So... it had been a few years since I'd seen the dentist. (Like before Vivi was conceived to be exact) Initially, I was kind of dreading the consequences of such neglect to my "pearly whites"...errrr "pearly off-white/slightly yellowed from coffee" teeth. And sure enough, first visit, WITHOUT even taking an x-ray (because of pregnancy) he spotted 3 cavities in 3 totally different places which would constitute 3 different visits for drilling, filling, and the like. "CRAP!", I thought. This is going to really stink. So, I schedule the first of the three meetings with the Dr. and left kicking myself (actually just mentally chastising myself as doing anything that might require any more athletic prowess than walking may or may not result in serious injury). Seriously. Getting up after sitting for about 30 minutes requires slow and strategic movement. I look like a geriatric. Can anyone say "ligament stretching"? HELLO!
The first visit rolls around. Sitter for Vivi? Check. Brush, floss, gargle? Check. Clear of boogers? Check. Eyebrows tweezed? Check. Mustache plucked? Check. Spritz of very light perfume to help mask possible death breath of dentist or assistant? Check. No garlic, onion, coffee, spinach, anchovy, or blue cheese funky breath lingering from last night's dinner? Check. Phew... so much to think about. So there I am in the waiting room looking and smelling better than I probably had in WEEKS. Anyone who is not socially handicapped and has any self awareness at ALL knows that you must be on top of your hygienic game in every possible arena as going to the dentist puts you physically closer to perfect strangers than even a regular doctor's visit.
So I'm sitting there... cozy waiting room with magazines GALORE! Comfy chair... perfectly quiet. Alone... and I realize. This is like an oasis... a mini vacation in disguise. The desire for me to get in and get out as quickly as possible melted away as I realized I'd read three quarters of an article on womens' health with no interruption! I really couldn't recall the last time this had happened. Soon the nice dental assistant asked me to come to the back... they were ready for me. I walk back... they put me in a nice reclining chair (still had my magazine) and then THEY put a bib on ME!?! "Interesting" I thought. And what's this??? I look up and see a t.v. on a cooking channel! Eureka! I'm in heaven. They were running a few minutes behind and kept coming in to apologize for the wait... each time they came in I grew increasingly annoyed. NOT because I was waiting but because they kept interrupting my damn show! I wanted to say, "could you just shut up!" But I smiled politely and said, "No, worries."
Then the doc comes in... giant needle in hand. Little pinch here, little pull there and he's off again saying, "let's just give that a few minutes to work it's magic". I sat there with a crooked smile (from already feeling numb) and thought "thith ith friggin thweet! Pleath thtay gone ath long ath you need to". I continued to watch my show as I drooled onto my bib. "Thith ith alright", I thought. I even thought about fibbing a little and telling him I wasn't quite numb when he came back in... but the fact that the right side of my face was now resting in my cleavage probably gave me away. CURSES! He began to do his thing and drill! Mists of water and bits of tooth were flying everywhere. All I could think of was tilting my head just right so as to be able to see the t.v. between his right ear and the top of his hand doing the work. I think he thought I was pulling away because I didn't like the drilling... quite the contrary, I enjoy somebody grooming me even if it is using a mini jackhammer on my chompers so aggressively it makes my brain rattle... at least someone is grooming ME! I just wanted to see my show. Then the inevitable, "tilt your head towards me please". DANG IT!!!! I was just about to find out how to make the perfect pesto and brie or d' oeuvre!!
I love when the dentist leans in really close and I can literally see my tonsils in his little safety glasses... I always try to count the number of stray eyebrow hairs and nose hairs to pass the time. I'm sure he thinks I'm psychotic... either that or trying to make a pass at him. Nope, just counting rogue hairs, my friend. They finished their business and my brief respite from mommy responsibilities came to a screeching halt as I left my recliner. It was a sad moment. But, as I walked to the front I thought to myself, "Two more vithits... yetttthhhh." I was probably the perkiest patient they'd had in awhile. I left looking forward to more uninterrupted articles, cooking shows, and reclining chairs. Weird, huh?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A Tribute: John Selwyn Grover November 3, 1905 - Memorial Day, 2010
John Selwyn Grover, my great grandpa, passed away this week in Liberal, KS at the age of 104. He was at home, surrounded by family and in his own bed. He didn't just live to be 104 years of age but was of healthy mind until the day he passed. His body only began to become weak a few months before. A remarkable man. This lengthy accomplishment is not the only thing that set him apart from others.
He was born in 1905 and as a young boy traveled by mule and covered wagon across country, visiting a handful of states. His father ultimately decided that homesteading in Kansas was their best option as the land in Colorado was "no good" for farming at the time. His life began in a time a place where the words "luxury" and "convenience" was never a part of his vocabulary. By the time the "dirty 30's" rolled around he was a man in his mid-20's with a wife and three children. John, Don, and Valena (my grandmother). Being a successful farmer all his life, the Great Depression was a time of great change for him. He would tell us that there wasn't a single crop to be harvested for 7 years. During that time he took up several jobs to get by. One being a custodian at the local courthouse. One can only imagine how much income that brought in at the time. During the hard times he actually borrowed money from the bank to pay his tithe. God always came first. As people moved elsewhere, primarily west, he was often asked if he was worried. He simply replied, "The land was good at one time. It will be good again one day." The dust eventually settled and he ultimately started buying up land for pennies on the dollar. I'm sure there were people wondering about his sanity at the time. Many thought the land would never be farmed again. To see his sprawling, fertile property today is breathtaking. Even moreso knowing it was once covered in black clouds a mile high and several miles wide. Unfathomable. He always had hope.
He saw a plane for the first time as a young boy working in the fields, watched the first car ever made put down roads that were once only occupied by horse and wagon, was around 40 years old when World War II started, felt the rush of having electricity and running water for the first time as an adult, saw a man land on the moon, witnessed the chaos of the Vietnam War in his 60's, saw the Berlin Wall come down and so many other pivotal historical moments. Through all the joys and turmoil he experienced he had peace in his heart and hope for his fellow man.
Ever since I was a very little girl I can remember visiting Grandpa John to be special times, no matter how often or seldom we saw him. He would walk in and all eyes were on him. Standing at about 6 feet 3 inches (maybe a bit less as he got older) wearing a black felt cowboy hat, turquoise belt buckle and bolero, a pearl snap shirt, a size 16 shoe (holy cow), and ALWAYS a smile. He had a shock of black hair that I remember stayed almost free of grays until he was well into his 90's. Again, unbelievable. At his 103rd birthday he told my husband of the challenges he faced during the 30's as my daughter, Vivienne, sat in his lap at only 2 months old. Vivienne was held and loved on my her Great Great Grandfather. Again, I'm in awe. Of course, this was nothing new to him as he is survived by 30 something great grandchildren and almost a dozen great great grandchildren.
We arrived in Liberal on Thursday, June 3rd for his funeral. It was held at Faith Tabernacle, the church he attended faithfully for many years. The family was seated in the front as is customary to do. The family took up quite a bit of space as you can imagine. However, it wasn't until I stood to say a few words that I realized how many lives he had touched. The sanctuary was packed to the very back with many people standing. And what do you know? There was also a balcony, packed... not to mention the overflow room outside of the sanctuary where other friends had gathered to watch the service that was being projected on a large screen. I was kind of dumbstruck. One after one people walked to the front, perfect strangers to me, and told stories of a man who held his arms open to perfect strangers and showed love to those whom felt they didn't deserve it. Stories I had never heard. I thought to myself, "All these people had their lives touched by him, how many more were there that passed long before him." The possible number seemed staggering. The theme of each short speech seemed similar, "selflessness, love, grace, open arms, generosity, hopeful, man of peace, loved Jesus, hard worker, proud of his family, and a man who knew that time was valuable." I felt small and insignificant.
I came home and squeezed my daughter after not seeing her for two days. It hit me. "What kind of legacy would Graham and I leave for her?" "What would people remember and know about me when I go." My great grandfather left some pretty big shoes to fill (size 16 shoes to be exact). I began to feel overwhelmed with responsibility. After some pondering I realized his legacy was an accumulation of what he decided to do with each and every tiny encounter in his life. Each person he met, each stranger was approached as someone special, an individual. Not just a face in a crowd. How many of us feel like we don't have the time or patience to do that? I am guilty. But we can all make a solid effort to change.
My Grandpa John always said, "Time is valuable." With 104 years under his belt, and not a moment of it wasted... he left this world a very rich man. I can't imagine the treasure that awaited him in heaven. Which begs the question, "How much time do we waste chasing the wrong kind of riches?" I'll be thinking about this for some time to come.
So much more time and many more words could be used to tell the stories and experiences of his life and the magnitude of his impact in his corner of the world. For now, I will just say:
We love and miss you already Grandpa John. Thank you for the life you lived, the love you shared, and the example you gave all of us. We will see you again.
He was born in 1905 and as a young boy traveled by mule and covered wagon across country, visiting a handful of states. His father ultimately decided that homesteading in Kansas was their best option as the land in Colorado was "no good" for farming at the time. His life began in a time a place where the words "luxury" and "convenience" was never a part of his vocabulary. By the time the "dirty 30's" rolled around he was a man in his mid-20's with a wife and three children. John, Don, and Valena (my grandmother). Being a successful farmer all his life, the Great Depression was a time of great change for him. He would tell us that there wasn't a single crop to be harvested for 7 years. During that time he took up several jobs to get by. One being a custodian at the local courthouse. One can only imagine how much income that brought in at the time. During the hard times he actually borrowed money from the bank to pay his tithe. God always came first. As people moved elsewhere, primarily west, he was often asked if he was worried. He simply replied, "The land was good at one time. It will be good again one day." The dust eventually settled and he ultimately started buying up land for pennies on the dollar. I'm sure there were people wondering about his sanity at the time. Many thought the land would never be farmed again. To see his sprawling, fertile property today is breathtaking. Even moreso knowing it was once covered in black clouds a mile high and several miles wide. Unfathomable. He always had hope.
He saw a plane for the first time as a young boy working in the fields, watched the first car ever made put down roads that were once only occupied by horse and wagon, was around 40 years old when World War II started, felt the rush of having electricity and running water for the first time as an adult, saw a man land on the moon, witnessed the chaos of the Vietnam War in his 60's, saw the Berlin Wall come down and so many other pivotal historical moments. Through all the joys and turmoil he experienced he had peace in his heart and hope for his fellow man.
Ever since I was a very little girl I can remember visiting Grandpa John to be special times, no matter how often or seldom we saw him. He would walk in and all eyes were on him. Standing at about 6 feet 3 inches (maybe a bit less as he got older) wearing a black felt cowboy hat, turquoise belt buckle and bolero, a pearl snap shirt, a size 16 shoe (holy cow), and ALWAYS a smile. He had a shock of black hair that I remember stayed almost free of grays until he was well into his 90's. Again, unbelievable. At his 103rd birthday he told my husband of the challenges he faced during the 30's as my daughter, Vivienne, sat in his lap at only 2 months old. Vivienne was held and loved on my her Great Great Grandfather. Again, I'm in awe. Of course, this was nothing new to him as he is survived by 30 something great grandchildren and almost a dozen great great grandchildren.
We arrived in Liberal on Thursday, June 3rd for his funeral. It was held at Faith Tabernacle, the church he attended faithfully for many years. The family was seated in the front as is customary to do. The family took up quite a bit of space as you can imagine. However, it wasn't until I stood to say a few words that I realized how many lives he had touched. The sanctuary was packed to the very back with many people standing. And what do you know? There was also a balcony, packed... not to mention the overflow room outside of the sanctuary where other friends had gathered to watch the service that was being projected on a large screen. I was kind of dumbstruck. One after one people walked to the front, perfect strangers to me, and told stories of a man who held his arms open to perfect strangers and showed love to those whom felt they didn't deserve it. Stories I had never heard. I thought to myself, "All these people had their lives touched by him, how many more were there that passed long before him." The possible number seemed staggering. The theme of each short speech seemed similar, "selflessness, love, grace, open arms, generosity, hopeful, man of peace, loved Jesus, hard worker, proud of his family, and a man who knew that time was valuable." I felt small and insignificant.
I came home and squeezed my daughter after not seeing her for two days. It hit me. "What kind of legacy would Graham and I leave for her?" "What would people remember and know about me when I go." My great grandfather left some pretty big shoes to fill (size 16 shoes to be exact). I began to feel overwhelmed with responsibility. After some pondering I realized his legacy was an accumulation of what he decided to do with each and every tiny encounter in his life. Each person he met, each stranger was approached as someone special, an individual. Not just a face in a crowd. How many of us feel like we don't have the time or patience to do that? I am guilty. But we can all make a solid effort to change.
My Grandpa John always said, "Time is valuable." With 104 years under his belt, and not a moment of it wasted... he left this world a very rich man. I can't imagine the treasure that awaited him in heaven. Which begs the question, "How much time do we waste chasing the wrong kind of riches?" I'll be thinking about this for some time to come.
So much more time and many more words could be used to tell the stories and experiences of his life and the magnitude of his impact in his corner of the world. For now, I will just say:
We love and miss you already Grandpa John. Thank you for the life you lived, the love you shared, and the example you gave all of us. We will see you again.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Wal-Mart Nightmare...
This was going to just be a status update, but there was just too much to say. So, it shall be a short blog posting.
Nothing good really ever happens at Wal-Mart. But, for me, this takes the cake. Here goes:
I stopped off at Wal-Mart today (rather hesitantly) just to get a few photos printed. As I entered the mega store I realized that my bladder was jut a little too full to enjoy the walk back to the photo center. So.... I stopped off at the latrine. Upon entering I realize that it is rather busy. So I bent over to do the "foot check" to try and make out which stalls were occupied. As I stood up (rather quickly I might add) I bashed my skull with some serious force on a hand dryer protruding from the wall. Normally, one would be embarrassed by such a blunder. However, I was in so much pain that embarrassment would have been a waste of energy. I braced myself on the wall with one hand and checked for blood (repeatedly) with my other hand. I was sure I had gashed it right open. I didn't. However, it took me a moment to regain my composure as it actually made me dizzy. After I'd come around a little bit, I realized there was a girl next to me looking at me like she was waiting for me to fall and might try to catch me if that happened. "Oh my god are you okay?" She asked VERY seriously. "I'm not sure" I said with equal sincerity. So I pulled it together after a minute or two and made my way to the center stall... BIG mistake.
I assumed the "hover" position and attempted to do what I had originally planned to do. Soon after, (sweet lord) the stall to the left of me was occupied with a frantic woman who almost as soon as she shut the door blew up the toilet with a major case of the trots. Not even a single courtesy flush. As if I wasn't in hell already, the stall to the right of me was simultaneously occupied by someone who was vomiting so violently I almost called 911 from my own stall. Keep in mind, this would be intolerable to anyone... However, I am pregnant and this experience represented what eternal hellish torment would be like. It was awful. I was in such a panic to get out of there I almost walked straight through the stall door without unlatching it first. Turns out the chick vomiting was an employee. I went straight to the cashier manager and told them that one of their own needs to go home... STAT. This is not something you can make up. I wish it weren't true. Moral of the story... Wal-Mart really is the devil.
Nothing good really ever happens at Wal-Mart. But, for me, this takes the cake. Here goes:
I stopped off at Wal-Mart today (rather hesitantly) just to get a few photos printed. As I entered the mega store I realized that my bladder was jut a little too full to enjoy the walk back to the photo center. So.... I stopped off at the latrine. Upon entering I realize that it is rather busy. So I bent over to do the "foot check" to try and make out which stalls were occupied. As I stood up (rather quickly I might add) I bashed my skull with some serious force on a hand dryer protruding from the wall. Normally, one would be embarrassed by such a blunder. However, I was in so much pain that embarrassment would have been a waste of energy. I braced myself on the wall with one hand and checked for blood (repeatedly) with my other hand. I was sure I had gashed it right open. I didn't. However, it took me a moment to regain my composure as it actually made me dizzy. After I'd come around a little bit, I realized there was a girl next to me looking at me like she was waiting for me to fall and might try to catch me if that happened. "Oh my god are you okay?" She asked VERY seriously. "I'm not sure" I said with equal sincerity. So I pulled it together after a minute or two and made my way to the center stall... BIG mistake.
I assumed the "hover" position and attempted to do what I had originally planned to do. Soon after, (sweet lord) the stall to the left of me was occupied with a frantic woman who almost as soon as she shut the door blew up the toilet with a major case of the trots. Not even a single courtesy flush. As if I wasn't in hell already, the stall to the right of me was simultaneously occupied by someone who was vomiting so violently I almost called 911 from my own stall. Keep in mind, this would be intolerable to anyone... However, I am pregnant and this experience represented what eternal hellish torment would be like. It was awful. I was in such a panic to get out of there I almost walked straight through the stall door without unlatching it first. Turns out the chick vomiting was an employee. I went straight to the cashier manager and told them that one of their own needs to go home... STAT. This is not something you can make up. I wish it weren't true. Moral of the story... Wal-Mart really is the devil.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
First Trimester
Let me just say at the outset of this blog that I actually do like being pregnant. However, the first 12 weeks can be quite a challenge. If you think about it, this is actually one fourth of the entire year... soooo that's, well, that's a LONG time to feel like poop.
As soon as the 6th week of successful fertilization rolled around I felt like I had a never-ending hangover. Nausea ensued immediately. Fatigue that seems to be the result of a potent roofie slipped into my ice water kept me from being anything but a barely walking zombie. Irritation seems to be prevalent at this stage too. My husband, for example, offered to fold the laundry the other day and I wanted to rip his ears off!!! You may ask yourself, "Why?!" at this point. Well, I'll tell you why. Because in my exhausted, sickly, pinball-like hormonal existence I didn't hear a loving husband just offering to help. What I heard was, "You know? You're really kind of worthless these days and there have been 3 loads of clean laundry in the basket for several days now and, well, quite honestly I'm so sick of it that I'm willing to do it myself because obviously you're to weak to get it done." Weird huh? Just taking care of my daughter is a task too.... i.e. the stinkiest poopy diapers would never bother me before. Now I wear my husband's painters mask... this is not an exaggeration. NOTHING gets through that thing. Feeding her is a new adventure. She likes to experiment with foods now... bad timing. Had to walk completely away from her last week when I witnessed her dipping vegetables from her soup in applesauce AND banana yogurt and gobbling it up. (Gag.. choke... gag)
And THEN there's this thing that happens with the butt and the gut. I know for everyone it's different. Almost as soon as I found out I was pregnant my derriere was immediately larger and a muffin top appeared out of nowhere. I have not gained a SINGLE pound... EVEN according to the doctor's scales... HOW and WHY does this happen??? I'm not sure how it happens but a shift definitely takes place and I immediately feel like a walking water bed. I hate water beds. This period of feeling less than beautiful and attractive is NOT conducive to being amorous toward one's husband. It's more like we're similarly polarized magnets... which means, the closer he gets to me... the faster and farther I repel. It's really not fair to him but the thought of someone caressing my love-handles while I try to keep my eyes open and NOT vomit isn't appealing to me. He is a patient man. I love him. He actually came up with a pretty good, albeit controversial business idea this week. He said he was going to set up a website called, "First Trimester Girlfriends". Somewhat like mail-order brides except with a twelve week contract and no nuptials involved. It made me laugh which is a hard thing to do right now. HA!!! Did I mention I love him?
As soon as the 6th week of successful fertilization rolled around I felt like I had a never-ending hangover. Nausea ensued immediately. Fatigue that seems to be the result of a potent roofie slipped into my ice water kept me from being anything but a barely walking zombie. Irritation seems to be prevalent at this stage too. My husband, for example, offered to fold the laundry the other day and I wanted to rip his ears off!!! You may ask yourself, "Why?!" at this point. Well, I'll tell you why. Because in my exhausted, sickly, pinball-like hormonal existence I didn't hear a loving husband just offering to help. What I heard was, "You know? You're really kind of worthless these days and there have been 3 loads of clean laundry in the basket for several days now and, well, quite honestly I'm so sick of it that I'm willing to do it myself because obviously you're to weak to get it done." Weird huh? Just taking care of my daughter is a task too.... i.e. the stinkiest poopy diapers would never bother me before. Now I wear my husband's painters mask... this is not an exaggeration. NOTHING gets through that thing. Feeding her is a new adventure. She likes to experiment with foods now... bad timing. Had to walk completely away from her last week when I witnessed her dipping vegetables from her soup in applesauce AND banana yogurt and gobbling it up. (Gag.. choke... gag)
And THEN there's this thing that happens with the butt and the gut. I know for everyone it's different. Almost as soon as I found out I was pregnant my derriere was immediately larger and a muffin top appeared out of nowhere. I have not gained a SINGLE pound... EVEN according to the doctor's scales... HOW and WHY does this happen??? I'm not sure how it happens but a shift definitely takes place and I immediately feel like a walking water bed. I hate water beds. This period of feeling less than beautiful and attractive is NOT conducive to being amorous toward one's husband. It's more like we're similarly polarized magnets... which means, the closer he gets to me... the faster and farther I repel. It's really not fair to him but the thought of someone caressing my love-handles while I try to keep my eyes open and NOT vomit isn't appealing to me. He is a patient man. I love him. He actually came up with a pretty good, albeit controversial business idea this week. He said he was going to set up a website called, "First Trimester Girlfriends". Somewhat like mail-order brides except with a twelve week contract and no nuptials involved. It made me laugh which is a hard thing to do right now. HA!!! Did I mention I love him?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Chocolate covered corndogs...
Oh today... today, today, today. Today is a day when the thought of putting on makeup, fixing my hair, or simply putting my contacts in can be compared to climbing to the top of Mt. Everest... naked... with no oxygen... being followed by someone with a Polaroid camera. Not gonna' happen. On top of the lack of routine maintenance I feel the need to consume freakishly strange foods like chocolate covered corn dogs or a jar of peperoncini chased with a blueberry muffin and some of my daughter's apple juice. Ugh... I want to hoard my treasure of sodium and sugar laden food groups, crawl into a whole, (preferably not near anyone else as they may or may not get their face ripped off if they look at me and my corn dogs in the wrong way) eat the bounty and then fall painlessly into a deep sleep until the monthly curse that mother nature so kindly burdened us with goes away. What is with this monthly roller coaster of bull$#%! that we have to go through??? Seriously?!? Is it supposed to make me feel tough? Like women need to be any tougher than we already are? It's like... someone thought we had it too good so, "Here's an idea!" And then... SHAZAM! Every 28 FRIGGIN DAYS???
I took my daughter to the park today. I thought, "You know? A little sunshine may help me dispel the urge I have to jump off a 20 story building (Nobody get freaked and call 911, I'm fine). Well, I was wrong. While I sat and watched my daughter play innocently in the sand while trying not to nod off (my biggest struggle pre-"gift" is that I get so tired I literally wonder if someone slipped me a roofy, or however you spell it, and I ultimately end up taking a pregnancy test because I could sware I was pregnant with triplets) I realized... crap, my poor child is going to have to deal with this one day too. Yeah, I know, I know. When we mature and get our "gift/curse" it means we can have children so it's a blessing... well, at this juncture in the rationalization process I want to repeat the word, "Why? Why? Why?" Like a 2 year old trying to figure out the world. If it were REALLY a "gift" we would experience breast enlargement, lengthening of the legs, growing of the hair on our head, minimization of hair EVERYWHERE else and lifting of the booty when we were "ready" to have babies. I mean... that would make more sense. I would think it would be more inviting to a hormone driven male than a headachey, bloated, broken out, bitchy woman laid up in her bedroom with a pint of ice cream and a heating pad. But whatever. It makes me want to do absolutely nothing. My friend called me to see if I was going to head to our excercise class. When I hesitated she said, "You better have a good excuse if you don't come". I immediately proceeded to climb on the hood of my Trailblazer and hurl myself to the ground in an effort to manufacture an injury severe enough to skip our workout but not serious enough to send me to the hospital. I did this repeatedly until I realized that a twisted ankle was not going to happen that easily (the one time I was pissed I had sturdy stems... dang genes). So I went... did some squats and crunches... and quickly regreted the corn dog. Which brings me to the moral of the story: If you are trying to injure yourself in order to avoid a NON obligatory workout... you are certifiable. If you attempt it regularly, say every 28 days... you're just premenstrual.
This message brought to you by Pamprin, Tampax, Motrin and Krispy Kreme Donuts.
I took my daughter to the park today. I thought, "You know? A little sunshine may help me dispel the urge I have to jump off a 20 story building (Nobody get freaked and call 911, I'm fine). Well, I was wrong. While I sat and watched my daughter play innocently in the sand while trying not to nod off (my biggest struggle pre-"gift" is that I get so tired I literally wonder if someone slipped me a roofy, or however you spell it, and I ultimately end up taking a pregnancy test because I could sware I was pregnant with triplets) I realized... crap, my poor child is going to have to deal with this one day too. Yeah, I know, I know. When we mature and get our "gift/curse" it means we can have children so it's a blessing... well, at this juncture in the rationalization process I want to repeat the word, "Why? Why? Why?" Like a 2 year old trying to figure out the world. If it were REALLY a "gift" we would experience breast enlargement, lengthening of the legs, growing of the hair on our head, minimization of hair EVERYWHERE else and lifting of the booty when we were "ready" to have babies. I mean... that would make more sense. I would think it would be more inviting to a hormone driven male than a headachey, bloated, broken out, bitchy woman laid up in her bedroom with a pint of ice cream and a heating pad. But whatever. It makes me want to do absolutely nothing. My friend called me to see if I was going to head to our excercise class. When I hesitated she said, "You better have a good excuse if you don't come". I immediately proceeded to climb on the hood of my Trailblazer and hurl myself to the ground in an effort to manufacture an injury severe enough to skip our workout but not serious enough to send me to the hospital. I did this repeatedly until I realized that a twisted ankle was not going to happen that easily (the one time I was pissed I had sturdy stems... dang genes). So I went... did some squats and crunches... and quickly regreted the corn dog. Which brings me to the moral of the story: If you are trying to injure yourself in order to avoid a NON obligatory workout... you are certifiable. If you attempt it regularly, say every 28 days... you're just premenstrual.
This message brought to you by Pamprin, Tampax, Motrin and Krispy Kreme Donuts.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
What is this stuff leaking out of my ears?
There was a time when I was funny. Witty even. Once upon a time I, yes, Paige was a woman who commanded center stage in a group conversation making people laugh until they cried. Okay, okay... they didn't cry that often... but it has happened nonetheless. I have to say, however, that the day I pushed a 7 lb 8 oz human out of the nether regions of my body... something very strange happened. Somehow, as I was in the throws of labor, I missed the part where the umbilical cord that gave nourishment to my little girl for 40 long weeks had lassoed itself around my brain and took it hostage as it made its exit. (Now I studied business in college, not anatomy, but that is moot at this point... what I tell you is true.)
I guess the doctor I used was pretty new since she didn't distinguish my brain from all the "other stuff" as it was tossed into what looked like an oil pan that a mechanic might use and hurriedly taken elsewhere. I wonder where they take that "stuff". Maybe a boiler room or something where all the other expendable body parts go. I digress. So there I am in all my glory and I'm so caught up in my recent accomplishment that I was oblivious to the "brain-knapping" that was occurring simultaneously.
For the first few days I didn't miss my brain. Had no clue it was gone. I did nothing but stare at this new little humanoid and cry on occasion. We were in la-la land... a land of candy corn mountains and gum-drop buttons where unicorns frolicked and forrest nymphs played the harp for our listening pleasure. Then, WHAMMO! Reality. Soon after we arrived home Graham morphed back into himself and jokingly slapped me with some smart ass comment to which I would normally respond quickly and with precision (always go straight for the jugular I say, take no prisoners). But I just stood there... dumbfounded... reaching... grasping for anthything... for god's sake... ANYTHING!!! Nothing. All I heard was a faint buzzing. A buzzing similar to that of a mosquito when it tries to fly into your ear. Graham stood there... waiting patiently to receive the verbal lashing and soak up the brilliant rhetoric that he had grown so accustomed to in times past. After facing off for what was probably 20 minutes... both of us waiting for something to happen... we both realized the gravity of the situation. His face sank with disappointment as I felt what I'm sure was saliva run out of my mouth down my chin and onto my shirt. I just stood there... like a vegatable. He quickly realized that he was, for the first time, smarter and sharper than I was and his sullen face changed quickly to a disguisting grin as he pranced around me like he was Muhammed Ali after winning a big fight. "What a nerd", I thought. Sadly, I couldn't even verbalize the most elementary insult. I was stumped. That was a pivotal moment in our relationship as well as the death of a part of my personality that I still mourn.
I begrudgingly lay it to rest... next to my formerly toned thighs, flat, scar-free stomach, perky breasts, and tight rear. I visit their graves everyday... tell them how much I miss them and then I go on about my day. Life goes on as they say. For now I will just put a picture of my brain on a milk carton and hope it finds its way back to me. As for the thighs, flat tummy, and toned rear? I will faithfully visit them where they were laid to rest and pray fervently for resurrection. If they never return? Well, I'll get over it. Have you seen my beautiful daughter? I'd become a homely moron for her all over again.
I guess the doctor I used was pretty new since she didn't distinguish my brain from all the "other stuff" as it was tossed into what looked like an oil pan that a mechanic might use and hurriedly taken elsewhere. I wonder where they take that "stuff". Maybe a boiler room or something where all the other expendable body parts go. I digress. So there I am in all my glory and I'm so caught up in my recent accomplishment that I was oblivious to the "brain-knapping" that was occurring simultaneously.
For the first few days I didn't miss my brain. Had no clue it was gone. I did nothing but stare at this new little humanoid and cry on occasion. We were in la-la land... a land of candy corn mountains and gum-drop buttons where unicorns frolicked and forrest nymphs played the harp for our listening pleasure. Then, WHAMMO! Reality. Soon after we arrived home Graham morphed back into himself and jokingly slapped me with some smart ass comment to which I would normally respond quickly and with precision (always go straight for the jugular I say, take no prisoners). But I just stood there... dumbfounded... reaching... grasping for anthything... for god's sake... ANYTHING!!! Nothing. All I heard was a faint buzzing. A buzzing similar to that of a mosquito when it tries to fly into your ear. Graham stood there... waiting patiently to receive the verbal lashing and soak up the brilliant rhetoric that he had grown so accustomed to in times past. After facing off for what was probably 20 minutes... both of us waiting for something to happen... we both realized the gravity of the situation. His face sank with disappointment as I felt what I'm sure was saliva run out of my mouth down my chin and onto my shirt. I just stood there... like a vegatable. He quickly realized that he was, for the first time, smarter and sharper than I was and his sullen face changed quickly to a disguisting grin as he pranced around me like he was Muhammed Ali after winning a big fight. "What a nerd", I thought. Sadly, I couldn't even verbalize the most elementary insult. I was stumped. That was a pivotal moment in our relationship as well as the death of a part of my personality that I still mourn.
I begrudgingly lay it to rest... next to my formerly toned thighs, flat, scar-free stomach, perky breasts, and tight rear. I visit their graves everyday... tell them how much I miss them and then I go on about my day. Life goes on as they say. For now I will just put a picture of my brain on a milk carton and hope it finds its way back to me. As for the thighs, flat tummy, and toned rear? I will faithfully visit them where they were laid to rest and pray fervently for resurrection. If they never return? Well, I'll get over it. Have you seen my beautiful daughter? I'd become a homely moron for her all over again.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Kowabunga
As kids my brothers and I had a pension for feeding our creative imaginations while simultaneously getting ourselves into extremely unsafe situations. I remember it like it was yesterday. One day we were sitting next to a stinky cow crap infested pond (we'd probably just finished swimming in it) wondering what we could do. My older brother, Devon, who was often the mastermind behind these plots stops mid-conversation:
"I know! We can make a zip line that will take us across the pond!"
I'm sure that we had just finished watching some episode of MacGyver. You know... the guy with the crazy mullet-ish hairdo that could make a metal cutting laser beam project from the end of a ball point pen using only said pen, a match, some scotch tape and a couple of Chicklets? That guy was amazing. Well during the summer my brothers wore very much the same hairdo so it was only natural that they they acquired such crafty skills at the same time, right?
We proceed to the barn where my grandpa kept all of his tools, scraps, rope and any other thing that we might need to use. Keep in mind these are also things that if found missing would mean a verbal or very literal ass beating by either him or my parents. So we schlep in, scanning the environment for any signs of grandpa, grab the things we need and run like hell back to the pond all the while looking behind us ready to see an old man in a cowboy hat, bright orange jumper and boots ready to kill. We made it.
Once at the pond we take inventory:
"Rope. Check. Chain. Check. Hammer. Check. Rusty-old-falling-apart-bike handle bars. Check. Dog Collar? Check. Oil. Check. Pulley. Check."
The assembly begins... in no time we had that thing rigged up. It went from one of the biggest trees on one side of the pond to a smaller tree on the other. It was quite a distance. We all stood around slapping mosquitoes the size of friggin' sparrows off of our legs and just stared at each other. Who would it be? Who would it be? Devon, confident in his genius contraption looks at me and said in the extremely exaggerated hick accent we had as children:
"Payyyge you tra it!"
I thought for a second. What the hell. I might as well get some sort of bragging rights out of this. Being the only girl I was quite often in situations where I felt the pressure to keep up with the boys and not be a "weiner" as my brothers so eloquently put it. I climb to the top and take a firm hold of the rusted out handlebars and looked down bravely at my brothers. Devon was wide eyed with expectation probably thinking, "Holy crap, she's gonna' do it. What an idiot!" Chantz was picking his nose and throwing rocks in the pond. I leaned forward and screamed,
"Kowabungaaaaaa dudes!!!"
This, if you recall, was appropriate expression for the time as everyone wanted to be one of the Ninja Turtles. I imagined myself as Splinter, the master and spiritual guide for the young turtles. I digress. So I'm FLYING down the zip line thinking, "This works pretty good" and then I think, "How the hell do I stop?!!" At the same time I hear Devon screaming,
"Let go DUMMY!"
So I did. As I was flying through the air I had about 2 seconds to think about how totally tubular I was for doing it first and how I would get out and say very casually, "It was alright, no big deal"
But as I hit the water feet first I quickly felt the consequence of thinking so highly of myself as a giant stick hidden beneath the surface raked across my leg and I came very close to impalement. I no longer felt like Splinter... but ironically had the biggest bleeping splinter in the history of splinters in my leg and drawing blood. My ass was in pain. But I lived and I have bragging rights.
Sticking with the theme of this post I'm going to "go out on a limb" and say that the conception and arrival of my first born daughter is a similar story. Now, I know what you're wondering. "Where do the rope, chain, oil, and handlebars fit into this?" They don't, specifically... well, actually something like oil and something like a rope I guess but not exactly. Again, I digress.
My husband and I had tossed around this crazy idea of getting pregnant for a couple of months and so one day I walked in and said, "I'm off the pill!" Sounded like a great idea from the beginning... just like the zip line. Exciting, adventurous and new! So I had been off the pill for a little while but we still hadn't TRIED. Wink wink. Then one night after a date and a couple of stiff martinis we got brave. In the throes of passion we each knew what the other was thinking. He was thinking, "Here goes nothin'!" And, similarly, I was thinking, "Kowaaaabungaaa dudes!!!" Well, we did it... as I stood on my head in the corner of the bedroom completely naked (which would NEVER happen in any other life situation) I started to panic a little. "There's no turning back now!", I thought. "I just have to hold on tight and enjoy the ride." Well, this proverbial "ride" of pregnancy was much like the zip line. I was scared out of my mind but I kept a brave face. I experienced both moments of excitement and moments when I wondered what the @$%# I was doing! This question most often popped into my head when I spent several days in a row trying not to vomit all over my clients. And again when I gained 25 pounds WITHIN the first 5 months and once again when I developed raging hemorrhoids. And in the end... my ass and other various parts of my nether regions were very much in pain. This time from popping out a little humanoid. But I lived and I have some major bragging rights.
"I know! We can make a zip line that will take us across the pond!"
I'm sure that we had just finished watching some episode of MacGyver. You know... the guy with the crazy mullet-ish hairdo that could make a metal cutting laser beam project from the end of a ball point pen using only said pen, a match, some scotch tape and a couple of Chicklets? That guy was amazing. Well during the summer my brothers wore very much the same hairdo so it was only natural that they they acquired such crafty skills at the same time, right?
We proceed to the barn where my grandpa kept all of his tools, scraps, rope and any other thing that we might need to use. Keep in mind these are also things that if found missing would mean a verbal or very literal ass beating by either him or my parents. So we schlep in, scanning the environment for any signs of grandpa, grab the things we need and run like hell back to the pond all the while looking behind us ready to see an old man in a cowboy hat, bright orange jumper and boots ready to kill. We made it.
Once at the pond we take inventory:
"Rope. Check. Chain. Check. Hammer. Check. Rusty-old-falling-apart-bike handle bars. Check. Dog Collar? Check. Oil. Check. Pulley. Check."
The assembly begins... in no time we had that thing rigged up. It went from one of the biggest trees on one side of the pond to a smaller tree on the other. It was quite a distance. We all stood around slapping mosquitoes the size of friggin' sparrows off of our legs and just stared at each other. Who would it be? Who would it be? Devon, confident in his genius contraption looks at me and said in the extremely exaggerated hick accent we had as children:
"Payyyge you tra it!"
I thought for a second. What the hell. I might as well get some sort of bragging rights out of this. Being the only girl I was quite often in situations where I felt the pressure to keep up with the boys and not be a "weiner" as my brothers so eloquently put it. I climb to the top and take a firm hold of the rusted out handlebars and looked down bravely at my brothers. Devon was wide eyed with expectation probably thinking, "Holy crap, she's gonna' do it. What an idiot!" Chantz was picking his nose and throwing rocks in the pond. I leaned forward and screamed,
"Kowabungaaaaaa dudes!!!"
This, if you recall, was appropriate expression for the time as everyone wanted to be one of the Ninja Turtles. I imagined myself as Splinter, the master and spiritual guide for the young turtles. I digress. So I'm FLYING down the zip line thinking, "This works pretty good" and then I think, "How the hell do I stop?!!" At the same time I hear Devon screaming,
"Let go DUMMY!"
So I did. As I was flying through the air I had about 2 seconds to think about how totally tubular I was for doing it first and how I would get out and say very casually, "It was alright, no big deal"
But as I hit the water feet first I quickly felt the consequence of thinking so highly of myself as a giant stick hidden beneath the surface raked across my leg and I came very close to impalement. I no longer felt like Splinter... but ironically had the biggest bleeping splinter in the history of splinters in my leg and drawing blood. My ass was in pain. But I lived and I have bragging rights.
Sticking with the theme of this post I'm going to "go out on a limb" and say that the conception and arrival of my first born daughter is a similar story. Now, I know what you're wondering. "Where do the rope, chain, oil, and handlebars fit into this?" They don't, specifically... well, actually something like oil and something like a rope I guess but not exactly. Again, I digress.
My husband and I had tossed around this crazy idea of getting pregnant for a couple of months and so one day I walked in and said, "I'm off the pill!" Sounded like a great idea from the beginning... just like the zip line. Exciting, adventurous and new! So I had been off the pill for a little while but we still hadn't TRIED. Wink wink. Then one night after a date and a couple of stiff martinis we got brave. In the throes of passion we each knew what the other was thinking. He was thinking, "Here goes nothin'!" And, similarly, I was thinking, "Kowaaaabungaaa dudes!!!" Well, we did it... as I stood on my head in the corner of the bedroom completely naked (which would NEVER happen in any other life situation) I started to panic a little. "There's no turning back now!", I thought. "I just have to hold on tight and enjoy the ride." Well, this proverbial "ride" of pregnancy was much like the zip line. I was scared out of my mind but I kept a brave face. I experienced both moments of excitement and moments when I wondered what the @$%# I was doing! This question most often popped into my head when I spent several days in a row trying not to vomit all over my clients. And again when I gained 25 pounds WITHIN the first 5 months and once again when I developed raging hemorrhoids. And in the end... my ass and other various parts of my nether regions were very much in pain. This time from popping out a little humanoid. But I lived and I have some major bragging rights.
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