Wednesday, December 31, 2008

a little stellan update

Baby Stellan is doing a little better than last time I updated.

Here's the latest.

Monday, December 29, 2008

this is extremely urgent.

Eight week old baby Stellan, who is a miracle baby to begin with, is in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit with an extremely bad case of RSV, a respiratory virus that kills infants.

Click here to read what his mama has to say.

And please, please, please, say a prayer for this tiny babe and his family tonight. I can think of only one thing that would be worse than having a gravely ill child.

it is almost over

And by 'it' I mean Christmas. Christmas is almost over. I know there are some of you who are actually finished with the CELEBRATING and the EATING and the PRESENTS and the BOOZE (well, I don't really know anybody who's finished with the booze except me, so it's just poetic license or something to mention the booze).

Barney and Friends are rocking out to Riding in the Car... riding in the car, riding in the car, we love riding in the car. That's my life...rocking out to the occasional Barney show and neverending celebratory gatherings. Barney makes me want to scratch my eyes out. It's the voice that does it, I think. And the stupid chuckle. Looky, looky, it's a...cookiecookie, cookies are wonderful fun! (huh huh) First we make 'em then we bake 'em then we get to eat 'em eat 'em. (huh huh) I want a cookie. And a nap. And more coffee.

Speaking of coffee, SOMEONE TALL in my house (who is not pregnant, but did contribute to myveryown pregnancy) dropped the Tupperware container FULL OF SUGAR on my French Press Saturday morning. I was thirty-five seconds from having a cup of coffee and then I was what amounted to practically eighty hours from having a cup of coffee. Meh. And grrrrrrr. But, lucky for said Tall Person, he turned around with a sad, sad, sad face and promised to never touch my French Press again (yes, it's mine-all-mine) before I could reach out to bitch-slap him.

We don't really engage in bitch-slapping in our house. But I think that's only because we are both quick to admit wrongdoing and apologize faster than the bitch-slaps actually happen. Except if that guy continues to insist upon molesting my French Press I will possibly begin to consider the bitch-slap. Or, even better, I will start to pay off the children to run up to him, fling their arms around him, and hug him super hard. Because, as it happens, they are all of a Certain Height, one that causes a specific surprised look to capture his face every time their heads come into contact with, ummm, him. And my kids are cheap, and will probably do it for a penny.

The good news for this bleak situation is that I had the excellent forethought to purchase an extra carafe after the LAST TIME SOMEONE TALL SHATTERED MY LIFE. Er, French Press Carafe. Which is especially good news, considering there is life happening in our drip coffee maker. But we're not going to talk about that right now. Except to say, No, I don't know when the last time I used the thing was. And yes, I am throwing the whole thing away tomorrow when the esteemed garbage man comes.

Even better news? The I Love You song is on right now. Freaking Barney is about to be over.I love you, you love me, we're best friends like friends should be. With a great big hug, and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?

The time has come, the mama said, to brew some coffee black.
Then dress it up with cream and sugar.
And yes, my rhymes are whack.

Won't you say you love me, too?

Except here's the bad news: Stupid Bald-headed Whiny Pissant Caillou with his Patronizing narrator is on now. Caillou liked being a lookout. He even got Rexie to help, too. Wow! Caillou thought it was beautiful. Wow! A dragonfly. Look! Wow! Bye-bye, heron. But Caillou missed mommy.

Let's get in closer. Maybe we'll get lucky and spot some beaver.

That's what Caillou's grandpa said. Dirty old man.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

i'm glad i'm not a cow: reason 1,749,375,892,890,734

I have lived amongst the cows nearly all of my life, a sum total of thirty-one point five years. Never in all my wildest imaginings did I ever think I would witness the miracle of Bovine Afterbirth.

And NO! I do not actually have wild imaginings about cattle. Really, people. I like to drink the milk (raw) and I like to eat them (rare-ish). And that is it.

I do not have the vocabulary to express the disgusted wonder and raging dry-heaves I experienced on Saturday when I watched a cow eat her placenta.


And all I have to offer you is the standard Car Crash Response.

I just.couldn't.look.away.

It was like a big gelatinous...thing. All sloppy. And steaming. And thing-ish. And that cow was eating it up. Maybe slurping is a better word to use.

And even now, as I sit here in my comfy chair, grossing you out with neither rhyme nor reason, I find myself wondering: With all the calf nut talk going on over at The Pioneer Woman, and the ninetybazillion cattle they have, how has she never once mentioned that those beasts excitedly eat their own placentas? Because that? Is WAY GROSSER THAN DE-NUTTING A CALF. Way.Grosser.

But know this. I, Pamela from The Dayton Time, keep it real. For real.

So if you haven't gotten the message, here it is, once again.

Mama Cows Eat Their Afterbirth.
It is fun to watch.
And by fun, I mean completely and horrifyingly disgusting.
Thank you.

Monday, December 22, 2008

smile and say 'cheesy!', or thank the lord i washed my face yesterday

The lovely, illustrious, mistress of verbosity ChurchPunkMom tagged me this morning for a supersweet, come-as-you-are meme. And seeing as how I play well with others (being snowed in with the shorties, and aggressively ignoring the vacuuming has nothing to do with it, really)... I am playing along immediately. Because that's in the rules, that's why. And also, I loves me some embellished truth, and also fiction, whether it be polite or impolite.

I give you Da Rulez. (That's pronounced rool-ehz. It's French or Iowan for rules.)
  1. Take a picture of yourself.. riiiiiight.. NOW!
  2. DO NOT change your clothes. DO NOT fix your hair.. Just take a picture. (It's like come as you are day, back in high school.. remember?)
  3. Post that picture with NO editing.
  4. Post these instructions with your picture.
  5. Tag 10 people to do this!
Here I am, sitting at my computer, drinking coffee. Notice the smile. Smiling in the AM = coffee consumption. Other possible causes of AM smiling: Donuts or pastries of any kind; coffee; peace and quiet; coffee; coffee; sunny days; coffee; being generally up to no good; caffeine.

And now for the tagging:
Danae at Beauty In Distress
Julia at Java, Literally
Stephanie at Led By The Shepherd
MainStreetMom at Team Dudgeon
Heidi at Battlemaiden Chronicles
Shelly at Desperately Seeking Shelly
Mary Anne at The Stiletto Mom
Jill at The Daniels Five
Joce at Tillaboro Orchard
Jess from New Momma's World

Go ye, and meme the world!

Sunday, December 21, 2008

hunkered down

We are having some beautiful weather to celebrate the official First Day of Winter! And here is a synopsis:

SNOW, SNOW, SNOW, SNOW, SNOW (3 inches per hour... that is a LOT of snow, hence the caps lock)

There is so much snow blowing around and also stuck to our screens that we can't see across the street. Also? No travelling allowed, by order of the County Sheriff.

The best? No SNOWPLOWING allowed.

That's right... the towns have pulled their snowplows off the roads because it's too dangerous to plow the roads.

Happy Winter from all of us here in New York!

Friday, December 19, 2008

the irish always know

Sung by The Corrigan Brothers

No one as Irish as Barack OBama

O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare and O'Hara
There's no one as Irish as Barack O'Bama
You don't believe me, I hear you say
But Barack's as Irish, as was JFK

His granddaddy's daddy came from Moneygall
A small Irish village, well known to you all
Toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a lama
There's no one as Irish As Barack O'Bama

He's as Irish as bacon and cabbage and stew
He's Hawaiian, he's Kenyan, American too
He’s in the White House, He took his chance
Now let’s see Barack do Riverdance

Toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a lama
There's no one as Irish As Barack O'Bama

From Kerry and Cork to old Donegal
Let’s hear it for Barack from old Moneygall
From the lakes of Killarney to old Connemara
There’s no one as Irish as Barack O’Bama

O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare and O'Hara
There's no one as Irish as Barack O'Bama
From the old blarney stone to the great hill of Tara
There's no one as Irish as Barack O'Bama

2008 the White House is green,
They're cheering in Mayo and in Skibereen.
The Irish in Kenya, and in Yokahama,
Are cheering for President Barack O’Bama

O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare and O'Hara
There's no one as Irish as Barack O'Bama

The Hockey Mom's gone, and so is McCain
They are cheering in Texas and in Borrisokane,
In Moneygall town, the greatest of drama,
for our Famous President Barack O'Bama

Toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a lama
There's no one as Irish As Barack O'Bama

The great Stephen Neill, a great man of God,
He proved that Barack was from the Auld Sod
They came by bus and they came by car,
to celebrate Barack in Ollie Hayes’s Bar

O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare and O'Hara
There's no one as Irish as Barack O'Bama

Hardy Drew

Thursday, December 18, 2008

it was the kind of awkward, when you do something that isn't actually wrong, but is kind of odd for an adult, and somebody drops by for a quick visit?

The Mister took the short people upstairs after dinner the other night, and I set out to brew some Fine Legal Addictive Stimulants for us. You know, to help us make it to bedtime.

The tea kettle was on the stove, the burner on high, coffee beans ground and waiting expectantly in the one true love of my soul French Press. I left the kitchen to quick check my email.

The tallest short person had been playing Webkinz before dinner, and that was what came blaring from the monitor as I shook the mouse awake. Today's Big KinzCash Game? Cash Cow. It's kind of like Bubblet.

Miss O loves to accrue KinzCash for her horse, Bleckberrie. And no, I can't explain the name. One would think that the black horse would be called Blackberrie, Blackberry even, but no. That is not the case.

So the kid likes to bank her KCash. I figured I had to be smarter than the average child, and therefore be able to score some mad KCash for the kid. So I decided to play a little.

Easy or Difficult?

Ummmm, DIFFICULT, of course, because I AM AWESOME!!!!

Except? Not so much with the awesome.

That stupid Cash Cow kicked my ass. The first game I made 4 WebKinz Dollars plus no bonus bucks. AWE-SUH-HUM!!! So naturally, I played again. Because I could not understand how I could suck so badly. That time? 8 Bucks. Seriously. Eight.

So I played again. And again. And when the kettle whistled? I ignored it until I lost. Again. Then I quick poured the water into the sultry body of the French Press and ran back to the computer. I lost some more. I ran to the kitchen to give the grounds a little stir, you know, to speed up the brewing process so that I could attend to my children and get them in bed. Or play more. Either way.

I started another game. Yes, I understand the level of patheticism to which I have fallen. But you can leave comments detailing this to your little hearts' contentment. I will understand that, too.

So I was playing my ninetyeleventh game of Cash Cow, and there was a knock on my door. I got up from the computer to see who could possibly be interrupting the enormous personal quest I had undertaken.

It was a lovely woman I know, who had just had her ninetyeleventh baby last month. I brought her family dinner, and she was returning my dishes. She noticed I had been on the computer, and glanced at the screen. From that moment on, I was feeling a little bit like an ass for having a lovely person, such as the one who was standing by my front door, know that I rock the WebKinz Arcade like my 5 year old.

Anybody have a good I'M AN ASS story to share? Just remember, we're all friends here, and nobody's laughing AT you, we're just laughing because we ARE you.

Oh, and by the way, the coffee turned out great.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

lesson of the week: moose hash.

Moose. It's what's for dinner.

Moose. The other red meat.

Save a chicken. Eat a moose.

This is not the loveliest bit of photography to ever cross the dayton time. But I was exceedingly pleased to eat this (mess) for dinner. Here's the recipe for Moose Hash ala Pamela.

  1. Go to Canada and kill a moose. Alternately, find someone else, who's going to Canada already, and have them kill a moose for you fun and food, say hi when they stop by your house on the way back to Pennsylvania, and be sure to admire their rack. Of moose antlers. Thank them graciously when they offer you a pound of ground moose. Because OF COURSE YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH GROUND MOOSE!!!
  2. Bake some potatoes. Cut them into bite-sized pieces.
  3. Chop one large onion.
  4. In a very large cast iron skillet, combine the moose, the onion, and the potato pieces with 1/4 cup canola oil. That does sound like a lot of oil, but moose is very lean.
  5. Fry it all up until the potatoes and the moose are a lovely shade of golden brown.
  6. Season liberally (unless you are from Tillaboro Orchard, in which case you should season conservatively) with salt and pepper. Serve with carrots, peas and corn, so that you can easily turn the leftovers into soup.
  7. If you are having a hard time locating ground moose, you can substitute pork, chicken, or beef. Another amazing option, in a completely BadGood Way? Hot dogs.
Next up: Moose Soup, with potatoes, carrots, peas, corn, tomatoes and onions. A culinary masterpiece.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

it's award time at the ok corral

Danae over at Beauty in Distress created this fabulous SuperWoman Award. And then she gave it to me. I will refrain from all of the self-depricating comments that are circling my brain, and just be flattered in peace. See? Even when I don't do it? I do it anyway.


Thanks, Danae. I'm glad I have been able to be there for you. (xoxo) I will be passing this along later.

And next, but by no means lesserly appreciated... ChurchPunkMom lurves me so much she gave me a manward. Because I measure up.

There are some Rules for the Measures Up Award, and this is what they are:
1. Say one nice thing to a man in your life.
2. List at least six ways that you measure success in your life (or for your blog).
3. Assign this award to six other blogs and leave them a comment telling the blogger that you’ve assigned them this award.
4. Link back to the blog that you received this award from.

So here goes:
1. Saying one nice thing to a man in my life: I loves me some Mister. Because when I am crazy he tells me to (and I quote) Sit down on the fucking couchfor Pete's fucking sake!!! If that's not the mark of true love, I don't know what is.

2. How dost I measureth mine blogging success: Hmmm...Well,
a) I love comments;
b) I enjoy a good debate;
c) awards;
d) the paycheck I got in the mail last week was sweet, even if it was for $30;
e) growing traffic;
and most importantly
f) when I am having a crappy day, and I blog about it, you people say the loveliest things to me, and even though you're somewhere, out there beneath the pale moonlight, I know you're thinking of me and loving me tonight. And that is really, really supercool.

3. Six other bloggers that measure up: Okay, here's the thing. If I read and comment (well, except for lately, when my commenting is totally spotty and often inappropriate), you measure up in my book. So grab the badge and pass it along. And pat yourself on the measuring tape. Or back. Whichever suits you.

4. Linking up to ChurchPunkMom. And goodfather. Because he's good. And the Father. Well, not *my* father, but he's certainly father material. And he started this whole business in the first place. Props to him.

Thanks for the awards, ladies.

Friday, December 12, 2008


I have major teeth issues.

I love brushing my teeth. I hate flossing. There is no explanation for either of those little factoids. I just DO, that's all.

The noises that grate on me worse than anything are noises produced by applying one's teeth together. Clacking, chewing, grinding, it doesn't matter. I will instantaneously want to kill you if you choose to make that sort of noise. Or if you do it accidentally. I'm totally fair that way. Equal opportunity for all and whatnot.

I believe I have always been this pleasant to be around way. Naturally charming, that's me.

But I do love crunchy foods. Is that weirder?

So I'm thinking about teeth-related things and stuff today because The Mister participated in Mama's Losin' It: Writer's Workshop, and has posted about getting his wisdom teeth removed on his, umm, twenty-somethingeth birthday. I'll go conservative and say 25th. Why is that? No, not because I'm super-sensitive about my dear darling husband's age, I will always be the first to inform anyone of the fact that I am his MUCH YOUNGER BRIDE. I chose 25th because The Mister's Mom stopped aging at 49, and we all stopped aging at 25, so we are all 25 from the time we actually turned 25 until we die. Which was really great when I was 25, because I looked young for my age. But when I'm really and truly 86 and going on 25? I will look like CRAP for a 25 year-old. But my 49 year-old MIL will probably be dead then (and I will still be mourning her, for the record), so I could probably get away with going by my real-life-actual age. And besides, if I'm always 25, when will my children get their chance to provide for me? Let us not deny them their birthright!

But I digress.

I had my wisdom teeth out when I was seventeen. Due to my diligence as a thumb-sucker until the ripe old age of 11 5, I had quite effectively narrowed the space between my molars...and not the adjacent molars, mind you, the molars that wave to each other from either sides of my mouth. Add that to having a naturally small mouth to begin with (oh shut up, really, a doctor said so), and those wisdom teeth needed to be gauged out with sharp sticks surgically removed.

I remember meeting with the orthopaedic surgeon for teeth, whatever surgeon that guy really is. He was truly odd, and wore odd glasses, and his breath smelled odd, the whole thing was odd. Also I remember he gave me a choice about the anaesthetic: local, so I could/would know what he was doing; or general, so I would not.

I corrected him: Oh, no, Dr. Teeth, there is one option, and one option only. You will knock me out. And not a little knocking me out, you will cause me to be very nearly DEAD because if I have ANY IDEA WHATSOEVER about the terror you are wreaking in my precious mouth, I will die and I will take you with me. And my parents? Will.Be.Pissed.At.Your.Dead.Self.

Also? Dr. Teeth told me I could have a Frosty from Wendy's after my surgery. Score.

So we went back, me and the fam, on the Big Day. The nice nurse lady took me back into the room, and the crew proceeded to knock my smart ass out. Except I had never been under the influence of any sort of anything at that time, and I really did not enjoy the experience of going under. I held on as long as I could (ummm, hi, control freak?)...which was probably 2.9 seconds because I forever have been, and forever will be a cheap date.


And then they tried to wake me up.

Except for I am a cheap date, and that rendered me completely impossible.

Eventually, they dragged my half-dead carcass out of the recovery room, and instructed my father to carry me out the back entrance of the place, so as not to disturb the customers.

I asked for a Frosty.

My father said something to me, I'm sure, and tried to carry me.

I wanted to walk. And I demanded a Frosty.

The back exit was similar to a fire escape on a high rise. We compromised, and I walked while my father carried me down the stairs. I can only imagine how truly awkward that must have been.

He tossed my floppy self into the family minivan. I demanded a Frosty.

I did not know this at the time, but my mouth was packed with gauze. The gauze was there to soak up all the blood that was pouring from the holes in my gums. Yes, pouring. Despite the stitches. Also, I did not know that my tongue was completely dry. And swollen to at least twice it's size.

And I was incredibly frustrated that nobody was giving me a damn Frosty.

Eventually the realized that I was not saying FUNKY, I was saying FROSTY, and that rang a tiny bell for them, and they drove to Wendy's.

Where I demanded to GO INSIDE. They deduced my intention to go inside by the manic way I was beating on the seatbelt and throwing my floppy self up against the door of the van, all the while keeping my head remarkably still. (Drugs are amazing. And don't you forget it.)

My mother convinced me not to go inside. Or she sat on me. I have no idea.

They brought the Frosty out, and I was SO THIRSTY!!!! And I had been SO VERY COOPERATIVE!!! And NOT CURSED AT DR. TEETH!!!! And NOT VOMITED!!! And I wanted the Frosty. RIGHT.NOW.

My mother spooned some Frosty in my mouth. I closed my lips, and felt the refreshing, cold, chocolatey bliss that is a Frosty bring life and rejuvanation to the desert that was my mouth. I savored that bite of Frosty. I swallowed what was the most amazing bit of food to ever have crossed my lips. And I opened my mouth for more.

Except I didn't actually swallow. I only THOUGHT I had swallowed.

Opening my mouth was a huge mistake. The blessed Frosty dribbled from my mouth. Gushed, actually. Down my chin, on my clothes, in my lap, on the seat belt, and on the door of the van. Also? Blood and bloody gauze came falling out of my mouth.

And they refused to give me any more Frosty. Also they laughed.

So there I was, in the Wendy's parking lot, covered in blood and Frosty, sobbing and shouting drunken anger in the direction of my parents. People were watching, horrified, as the poor, bloody, retarded girl was laughed at by her parents.

Ah, the joys I bring to the lives of those around me.

The next thing I remember is lying on the couch in our living room, and taking some sort of happy pill to keep me from hurting. My mother told me my Frosty was in the freezer and I could have it later, but could she please help me change my shirt? I was feeling a little more compliant by then, so I flopped around and let her put a clean shirt on me.

They saved the shirt.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

mental health week

It's not the official mental health week of the nation or anything, so don't get all excited. It *is*, however, mental health week for me. I may or may not be posting, depending on whether or not I am feeling like it, and I will probably continue to be just as crappy at commenting on y'all's blogs as I have been so far this month.

So come check in whenever you want, the typing test is still here, and the welcome mat is still out front. But there's a little too much crazy in the air for me to catch my breath right now.

Monday, December 8, 2008

super typer

This is my kind of fun. I can race me and race me and race me.

And sometimes? I win.

75 words

Typing Test


1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyworld
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables

19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping

27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset

31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied

38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo's David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance

47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma

65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle

79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone's life

90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Seen Mount Rushmore in person
101. Learned to play an instrument

The Mister posted this little gem the other day, and since I'm not really putting effort into many things this week, I thought it would be perfect to slap up here lickety-split. And now you know 59 things (of the ninety gazillion) I've done.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

lesson of the week: ask the googles, ask the dayton time

Here's the Ask-The-Googles phrase of the week:

i have a small soft lump after kissing

Oh, dear google-er. Allow me to help.

It's called an erection, and it's normal, except if you were kissing a goat. Or your sister.

Or if you're a woman.

In either of those cases, it's still called an erection, but you should probably seek some sort of professional assistance, specifically intensive therapy on (at least) a weekly basis.

If you weren't kissing a goat or your sister, I would suggest you try kissing a little bit longer, and the lump will grow larger, and firm up a bit. However, this larger, firmer 'lump' can become quite obvious and sometimes uncomfortable for you and the person/item you are kissing.

Best of luck to you.

Friday, December 5, 2008


I do not hate Love, Actually.

I was really not in the right mood to watch Love, Actually.

I value my love-fest with WRH.

I do not want to break up with WRH.

Or blisscaff.

I actually love Love, Actually.

The End.

Postscript: And for the record? I believe that the stupid antibiotic I was taking to eliminate the yuck in my abdomen (and by yuck, I do not mean BABY) was playing a nasty-evil-horrible game with my hormones and my brain. I stopped taking it yesterday, and despite feeling a little more crampy, I am no longer suffocating on crazy. Things are looking up.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

grey day betchfist

Grey day.
Everything is grey.
I watch
But nothing moves today.*

It has been a grey week. The whole is-it-or-isn't-it-a-health-related-drama. The noncelebration of our anniversary. The there's-no-Christmas-tree-in-my-house. The whole business of being married this week. The resting. The child who is in Kindergarten.

It is just all very awful.

And I really, really, reallyreallyreally hate whining, but I'm starting to lose my shit over here.

The health business. I'm fine. The grotie antibiotic I'm on to kill the grotie bacteria is doing its job (and more! hello, yogurt, here I come!!!), and I no longer feel like I'm having contractions. The whole is there/is there not amniotic fluid situation got a smiley face sticker at the OB, and that is great. Really, I'm thrilled about being fine.

The anniversary blah? Well, I felt like crap all day long + I went to the ER = not fun. And how not one single, solitary person that I am related to even remembered or mentioned my anniversary to me? Let's walk away from that one. Because it just doesn't do any good to be annoyed with, say, my mother, for...well...anything.

The lack of Christmas tree? Goes back to the feeling like crap. I'm supposed to be resting (ha!) and traipsing around a Christmas tree farm is probably not the bestest of ideas.

The marriage business? There are some things I mention just to keep it real. And sometimes marriages are a colossal pain in the ass. And that is all I am going to say.

The resting. Ach, the resting is killing me. I have sat still for a really, really, really long time, and I watched some STUPID movies, yes, The Jane Austen Book Club, Sweet Home Alabama, and Love, Actually, I AM LOOKING AT YOU. (Those are in order of decreasing amounts of suck, in case you are wondering.)

And the Kindergarten-aged child. Will.Not.Stop.Shouting.At.Me. We made gingerbread houses with some friends on Sunday, and they are completely adorable. (Here is where I start about Homework In Kindergarten.) Our homework assignment, due two days ago, was to make a Christmas craft. Gingerbread house? Check. That will totally qualify. Except Miss O. didn't want to actually take it to school. No big deal, another parent in the class was planning to send a picture of their family's elaborate craft in, so that's what I did, too. Except I got a phone call an hour ago telling me that the photograph of the craft was not an option. Bringing in a photo was not the assignment.

Here's the thing, I said as calmly as I possibly could without losing my shit on the teacher, because I reallytruly am thisclose, I told Miss O I would bring her to school with her gingerbread house today. And she wants her gingerbread house at home. She worked hard on it, and she wants to admire it here.

That's not an option, Teacher said. It needs to be in school, in the display case, and nobody will touch it or eat the candy. I will be happy to pick it up from your house, if that would make it easier.

Do you know what would make it easier? I asked. If my formerly pleasant daughter would stop screaming and yelling and stomping her feet and being a general terrorist at home. I told her I would bring her to school with the gingerbread house, and she flipped out. I mean REALLY FLIPPED OUT. And honestly? It's not worth it to me to deal with that behaviour so that you can put the thing in a display case. I am very glad that she is doing well in school, but frankly I have had enough of the ridiculous behaviour at home, behaviour that only ever gets worse.

It was at this point that Teacher offered to work with Miss O in school to help reinforce the idea of good behaviour at home.

It was also at this point that I was sniffling quietly into the phone.

Because I have had enough.

Ten minutes later, I got another phone call, someone with lovely intentions, who knows I am having Some Fusstration In Me. And everything said was kind and made sense and was valid and useful, and also just too much for me to handle right now.
Have I mentioned I've had enough?

I realize I am painting a picture of a week that is nothing but disappointing and frustrating, but it's not all that. I have had three friends bring lovely dinners to my family. I had lunch with another friend (who also kissed me on the mouth for sharing coffee with her). I had good news about my pregnancy. I spent an hour and a half on the couch reading with HB this morning.

It's not that I don't see those things, and don't appreciate them. I do. More than I can say.

I am just having a hard time finding the middle, the place between losing it and the other place. I'm not really sure what the name of that place is, or where it's located.

Also I am not at all remembering that other place. And I don't know if it exists.

*My Many Colored Days, by Dr. Seuss

Monday, December 1, 2008

i know you won't believe me, but here's the short version:

Today is The Mister's and my anniversary. And the only man to have his hands up in my (ahem) places (ahem) was the ER doc.