October 30th, 2009
I found a hair in my salad. At lunch with a potentially very important client. I very quietly removed the offending gag-worthy hair and ate the damn salad. Now I’m waiting for the communicable, debilitating disease to kick in. In three, two, one…
We celebrated the one year anniversary of our meeting, in the same pub, in the same booth. Then we bought a mullet wig at Walmart. Because that is what love is about. The best part of it was, when I suggested dinner Thursday night at The Restaurant Where We Met, his response:
“Sure. What’s Thursday?”
“Um, the day we met?”
FAIL. Though, I suppose the Universe is going on just as it should. I’m still not sure he knows my birthday.
My nephew Owen tuned one. If you don’t have a reason for not stepping in front of a bus at the end of a long, assy day, you may borrow this one. I nearly died of The Cute.
Penny Jayne had her first sponge bath. And she hated it. My brother sent a bunch of pictures of her tiny, pink pissed off face. But I prefer this one. Where she’s clearly telling her mother all about the pony she should receive for having gone through such an ordeal.
“Oooh, or maybe a WHITE pony with PINK ribbons…”
October 27th, 2009
When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was a shout out to the Universe to tread lightly with this one, please and thank you. My second was a shout out to my brother.
“Penny looks like an X-wing pilot.”
“That’s my girl.”
His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I’m a little surprised she wasn’t named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife’s firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.
She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents’ permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.
Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I’ve been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I’m still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I’ll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.
TA DA!
October 23rd, 2009
I feel really good today – mentally, that is. Boot camp this morning was all about sprinting (it’s cold; they wanted to keep our muscles warm. Mmm hmmm) so physically, I’m all wobbly legged and still haven’t lost that heaving feeling, whoa, that heaving feeeeeeling. But! Since today was the last day of the four-week camp, I ventured onto the scale and was greeted with a number eight and a half pounds lower than when I began. This makes me very happy. True, due to some very stubborn saddlebags, I’m still approximately eighty THOUSAND squat jacks away from fitting into jeans I don’t hate because of how closely they come to falling into Category: Mom Jeans, but this is the kind of progress I can get behind.
Tomorrow, I aim to ride a bike, a feat I have not attempted in seventeen years. Ooh, and on Sunday, I start hot yoga (ten days for ten dollars! Suckers). If you do not hear from me on Monday, come looking. I will be the one in a dehydrated heap of a pretzel on the classroom floor. Just add water.
In case you’re wondering why I’m being such a nut so dedicated about this exercise crap (more than one person has insinuated it’s because of my boyfriend), I’m telling you straight: it’s not at all about the Boy (who just plain loves me, inclusive of very stubborn saddle bags). It’s about clothes. Fall time brings cooler weather and an outdoor wedding in the middle of November brings about a need for an outfit to withstand – and fashionably, at that – the aforementioned weather. And seeing as how I can’t afford to buy clothes in Size Fluffy and also make my car payment, I’m trying to whittle down to fit in my pre-existing fall wardrobe. Right now, my full length coat doesn’t close around my bum. And I’d sure like it to.
In a final bit o’ news, we’re expecting the arrival of my niece, Penny, ANY DAY NOW. To hasten delivery, my brother has tried loading his wife up with spicy foods and driving her up into the canyon for some experiments in elevation – all to no avail. I’ve even tried to coax her out with a cheery game of Red Rover (send Penny right over!) but obviously, good clean fun means nothin’ to kids these days because she’s still in there. Taunting us.
October 22nd, 2009
Just so you don’t think I’m being an ingrate or that I’ve forgotten, if you haven’t already gotten a thank you note, you will soon. I ran out cards. And then out of postage. And some of you are in like, Norway! All of which requires a trip to the dreaded Post Office of Doom. Also, maybe I got a little bit of a hand cramp because you’re all so wonderful.
Thank you. Really a whole lot.
October 21st, 2009
My first order of business yesterday morning was to kick the waste basket. Hard. It hit the wall with a hollow thud, a sound satisfying enough that I thought about kicking it again, just because. I went for coffee instead. Ordinarily, I’m not much of a tantrum person, preferring to deal with my frustrations in the classic bottle-it-up method that does such wonderful things for my digestive system. But yesterday things had reached a boiling point, and I found myself not at all averse to some waste basket kicking and less than careful door closing. Bathroom door. Bam! Pantry door. Bam! Front door, car door, trunk. Bam times three! When I walked into the ladies’ room, I swear I saw the stalls quaked with fear.
The funny thing was, I was only beating the hell out of inanimate objects so I wouldn’t cry. To quote my favorite movie ding bat, Cher Horowitz, “I felt impotent and out of control, which I really hate.” Surely I’m not the only one whose inability to confront anger results in puddles of tears. What’s a girl to do? Get a punching bag? Take up a hobby that involves ripping or breaking things (oooh, maybe decoupage!)?
By late afternoon I figured I’d do humanity a favor and go home early. Take a nap. Take a bath. Eat some dinner and then let my fella take me to a movie. Oh, and watch Glee, which has this freakish way of making anything and everything better. The dancing! The My Fair Lady nod! God, it’s just so…me. It’s like Sarah says, the calls? They’re coming from inside the house.
Incidentally, Where the Wild Things Are was a misstep, if you’re doing any movie-going and need some guidance. It’s not about your favorite picture book. It’s not even really about childhood. It is about divorced parents. The allusion was very strong and made the movie sad – only, not in a good, cathartic way – in an unresolved, upsetting way.
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