used to get spit up on a lot due to this game and Baby's immature digestive system. Baby also tends to drool a lot when playing, and I've had him come very close to drooling in my mouth. He's drooled in my eye and hair and down my shirt plenty of times, and Husband finds this to be great. Husband has even been known to say, "I hope he throws up in your mouth," or "I hope that drool gets on you."
Today, Husband was playing "Up in the Air Baby!" with Baby, and I was watching. As I watched, a substance resembling watery cottage cheese came out of Baby's mouth and landed on Husband's face, shirt, and shorts. The part that landed on his face landed in his beard, very close to his mouth. Being a great wife, I immediately went to get Husband a spit up cloth to clean himself us. Being a not so great wife, I also immediately started laughing and said, "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life." Husband didn't talk to me for a really long time after that.
Today, Husband was playing "Up in the Air Baby!" with Baby, and I was watching. As I watched, a substance resembling watery cottage cheese came out of Baby's mouth and landed on Husband's face, shirt, and shorts. The part that landed on his face landed in his beard, very close to his mouth. Being a great wife, I immediately went to get Husband a spit up cloth to clean himself us. Being a not so great wife, I also immediately started laughing and said, "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life." Husband didn't talk to me for a really long time after that.
17 July 2007
What Not to Wear
Since my parents have satellite and Husband and I have cable at the new house, I've been watching an obscene amount of TV. I'm actually disgusted with the amount of TV I've been watching lately, and my book reading has suffered as a result.
I've gotten back into What Not to Wear, a show were two catty hosts berate some poor woman about her wardrobe (much like fashion conversations between me and my mom go), instruct her on how to shop and dress herself, then give her a $5,000 credit card to go shopping.
I was watching What Not to Wear the other day, and the girl on the show had clothes that looked like clothes I would wear. I didn't think her clothes were awful because Stacey and Clinton told me they were awful; just seeing them on someone did.
So I'd like to recruit help. I'm too poor to go shopping, but I would like some assistance in cleaning out my closet. I feel pretty frumpy most of the time and would like to start the school year being the hippest second grade teacher there. If you are available to help (at the new house), please let me know. No girl should have to make this important life step on her own.
I've gotten back into What Not to Wear, a show were two catty hosts berate some poor woman about her wardrobe (much like fashion conversations between me and my mom go), instruct her on how to shop and dress herself, then give her a $5,000 credit card to go shopping.
I was watching What Not to Wear the other day, and the girl on the show had clothes that looked like clothes I would wear. I didn't think her clothes were awful because Stacey and Clinton told me they were awful; just seeing them on someone did.
So I'd like to recruit help. I'm too poor to go shopping, but I would like some assistance in cleaning out my closet. I feel pretty frumpy most of the time and would like to start the school year being the hippest second grade teacher there. If you are available to help (at the new house), please let me know. No girl should have to make this important life step on her own.
This little piggy did body shots
I've been playing "This Little Piggy" with Baby occasionally. For whatever reason, I thought the fourth little piggy, the one who "had none," actually drank rum. So when I play with Baby, I say,
"This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate roast beef.
This little piggy drank rum."
Husband informs me this is not the correct rendition of the rhyme.
"This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate roast beef.
This little piggy drank rum."
Husband informs me this is not the correct rendition of the rhyme.
15 July 2007
On Attachment and Security
I've been thinking a lot about attachment these days, especially as it relates to a person's security or insecurity. I've been thinking about it mostly in the context of Baby and the person I'd like him to be, which is to say, pretty much the opposite of me. I've read things that instruct me to be baby-directed for the first three months, or the baby will be warped. I've seen things that warn of never letting a baby cry, if possible, because then they won't be secure. Ever. On the opposite end of that, I've read things that say if babies aren't left to cry, then they'll turn into dependent, drug-abusing, therapy-needing adults. Obviously I don't want my child to be warped, thinking that I don't adore him above almost all else, but I also don't want him to be clingy and dependent on me forever. I understand that's he's just four months old and has to be totally dependent on me right now, but my mind also immediately goes to the long term. The more I think about it, the more I wonder how much effect what I do right now will have on him for the long term.
I think about how my parents told me that they pretty much indulged my every whim as a baby and rarely left me to cry it out. I don't remember what I was like as a baby or toddler, but at some point in my life I lost a lot of confidence and became somewhat insecure. I can easily pinpoint other events in my life or other sentiments that could have impacted how I turned out more than my parents letting me wail in my crib for two hours.
So then, I started wondering how I became so insecure. I've never been brimming with self confidence or faith in myself, but I haven't always been as insecure as I am now. I can sort of look back and see two levels of insecurity, one that lasted until I was about 23 and didn't impact my every thought and action and didn't leave me constantly questioning my worth, my abilities, my general decent-personhood. It was more of a slightly self-deprecating insecurity, one that came out in drunk nights, often followed by bouts of uncharacteristic confidence. This insecurity often came at times like when a boy showed interest in me, or I was working towards some academic achievement. The insecurities would set up shop for a few days, wreak havoc for a bit, and then I'd get distracted and move on to something a little more productive than self-loathing.
Obviously I'm pretty far from that right now. I am constantly eaten alive by terrible thoughts of myself and my value. I compare myself and my life to others. I think back to when I was the happiest and wonder what changed and why. I curse myself for my mistakes and I curse myself for living a life that's different that I imagined. Some days, the bad days, I loathe everything about myself: my looks, my thoughts, my parenting, my faith, my actions within my marriage, my teaching, my personality, etc. On the good days, I can distract myself for stretches of several hours at a time, and I find indescribable joy and contentment in my baby, my marriage, my house. I'm lucky that there are more good days than bad ones recently, but the bad ones really suck.
For a long time now, I've wondered how I went from being this somewhat insecure, lacking confidence girl to this completely self-loathing girl. I thought and thought and couldn't figure out what happened; all I could think about was how much I liked myself and how much happier I was a few years ago, and how I am pretty much the opposite of that now. Trying to fall asleep one night a couple weeks ago, I figured it out. About three and a half to four years ago, I compromised some beliefs that were very important to me. I comprised more and more beliefs until there was nothing left to compromise. After that, the anxiety started manifesting itself in ways I couldn't have ever predicted. Then I got sad, for almost three years. Then the freakish shyness got worse and the self-loathing came out in full force. For a long time, I blamed all of that on my life going through some major transitions, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense, especially once my life stabilized some.
I'm not sure why it's taken me three years to figure this out, nor am I sure why I'm still beating myself up over my compromised beliefs. I went to Confession, I had long talks with friends, and I genuinely tried to move on. I shouldn't still be insecure; I should have reverted to the somewhat humorously insecure girl that I was, rather than rooting myself deeper and deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
I think compromising those beliefs led to my more severe insecurity because I realized I was not the person I thought I was. If I could compromise beliefs I thought were so strongly held, what else am I capable of? I truly don't want to find out.
In a way, coming to this realization that I am the most likely cause of a lot of my insecurity, has made me feel better. I'm inevitably going to warp Baby. I've been aware of this since well before he was born. I'll do something in raising him that he won't like and will choose not to replicate if he has children. But it's nice to think that if I let him cry in the car for an hour, which has happened quite a bit, it's probably not going to determine the direction our relationship takes. Probably the things I do when he's eight or ten or twelve will have more of a lasting impact. And the choices he makes as a teenager or a semi-adult or an actual adult will probably help shape how he views himself more than me giving him a bottle of formula at night or going back to work will. I hope anyway. And I guess my mother can relax now, since I've realized that it's not completely her fault that I'm the way I am. I'm sure she'll be relieved.
I think about how my parents told me that they pretty much indulged my every whim as a baby and rarely left me to cry it out. I don't remember what I was like as a baby or toddler, but at some point in my life I lost a lot of confidence and became somewhat insecure. I can easily pinpoint other events in my life or other sentiments that could have impacted how I turned out more than my parents letting me wail in my crib for two hours.
So then, I started wondering how I became so insecure. I've never been brimming with self confidence or faith in myself, but I haven't always been as insecure as I am now. I can sort of look back and see two levels of insecurity, one that lasted until I was about 23 and didn't impact my every thought and action and didn't leave me constantly questioning my worth, my abilities, my general decent-personhood. It was more of a slightly self-deprecating insecurity, one that came out in drunk nights, often followed by bouts of uncharacteristic confidence. This insecurity often came at times like when a boy showed interest in me, or I was working towards some academic achievement. The insecurities would set up shop for a few days, wreak havoc for a bit, and then I'd get distracted and move on to something a little more productive than self-loathing.
Obviously I'm pretty far from that right now. I am constantly eaten alive by terrible thoughts of myself and my value. I compare myself and my life to others. I think back to when I was the happiest and wonder what changed and why. I curse myself for my mistakes and I curse myself for living a life that's different that I imagined. Some days, the bad days, I loathe everything about myself: my looks, my thoughts, my parenting, my faith, my actions within my marriage, my teaching, my personality, etc. On the good days, I can distract myself for stretches of several hours at a time, and I find indescribable joy and contentment in my baby, my marriage, my house. I'm lucky that there are more good days than bad ones recently, but the bad ones really suck.
For a long time now, I've wondered how I went from being this somewhat insecure, lacking confidence girl to this completely self-loathing girl. I thought and thought and couldn't figure out what happened; all I could think about was how much I liked myself and how much happier I was a few years ago, and how I am pretty much the opposite of that now. Trying to fall asleep one night a couple weeks ago, I figured it out. About three and a half to four years ago, I compromised some beliefs that were very important to me. I comprised more and more beliefs until there was nothing left to compromise. After that, the anxiety started manifesting itself in ways I couldn't have ever predicted. Then I got sad, for almost three years. Then the freakish shyness got worse and the self-loathing came out in full force. For a long time, I blamed all of that on my life going through some major transitions, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense, especially once my life stabilized some.
I'm not sure why it's taken me three years to figure this out, nor am I sure why I'm still beating myself up over my compromised beliefs. I went to Confession, I had long talks with friends, and I genuinely tried to move on. I shouldn't still be insecure; I should have reverted to the somewhat humorously insecure girl that I was, rather than rooting myself deeper and deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
I think compromising those beliefs led to my more severe insecurity because I realized I was not the person I thought I was. If I could compromise beliefs I thought were so strongly held, what else am I capable of? I truly don't want to find out.
In a way, coming to this realization that I am the most likely cause of a lot of my insecurity, has made me feel better. I'm inevitably going to warp Baby. I've been aware of this since well before he was born. I'll do something in raising him that he won't like and will choose not to replicate if he has children. But it's nice to think that if I let him cry in the car for an hour, which has happened quite a bit, it's probably not going to determine the direction our relationship takes. Probably the things I do when he's eight or ten or twelve will have more of a lasting impact. And the choices he makes as a teenager or a semi-adult or an actual adult will probably help shape how he views himself more than me giving him a bottle of formula at night or going back to work will. I hope anyway. And I guess my mother can relax now, since I've realized that it's not completely her fault that I'm the way I am. I'm sure she'll be relieved.
14 July 2007
My Self Loathing, Part 4
For the past several weeks, Husband's been after me to make a doctor's appointment. In addition to probably needing a check up, we think I might have a touch of post partum depression, and I can't get full, no matter how much or how often I eat. I've been putting it off, making excuses, and generally avoiding the whole thing because I'm secretly scared something is wrong with me-like I'm dying of some terrible disease that has yet to be discovered, much less cured and will not get to spend the next 60 years with the husband I love and will not get to see Baby grow up. My excuses have ranged from, "Let's just get through the closing and see how I feel after that," to "We can't afford the $25 co-pay," to "I don't feel like it."
I'm totally disgusted with myself, though, because I think we've now stumbled upon the symptom that will cause me to navigate the horrible Anthem website and find a doctor. I am going bald. I am not kidding. Last week, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and noticed two huge bald spots on either side of my forehead. I told Husband and he just humored me and said something like, "You're not going bald." Every single time I mentioned my baldness to him, he just continued to humor me, so I didn't even mention to him that my hair is falling out in clumps. Huge clumps. I think I can fill a trashcan with all the clumps of hair that fall out of my head in a day. I'm totally grossed out by this. I'm having nightmares of the clumps forming little hair clump armies and recruiting other hair clumps to fall out of my head and me waking up totally bald one morning.
I know that during pregnancy hair doesn't fall out nearly as much as it did pre-pregnancy, and after doing some research tonight I learned that many women go through a phase three to four months post delivery where hair falls out excessively, I'm not sure it's supposed to fall out at this rate.
Tonight, Husband came into the computer room to talk to me, and said, "Oh. I thought you were exaggerating. That's a pretty big bald spot. Maybe you should go to the doctor." I agreed immediately because while I can handle being a little sad sometimes, I can handle gaining weight, and I can handle pain in my abdomen, I am vain enough that I can't handle going bald. It's kind of sad that my health, mental and physical aren't enough to motivate me to call the doctor. It's even sadder that the thought of doing it for my baby doesn't motivate me. I'm completely ashamed that vanity is what's going to motivate me to climb the stairs to our unairconditioned office first thing Monday morning and make the call. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I am doing it for Baby. It would be pretty embarrassing for him to grow up with a bald mama.
I'm totally disgusted with myself, though, because I think we've now stumbled upon the symptom that will cause me to navigate the horrible Anthem website and find a doctor. I am going bald. I am not kidding. Last week, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and noticed two huge bald spots on either side of my forehead. I told Husband and he just humored me and said something like, "You're not going bald." Every single time I mentioned my baldness to him, he just continued to humor me, so I didn't even mention to him that my hair is falling out in clumps. Huge clumps. I think I can fill a trashcan with all the clumps of hair that fall out of my head in a day. I'm totally grossed out by this. I'm having nightmares of the clumps forming little hair clump armies and recruiting other hair clumps to fall out of my head and me waking up totally bald one morning.
I know that during pregnancy hair doesn't fall out nearly as much as it did pre-pregnancy, and after doing some research tonight I learned that many women go through a phase three to four months post delivery where hair falls out excessively, I'm not sure it's supposed to fall out at this rate.
Tonight, Husband came into the computer room to talk to me, and said, "Oh. I thought you were exaggerating. That's a pretty big bald spot. Maybe you should go to the doctor." I agreed immediately because while I can handle being a little sad sometimes, I can handle gaining weight, and I can handle pain in my abdomen, I am vain enough that I can't handle going bald. It's kind of sad that my health, mental and physical aren't enough to motivate me to call the doctor. It's even sadder that the thought of doing it for my baby doesn't motivate me. I'm completely ashamed that vanity is what's going to motivate me to climb the stairs to our unairconditioned office first thing Monday morning and make the call. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I am doing it for Baby. It would be pretty embarrassing for him to grow up with a bald mama.
11 July 2007
Painting 101
We messed up big time. When we bought this house, I decided I wanted to paint. At first I wanted to paint every room, but Husband talked me down from that disaster. We compromised and decided we'd paint our room and Baby's room and leave everything else as is for now. We went to Lowe's on Sunday night. I imagined a soft khaki color for Baby's room, something soothing and peaceful and not overstimulating. Baby's room is now orange. I'm not quite sure how we came to that decision, but it happened after we eliminated khaki, red and an orange/blue combo because I told Husband "My baby is not having a UVA room. At least not yet. If he wants a UVA room when he's eight, fine, but right now, my baby is not having a UVA room."
Husband and I spent an hour in Lowe's picking out paint and supplies. On Monday morning I started prepping Baby's room. The first thing I did was tape up half a window. Then I slapped some paint on the wall to test the color. Since the color we're painting the room is darker than the old color, I wanted to see if we could get away with not priming the room. I waited for the paint to dry, then consulted Husband. We were in agreement that no priming was necessary. Husband set to work while I watched Baby (he's decided, once again, that sleep is for losers). He worked for awhile, and then we switched responsibilities. I painted, and painted, and painted. I stood in the middle of the room to inspect my work and almost cried. Some parts of the wall were rust colored. Some were tangerine. Some were still the soft yellow from the room's previous occupant. I could see where the roller had stopped and started. Clearly, I had done something wrong. I was discouraged, but I continued to paint. As I painted I realized that part of the problem was due to the paint going on light and drying darker. I couldn't tell which spots needed to be repainted and which spots were in the process of drying.
Since I wasn't really painting with any sort of focus or plan anyway, Husband went ahead and started doing the edges of the room: around the windows, door, and ceiling. Since we'd bought one of those nifty edger things that are occasionally advertised on TV, we didn't bother to tape much. We figured the edger would prevent paint from getting on the window trim and ceiling. We figured wrong. The trim in Baby's room is still white, at least most of it is. Same with the ceiling.
We let the paint dry and busied ourselves with other house chores, like testing out our cable. For eight hours straight.
When I inspected the room again, I noticed several different shades of orange on Baby's walls, especially where the edger sections ended and the roller sections began. Panicked, I found Husband watching Top Chef and bouncing Baby on his knee. "Something ain't right," I told him.
"Huh?" he replied. "Look, they're cooking alligator."
"Ooooh." I sat down and watched the rest of the episode of Top Chef. Three hours later, I showed Husband my concerns. "See, over there, it's like four different shades of orange. And it's streaky. It just doesn't look good."
"Oh. Those are all the parts I painted," he said.
"No, no, no, I think it's just because we didn't prime it. It's going on all uneven. And apparently orange paint doesn't cover up pencil marks."
"Just keep painting," he instructed. "You're doing a better job than I did."
The more I painted, the more even the color became until there were only a few large areas that needed to be filled in. I sent Husband to the store to get a small roller so I could work on blending in the areas where the edger and roller parts met. I told him that running out of paint was a distinct possibility, but he told me to make do. Jen was coming the next day, and we wanted to have the room done before she came. He came back from Lowe's with the small roller, and I promptly ran out of paint.
The next day, Husband went and got another gallon of "Field Poppy." After Jen left, I happily got back to painting. I worked for about an hour, then decided it was time for a dinner/Jeopardy break. I'd noticed, while I was painting, that the paint from the new bucket seemed a bit lighter than the paint from the old bucket, but I figured it just needed to dry. When I inspected my progress after eating Pizza Rolls and TGI Friday's frozen popcorn chicken, I swore. And swore. And swore. The work I'd done, thinking I was getting closer to finishing Baby's room, set me back several hours. Not only did the new bucket of paint go on lighter, it also dried lighter than the original. I compared the labels on the top and everything was the same, except for the store number. I compared the color splashes that the Lowe's employees had put on the top of the can, and the second was significantly lighter. Each wall had huge patches from where I thought I was blending and evening out the paint. I dreaded telling Husband and very slowly walked the ten feet from Baby's room to the living room.
"Look, they're cooking rattlesnake," he told me. Then he saw the dejected/angry look on my face. "What's wrong?"
"I think the paint in the new bucket is the wrong color," I said.
Husband swore. And swore. And swore. Then he got up to inspect the room and swore some more. "What time does Lowe's close?" he asked.
"Um, ten?"
"Okay, put Baby in his carseat. Let's go. I'm not spending another day painting. We're going back to the first Lowe's and making sure we get the right color, then we're going to come home and finish painting. We've spent four fucking days doing this, and we've got too much to do to spend another day on it." As soon as he said that, I thought: But I wanted to watch The Office and 30 Rock. I was smart enough not to say it.
We drove to Lowe's with a screaming baby and spent 20 minutes getting yet another bucket of paint and questioning the Lowe's employee about quality control. After driving a screaming baby home and putting a screaming baby to bed, we got back to the painting. We had to throw away everything that had the wrong color on it and find new rollers and paint trays. We worked for a couple hours, then I gave up and went to bed. Husband said he'd stay up and finish, on the condition that I agreed to no more painting the next day. I reluctantly agreed since I was so tired.
The next morning, Husband said, "I finished the room last night. When you go in there, you're going to see some uneven parts, but you're just going to have to live with it. We have to move on." I went in, and I did see some spots, but I decided I could live with it. We celebrated the room being done by taking a two hour nap, where I tricked Baby into going to sleep. Later that afternoon, we took the tape off the trim and admired our handiwork. As I pulled the last strips of tape off of the last wall, swear words once again left my mouth. When I taped the trim, I taped garbage bags to the bottom part of the wall, painted, then moved the garbage bags down to the edge of the trim, in order to avoid having orange paint splatter on the wood floor. Apparently, I forgot to retape one section of the wall. Husband saw it and told me that there would be no touching up of the wall anytime soon. We are going to have to learn to live with three walls that are fine and one that's almost fine.
I learned many important lessons during this painting project.
1. Husband and I will not be painting our bedroom any time soon. Sure it's lavender, a color no self-respecting man would choose, but as Husband rationalized, it's okay because he didn't choose it. It was already there.
2. The nifty edger thingies don't work all that well.
3. Primer is important. I can't stress this enough, people.
4. I keep seeing a commercial for Scotch Painter's Tape. The couple in the commercial is so happy and pleased to be painting and pleased with their results. This commercial enrages me. Their orange wall looks great.
5. Taping is also important. Tape EVERYTHING.
6. I'm not painting again for a long, long, long time. I hope Baby likes orange.
I will post photos of my fuck up once I find the camera cord. That might be awhile.
Husband and I spent an hour in Lowe's picking out paint and supplies. On Monday morning I started prepping Baby's room. The first thing I did was tape up half a window. Then I slapped some paint on the wall to test the color. Since the color we're painting the room is darker than the old color, I wanted to see if we could get away with not priming the room. I waited for the paint to dry, then consulted Husband. We were in agreement that no priming was necessary. Husband set to work while I watched Baby (he's decided, once again, that sleep is for losers). He worked for awhile, and then we switched responsibilities. I painted, and painted, and painted. I stood in the middle of the room to inspect my work and almost cried. Some parts of the wall were rust colored. Some were tangerine. Some were still the soft yellow from the room's previous occupant. I could see where the roller had stopped and started. Clearly, I had done something wrong. I was discouraged, but I continued to paint. As I painted I realized that part of the problem was due to the paint going on light and drying darker. I couldn't tell which spots needed to be repainted and which spots were in the process of drying.
Since I wasn't really painting with any sort of focus or plan anyway, Husband went ahead and started doing the edges of the room: around the windows, door, and ceiling. Since we'd bought one of those nifty edger things that are occasionally advertised on TV, we didn't bother to tape much. We figured the edger would prevent paint from getting on the window trim and ceiling. We figured wrong. The trim in Baby's room is still white, at least most of it is. Same with the ceiling.
We let the paint dry and busied ourselves with other house chores, like testing out our cable. For eight hours straight.
When I inspected the room again, I noticed several different shades of orange on Baby's walls, especially where the edger sections ended and the roller sections began. Panicked, I found Husband watching Top Chef and bouncing Baby on his knee. "Something ain't right," I told him.
"Huh?" he replied. "Look, they're cooking alligator."
"Ooooh." I sat down and watched the rest of the episode of Top Chef. Three hours later, I showed Husband my concerns. "See, over there, it's like four different shades of orange. And it's streaky. It just doesn't look good."
"Oh. Those are all the parts I painted," he said.
"No, no, no, I think it's just because we didn't prime it. It's going on all uneven. And apparently orange paint doesn't cover up pencil marks."
"Just keep painting," he instructed. "You're doing a better job than I did."
The more I painted, the more even the color became until there were only a few large areas that needed to be filled in. I sent Husband to the store to get a small roller so I could work on blending in the areas where the edger and roller parts met. I told him that running out of paint was a distinct possibility, but he told me to make do. Jen was coming the next day, and we wanted to have the room done before she came. He came back from Lowe's with the small roller, and I promptly ran out of paint.
The next day, Husband went and got another gallon of "Field Poppy." After Jen left, I happily got back to painting. I worked for about an hour, then decided it was time for a dinner/Jeopardy break. I'd noticed, while I was painting, that the paint from the new bucket seemed a bit lighter than the paint from the old bucket, but I figured it just needed to dry. When I inspected my progress after eating Pizza Rolls and TGI Friday's frozen popcorn chicken, I swore. And swore. And swore. The work I'd done, thinking I was getting closer to finishing Baby's room, set me back several hours. Not only did the new bucket of paint go on lighter, it also dried lighter than the original. I compared the labels on the top and everything was the same, except for the store number. I compared the color splashes that the Lowe's employees had put on the top of the can, and the second was significantly lighter. Each wall had huge patches from where I thought I was blending and evening out the paint. I dreaded telling Husband and very slowly walked the ten feet from Baby's room to the living room.
"Look, they're cooking rattlesnake," he told me. Then he saw the dejected/angry look on my face. "What's wrong?"
"I think the paint in the new bucket is the wrong color," I said.
Husband swore. And swore. And swore. Then he got up to inspect the room and swore some more. "What time does Lowe's close?" he asked.
"Um, ten?"
"Okay, put Baby in his carseat. Let's go. I'm not spending another day painting. We're going back to the first Lowe's and making sure we get the right color, then we're going to come home and finish painting. We've spent four fucking days doing this, and we've got too much to do to spend another day on it." As soon as he said that, I thought: But I wanted to watch The Office and 30 Rock. I was smart enough not to say it.
We drove to Lowe's with a screaming baby and spent 20 minutes getting yet another bucket of paint and questioning the Lowe's employee about quality control. After driving a screaming baby home and putting a screaming baby to bed, we got back to the painting. We had to throw away everything that had the wrong color on it and find new rollers and paint trays. We worked for a couple hours, then I gave up and went to bed. Husband said he'd stay up and finish, on the condition that I agreed to no more painting the next day. I reluctantly agreed since I was so tired.
The next morning, Husband said, "I finished the room last night. When you go in there, you're going to see some uneven parts, but you're just going to have to live with it. We have to move on." I went in, and I did see some spots, but I decided I could live with it. We celebrated the room being done by taking a two hour nap, where I tricked Baby into going to sleep. Later that afternoon, we took the tape off the trim and admired our handiwork. As I pulled the last strips of tape off of the last wall, swear words once again left my mouth. When I taped the trim, I taped garbage bags to the bottom part of the wall, painted, then moved the garbage bags down to the edge of the trim, in order to avoid having orange paint splatter on the wood floor. Apparently, I forgot to retape one section of the wall. Husband saw it and told me that there would be no touching up of the wall anytime soon. We are going to have to learn to live with three walls that are fine and one that's almost fine.
I learned many important lessons during this painting project.
1. Husband and I will not be painting our bedroom any time soon. Sure it's lavender, a color no self-respecting man would choose, but as Husband rationalized, it's okay because he didn't choose it. It was already there.
2. The nifty edger thingies don't work all that well.
3. Primer is important. I can't stress this enough, people.
4. I keep seeing a commercial for Scotch Painter's Tape. The couple in the commercial is so happy and pleased to be painting and pleased with their results. This commercial enrages me. Their orange wall looks great.
5. Taping is also important. Tape EVERYTHING.
6. I'm not painting again for a long, long, long time. I hope Baby likes orange.
I will post photos of my fuck up once I find the camera cord. That might be awhile.
06 July 2007
Entering the World of Grown-ups
I know I've been to college. I know I have a full time job, and have had it for a few years now. I know I've been engaged, gotten married, and had a baby. I know all of those things are adult things to do, but today I think I crossed the final threshold. I bought a house. This is what the house looks like. The person walking away is Husband. He's carrying the carseat where Baby's hanging out.
Buying a house was a pretty involved process, but I think Husband and I managed to do it in the least grown-up way possible. Awhile back, I broached the idea of living with my mother for the next few years until she can live at her weekend home full-time. Both Husband and my mother were surprisingly receptive of this idea, and when Baby was about six weeks old, I got my ass in gear and started house hunting. My mother found our realtor and mortgage broker. All I had to do was fill out a few forms and go look at some houses. My mother wrote check after check after check. Husband and I went to the closing. Seriously. That's pretty much it. She sponsored the whole thing, but our names are on the deed, and if something happens, we're the ones up shit creek. It's frightening.
House buying is something I didn't expect to do, but I guess it's part of my life rapidly changing for these past few years. I hope things settle down soon. I wish buying a house was something Husband and I could have done on our own, but with him going to graduate school, me teaching Catholic school, and us having recently reproduced, it wasn't feasible. I'm thankful that my mother was willing to help out, and I'm interested in seeing how the living situation unfolds.
The house is small, about 1600 square feet. It seems like a lot of square footage, but the ceilings upstairs are very low due to the way the roof is built. The rooms are also small, as is the kitchen. It's also black and white tile, which I'm not super fond of, and the floor is this horrible yellow vinyl pattern that was in the bathrooms of our old apartment
. It's strange how the house that seemed so perfect when we walked through and discussed it's potential as a home seems so different now that we own it. Today I noticed so many aspects of the house that I want to change. Some are little things, like the light switch covers the previous owner left.
Others are bigger, like refinishing the hardwood floors or replacing the hideous frosted glass in the downstairs bathroom. Those are changes that can wait until we have the time, money, or absolute need to change.
One reason this house is great though, is the yard. I will have to learn to garden, at least some.
The previous owner also left a doghouse, which will be awesome for when we never get a dog again.
I built today up a lot. For the last month I've been nervous that something would fall through and it wouldn't actually happen. For the past two days my anxiety has skyrocketed. I couldn't sleep last night and have been up since 4:30 a.m. I equated today with getting engaged or getting married or having a baby. I thought it would be some great day where Husband and I would feel really close and there'd even be a hint of romance or excitement or anticipation or something. We'd optimistically speculate on how wonderful our lives would be in this new house in this new town. Instead we bickered all day, a hazard of being up since the wee hours of the morning. I got disparaging looks every time I wanted to take a picture.
Every time he said how tired he was, I secretly thought I was more tired. I asked all sorts of annoying questions about what was bothering him, even though the constant answer was "I don't know."
But now we're back at the River, and we've had some rest and time to regroup. I'm terribly excited about living here, but overwhelmed at how to organize and fit all of our stuff. We're planning on painting our room and Baby's, and eventually I want to do the dining room and kitchen. I'm about to peruse various websites looking for fun rugs, if Baby stays asleep. I really can't wait to start living here, even if it means that I am now, undoubtedly, a grown-up.
Buying a house was a pretty involved process, but I think Husband and I managed to do it in the least grown-up way possible. Awhile back, I broached the idea of living with my mother for the next few years until she can live at her weekend home full-time. Both Husband and my mother were surprisingly receptive of this idea, and when Baby was about six weeks old, I got my ass in gear and started house hunting. My mother found our realtor and mortgage broker. All I had to do was fill out a few forms and go look at some houses. My mother wrote check after check after check. Husband and I went to the closing. Seriously. That's pretty much it. She sponsored the whole thing, but our names are on the deed, and if something happens, we're the ones up shit creek. It's frightening.
House buying is something I didn't expect to do, but I guess it's part of my life rapidly changing for these past few years. I hope things settle down soon. I wish buying a house was something Husband and I could have done on our own, but with him going to graduate school, me teaching Catholic school, and us having recently reproduced, it wasn't feasible. I'm thankful that my mother was willing to help out, and I'm interested in seeing how the living situation unfolds.
The house is small, about 1600 square feet. It seems like a lot of square footage, but the ceilings upstairs are very low due to the way the roof is built. The rooms are also small, as is the kitchen. It's also black and white tile, which I'm not super fond of, and the floor is this horrible yellow vinyl pattern that was in the bathrooms of our old apartment
. It's strange how the house that seemed so perfect when we walked through and discussed it's potential as a home seems so different now that we own it. Today I noticed so many aspects of the house that I want to change. Some are little things, like the light switch covers the previous owner left.
Others are bigger, like refinishing the hardwood floors or replacing the hideous frosted glass in the downstairs bathroom. Those are changes that can wait until we have the time, money, or absolute need to change.
One reason this house is great though, is the yard. I will have to learn to garden, at least some.
The previous owner also left a doghouse, which will be awesome for when we never get a dog again.
I built today up a lot. For the last month I've been nervous that something would fall through and it wouldn't actually happen. For the past two days my anxiety has skyrocketed. I couldn't sleep last night and have been up since 4:30 a.m. I equated today with getting engaged or getting married or having a baby. I thought it would be some great day where Husband and I would feel really close and there'd even be a hint of romance or excitement or anticipation or something. We'd optimistically speculate on how wonderful our lives would be in this new house in this new town. Instead we bickered all day, a hazard of being up since the wee hours of the morning. I got disparaging looks every time I wanted to take a picture.
Every time he said how tired he was, I secretly thought I was more tired. I asked all sorts of annoying questions about what was bothering him, even though the constant answer was "I don't know."But now we're back at the River, and we've had some rest and time to regroup. I'm terribly excited about living here, but overwhelmed at how to organize and fit all of our stuff. We're planning on painting our room and Baby's, and eventually I want to do the dining room and kitchen. I'm about to peruse various websites looking for fun rugs, if Baby stays asleep. I really can't wait to start living here, even if it means that I am now, undoubtedly, a grown-up.
Crawling Back
I'm dialing in again. Satellite internet hasn't failed me yet; it's 5:30 a.m., my sister's staying in the room with the computer, I can't sleep, so I'm dialing in. I can't sleep because Husband and I have something very important to do in a few hours. The alarm's set for 6:30 and then again for 7:00 to make sure we're up in time. I won't go into details about what we're scheduled to do because I don't want to jinx anything. I know that's stupid, but that's how I am. I'm very nervous because it's a very grown-up thing to be doing. My stomach is spinning and flip-flopping and not in a good way. I want to get up and eat breakfast so we don't have to spend money stopping at Mickey D's, but I'm not sure I can keep anything down. When I get nervous, I tend to vomit, and I haven't vomited since I was pregnant. I definitely don't want to revisit those days. So I'll go and see what Direct TV has to offer at 5:30 a.m. I'm sure it'll be better than our former without cable options.
05 July 2007
F.U., dial-up!
I'm back! I think. Since I've been living out in rural Va, I've had to deal with old-fashioned internet. The kind that involves wires and modems and a landline and AOL. I want to curl into the fetal position just thinking of it.
The past few weeks, I've gotten pretty good at Spider Solitaire. I leave a window open so I have something to do while I'm waiting for AOL to connect me or my websites to load. I don't think I've Husband ever swear as much as he did when we dialed in. AOL has this lovely little trick of connecting us, not loading what we want it to load, disconnecting us, then not telling us we'd been booted. Whenever this happened, Husband usually said something like, "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. I fucking hate AOL." Similar sentiments left my mouth as well.
It's not my parents' fault that we are slaves to dial-up out here. The broadband and DSL companies haven't made the Northern Neck a priority, at least not this area. They also can't get cable, so they have Direct TV instead. Direct TV is great, but that's not the point of this. Since I started living here full time, and consequently started bitching about the internet situation full time, my mother put me in charge of researching high speed options other than broadband or DSL. Dialing into AOL, I researched two different satellite internet companies. With both companies, I managed to get as far as the part where they asked me to give them a credit card. At that point, I made more progress with the company that had a local outlet, explained the situation, and told him my mother would call him back with a credit card shortly. He made two visits to the house, one of which was on a Saturday afternoon, and at some point today, we got high speed internet. Husband and I were gone all day, but every once in awhile I'd remind him that I wanted some time online tonight to "type," as I call it. By the time we got close to home, I was practically salivating in anticipation. I'm ashamed to say that I rushed Baby's bedtime routine just a bit, but he didn't seem to mind.
I've wasted almost two hours on here now. I tend to write pretty slowly, so while I'm typing a post, I'm also doing other things, like reading or answering emails, being a myspace stalker, flipping out about my credit card balances or catching up on celebrity gossip. I couldn't do any of that while dialing in.
I know I should be grateful that I even get to use the internet when there are so many people in the world who don't have access to instant gratification, but I have to say, I think I'm spoiled and have entitlement issues. I expect for my internet to be able to handle multiple tabs and switch back and forth among several websites instantly. I know I'm selfish, but I'm also a product of the times.
Sadly, it's after midnight now, and even though I've got a lot of nervous energy right now-more about that tomorrow, hopefully-I should try to sleep. I have to get up at 6ish tomorrow morning, and Baby will probably be awake soon and want to eat.
The past few weeks, I've gotten pretty good at Spider Solitaire. I leave a window open so I have something to do while I'm waiting for AOL to connect me or my websites to load. I don't think I've Husband ever swear as much as he did when we dialed in. AOL has this lovely little trick of connecting us, not loading what we want it to load, disconnecting us, then not telling us we'd been booted. Whenever this happened, Husband usually said something like, "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. I fucking hate AOL." Similar sentiments left my mouth as well.
It's not my parents' fault that we are slaves to dial-up out here. The broadband and DSL companies haven't made the Northern Neck a priority, at least not this area. They also can't get cable, so they have Direct TV instead. Direct TV is great, but that's not the point of this. Since I started living here full time, and consequently started bitching about the internet situation full time, my mother put me in charge of researching high speed options other than broadband or DSL. Dialing into AOL, I researched two different satellite internet companies. With both companies, I managed to get as far as the part where they asked me to give them a credit card. At that point, I made more progress with the company that had a local outlet, explained the situation, and told him my mother would call him back with a credit card shortly. He made two visits to the house, one of which was on a Saturday afternoon, and at some point today, we got high speed internet. Husband and I were gone all day, but every once in awhile I'd remind him that I wanted some time online tonight to "type," as I call it. By the time we got close to home, I was practically salivating in anticipation. I'm ashamed to say that I rushed Baby's bedtime routine just a bit, but he didn't seem to mind.
I've wasted almost two hours on here now. I tend to write pretty slowly, so while I'm typing a post, I'm also doing other things, like reading or answering emails, being a myspace stalker, flipping out about my credit card balances or catching up on celebrity gossip. I couldn't do any of that while dialing in.
I know I should be grateful that I even get to use the internet when there are so many people in the world who don't have access to instant gratification, but I have to say, I think I'm spoiled and have entitlement issues. I expect for my internet to be able to handle multiple tabs and switch back and forth among several websites instantly. I know I'm selfish, but I'm also a product of the times.
Sadly, it's after midnight now, and even though I've got a lot of nervous energy right now-more about that tomorrow, hopefully-I should try to sleep. I have to get up at 6ish tomorrow morning, and Baby will probably be awake soon and want to eat.
03 July 2007
Rural Restaurant Review, Part 2: The Baconator
I got paid last Friday, and as a way of celebrating my paycheck being less than what we expected, Husband and I went out to eat. Since I'd denied his request for Wendy's a few days earlier, I didn't put up a fight, and we loaded Baby into the car and headed for the closest Wendy's, 45 minutes away. About halfway to Wendy's, we started discussing where we'd eat our food. It was an exciting and stimulating conversation: Would we go into the restaurant? Would we go through the drive-thru and eat in the car in the parking lot? I, being in a foul mood, wasn't pleased with either choice, so I suggested we go through the drive-thru and eat in the car while driving around. I had a perfectly selfish reason for this; Baby was asleep, and if he woke up I'd have to feed him. I was so so so tired of feeding him. And I was fully aware that Husband, being the constant driver in our family would be stuck eating his Baconator in the car. Yep, I am that selfish. We spent a few minutes discussing whether or not it was possible to eat the Baconator while driving, and I finally gave in, said I'd feed the baby inside Wendy's and eat my chicken sandwich cold. As we pulled into the parking lot, Husband inspected the sign on the window advertising the Baconator. He said, "Well, sweetie, from that picture, it looks like something I can eat while driving. Let's just stay in the car." He's so good to put up with my shit. We pulled up to the little drive-thru speaker, and Husband got very excited. The Baconator was the #4 combo on the menu. He was happy about this for two reasons: 1) He didn't have to actually say the word Baconator while ordering, and 2) He thinks it's a sign of the Baconator's permanence.
As the non-driver, I had the all-important task of doling out the food. Being in a terrible mood, I wanted to get my food situated first, but somewhat patiently unveiled the Baconator as Husband foamed at the mouth. I have to admit I was worried for him. I thought maybe he'd built up the Baconator so much that it couldn't possibly meet his expectations. My stomach was spinning as we pulled back the foil wrapper. Then silence. Finally he looked at me and said, "I can't eat this and drive at the same time." We stared at the grease soaked bun with 18 slices of bacon, a bottle of Heinz 57, and 64 pieces of melting American cheese spilling out of it. The standard lettuce and tomato were gone, lest there be anything nutritious on this burger.
We quickly decided that I should eat my food while Husband drove around, then we'd find a place to pull over, switch drivers, and then I'd drive while he experienced his food of the gods. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we ended up in Saluda.
Husband was pleased with the Baconator. He felt that the level of baconness was appropriate and appreciated the lack of lettuce and tomato. He mulled over whether or not pickles would improve the Baconator, but I think he finally decided that perfection doesn't need improvement. He was thrilled when we ended up having to help my mother move the next day because it meant we'd stop at Wendy's for lunch on the way, and he'd get another Baconator.
I can't give my own opinion because I don't like bacon on cheeseburgers, and I haven't eaten Wendy's cheeseburgers since Christmas break of 1994 when I ate one and vomited about 45 minutes later. It turned out that I had a bad case of the flu, but I haven't been able to eat one since. It's classical conditioning at it's best.
As the non-driver, I had the all-important task of doling out the food. Being in a terrible mood, I wanted to get my food situated first, but somewhat patiently unveiled the Baconator as Husband foamed at the mouth. I have to admit I was worried for him. I thought maybe he'd built up the Baconator so much that it couldn't possibly meet his expectations. My stomach was spinning as we pulled back the foil wrapper. Then silence. Finally he looked at me and said, "I can't eat this and drive at the same time." We stared at the grease soaked bun with 18 slices of bacon, a bottle of Heinz 57, and 64 pieces of melting American cheese spilling out of it. The standard lettuce and tomato were gone, lest there be anything nutritious on this burger.
We quickly decided that I should eat my food while Husband drove around, then we'd find a place to pull over, switch drivers, and then I'd drive while he experienced his food of the gods. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we ended up in Saluda.
Husband was pleased with the Baconator. He felt that the level of baconness was appropriate and appreciated the lack of lettuce and tomato. He mulled over whether or not pickles would improve the Baconator, but I think he finally decided that perfection doesn't need improvement. He was thrilled when we ended up having to help my mother move the next day because it meant we'd stop at Wendy's for lunch on the way, and he'd get another Baconator.
I can't give my own opinion because I don't like bacon on cheeseburgers, and I haven't eaten Wendy's cheeseburgers since Christmas break of 1994 when I ate one and vomited about 45 minutes later. It turned out that I had a bad case of the flu, but I haven't been able to eat one since. It's classical conditioning at it's best.
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