The Domestication of the (Once) Single Girl

Hot Potato

2011-04-14T15:43:00.000-04:00

Forgive my absence.

I adore most of you. Excuse me. ALL of you.

I am just in...agony.

It hurts to sit in a chair. It hurts to stand. It hurts to walk. It hurts to step over baby-gates, but those are NOT fucking coming down. It hurts to lay on either side. It doesn't hurt to lay on my back, but when I do that I cannot breathe.

My pelvis feels like it's splitting apart. Pretty much all the time.

I'd rather be in labor.

***

(Annoying problem. Whenever I hit enter twice to start a new line, the cursor just goes right back to the beginning of the line that I just typed. WTF blogger?!)

***

I've been having a little bit of anxiety (surprised? :p) reconciling the fact that my precious Cute is going to be a big sister. I feel like I'm cheating her out of some of my time, and the thought of hurting her is really hard for me to handle. I know that my feelings are considered 'normal' but it's still hard. Ya know? Ya know.

***

(Something else that I have to get off my chest. The Wiggle in the red shirt...Murray? He's pretty much the most frightening looking human being that I've evereverevvvver seen. He needs to go. Somewhere.)

***

So here I am. Struggling, day to day. (I'm not in complete agony every day, but I sure as hell ain't up for much more than the grocery store when I'm at my best, so yeah.)

The Bottomless Pit's mother has to drive past my street every day on her way home from work.

Has she ever asked if I need food? A coffee? A minute to take a shower? No.

And we're not BFF's. I've been good without The Pit Family Chaos. I wouldn't say a word to complain about not having to deal with her, like, ever.

Buuutttt....

All of a sudden, now that the reality of a newborn is sinking in, things in my world are becoming interesting to her again.

I totally resent her right now because she's telling The Pit that she plans to help with the baby. That she plans to babysit. That she plans to take The Cute to make things easier.

No, no and...NO.

(Maybe she should PLAN on wording things differently. 'Could I be of any help?'. 'Would you LIKE me to?'.)

Will she visit the baby? Of course. And she will know her bounds and not stay for 8 hours at a time refusing to give him up, as she did with The Cute. She will not diagnose him with any illnesses, hold him and not give him back and demand that I call the Pediatrician immediately when nothing is wrong. She will not get in my head and have me hold my 5 day old baby down while unnecessary blood is drawn from a tiny foot to prove that the 'jaundice' that she said is there actually isn't, as a new mommy feels vulnerable and violated and still fumes about that scene over 2 years later.

I bring this up a lot. I know. It's because it still hurts, it never got resolved, she never even acknowledged doing anything wrong when things got out of hand, and I'm scared to death of things getting this dramatic again. Especially when I have no backup. I don't want to feel like I'm taking on the world when I'm freshly stitched up and hormonal. I just want to hold my baby. The newborn stuff goes by way too fast.

Happiest time of my life.

I am entitled to it. I want it. With no drama, no guilt trips. Without The Bottomless Pit getting in my head and telling me that I'm wrong because things aren't exactly as he envisioned them before we even met. Please.

I will not be shipping my first baby off to a house that belongs on Hoarders when her whole world has just been shifted. Avoidance is not the best way to help her adjust. I do not anticipate going out for quite a while, there will be no need for a babysitter.

***

Second baby showers? They're tacky.

My family wanted to throw me one anyway. I declined.

Not because I'm above being tacky (I'm wearing a Juicy velour tracksuit RIGHT NOW), hell, I don't give a damn if I'm less than mannerly when it concerns my relatives...You think I learned to burp the ABC's in private?

I declined it because I just do not have the stamina to deal with The Pit's mother hijacking my baby shower again. I just. Can't. Deal.

So my family asked, 'What do you need?'.

Honestly? Not much of anything. Clothes, I guess. Towels. Swaddles. Diapers. Maybe a new bouncy seat. You get the idea.

The Bottomless Pit complains so much about how spoiled I am. Unless it's when my family is saving him money. That? That's fine.

So they bought...everything. And then some. And The Pit's family? They haven't even as much as asked.

And it's not that gifts make my family more entitled to time with the baby, because I don't want them harassing me about him either. It's that...that 'helped'.

So his family doesn't want to buy anything, doesn't want to drop off dinner, doesn't want to help ME with anything.

But they want to...

HELP.

***

I just wish that they could be told exactly how things stand instead having this all floating around in this uncertain kind of way. Makes me nervous, yo. The Bottomless Pit wants to handle things as they come up. And if I took the initiative to approach his mother she would just yes me to death, anyway. If I ask The Pit to do the talking we will just fight because his parents 'can't do anything right' (finally, we agree! ;D) and I...

I...

I don't even know.

Valium.

***

I get it. You want to snuggle a new baby. You're going to snuggle a new baby. I'd never turn you fools away. All I ask is that you keep your drama to a minimum, don't invite yourselves over for dinner and expect me to cook it my 2nd night out of the hospital, don't shit-stir, don't baby hog, stay the fuck away when I'm in labor. THAT is how you can help.

***

HELP.

***

Baby-relative drama? Commiserate.

Pregzilla Visits the Eye Doctor

2011-02-15T00:14:00.002-05:00

(Don't even waste your time reading this. It's not about anything.)

***

I have been unfaithful to bedrest.

I am a bedrest fail.

***

Saturday? I went shopping.

Sunday? I went shopping.

And today? I wandered around my eye doctor's office for over an hour, consumed by the endless choices of eyeglasses.

I picked 2 pairs. Let's see if I ever wear them. My pelvis is screaming that I damn well better.

***

What else did I do today? Showered The Cute with Valentine's Day gifts, received a lovely pair of Swarovski crystal heart earrings, bought some makeup at Walgreens, fought (once again) with United Healthcare's mail-order Rx department (they lost my prescription. Fun, huh?) and THEN I had the BEST argument with on-call Dr Barratt at South County Hospital ('I don't prescribe that so I can't tell you what happens if you miss a dose while pregnant. But I think you'll be fine until tomorrow. But I don't prescribe that. But I think you should be fine.'). I also cooked dinner and did dishes for the first time in a while.

***

My prescription for contacts has increased, which seems to happen with a frightening frequency. Am I GOING BLIND?

***

I squeezed my big ass into a pair of leggings and pulled on a fitted tank top.

Over that?

An open button down plaid shirt.

It won't button.

I hadn't hand-washed my delicates in a while and the only clean bra that I had on hand, of course, was that whore-bra from Victoria's Secret. The one that promises to add 3 sizes.

Be warned. It does.

So not only is it currently too small, since my pre-preg size was a mere 32 D, but it makes my boobs (which are currently bigger than my head at 34 E) look even bigger than my pregnant belly. Which is remarkable, I guess.

Whore.

Preg-whore.

***

I got cat-called in the parking lot by two country boys who were exiting the grocery store with bags of Doritos.

Girls who waddle do not wish for cat calls.

I was all 'I will MACE you ladies, SO fucking hard. Get out of here with your Jimmy Johnson hats, you don't know shit about racing.' And I was really close to saying 'Give me your fucking Doritos' but I kept my cool.

Didn't want to come across as unlady-like.

And then the boy working at Dunkin Donuts gave me my coffee and donut for free.

Girls who waddle do wish for donuts.

I was all 'Thank youuuuu' *insert eyelash batting here*.

***

So the eye doctor is all 'Don't look at the light, look straight ahead' and suddenly everything was really funny. This little man, hunched over in front of basketball-bellied me, with a spelunking helmet and a magnifying glass...

*Insert moment of hysteria here*.

I had to be given a moment to compose myself.

And then he got super annoyed when I read the 'E' as a '3'.

'There are no threes.'

'But you asked me what I saw.'

'Everything up there is a letter.'

'Fine, I still SEE a three.'

And then he got even more annoyed when I saw a minus sign in front of the 'A'.

Because there was no minus sign.

My theory is that the spelunking helmet temporarily blinded me and blurred my vision.

And then I started losing interest in the appointment all together.

I don't KNOW if 1 or 2 is better, I don't know if I can make that decision now that I forgot what 1 looks like and HEY that's a picture of the eyeball guy from Monsters Inc. on your counter! Fan of Monsters Inc? Or is it just because he's an eyeball with legs?

*Hysteria starts over*

***

I went in with 1 contact. Left with 2 new ones.

I can seeeeee.

And my pores are looking rough.

Thanks, people, for letting me walk around with visible nose pores AND clogged chin pores. Thanks.

2 pairs of glasses will be arriving in a week or so, to make the midnight feedings and my upcoming hospital stay a little bit easier.

***

Conclusion:

I don't know that my rack will ever recover from this pregnancy.

Only being able to see out of one eye is quite-headache inducing. And if you rip your very last contact it will most likely happen on a Saturday night so that you are destined to spent at least 36 hours as a Cyclops.*

I have astigmatism but did not order the contacts for that, because they're more expensive and my vision is almost flawless now.

I need to stick to the bedrest thing because OMG I'm hurting today.

It pisses me off when people say 'Happy Valentine's!'. Happy Valentine's what?

***

I warned you.

;D

***

*This is most likely the result of me yelling at the hobo in front of Walgreens in Fort Lauderdale who told me that he was magical. I wouldn't give him a dollar.Well DAMN if that didn't come back to bite me in the ass, dude wasn't lying.

Speak ENGLISH!!!

2011-01-31T23:01:00.003-05:00

I am sitting and I'm typing and I'm hurting.

I've been hurting for a few weeks.

I tend to brush things off. 'Eh. It's not that bad. It'll go away soon.'

But this pain...got worse.

***

I am young and I'm healthy and I'm pregnant.

I am glowy and I am excited and I should feel fine.

I am a shining example of a healthy pregnancy.

But...

OW.

WTF.

OW.

***

Last pregnancy some strange terms got thrown at me by my Dr.

Uterine fibroid tumors.

Choroid plexus cysts.

Cervical dysplasia without testing positive for HPV.

And now...

Pubic symphysis?

Sympha-what?

***

Forgive me Dr. But I don't know WHAT the fuck you're saying to me.

***

The uterine fibroid tumors meant that my uterus has 2 ugly growths, BIG ones, non-cancerous, that eat estrogen...which just so happens to be flowing during pregnancy like box wine at a white-trash surprise 50th party.

The fibroids could do nothing. They could result in a hysterectomy down the road. They could keep my labor from progressing and require me to have a c-section, ruining the only part of my body that I would ever refer to as 'amazing'.

No more abs for you. Not without work, at least.

The fibroids, in rare cases, could cause fetal deformities if certain parts were attempting to develop with one of those...things...in the way.

The fibroids are still happily nom-ing my estrogen and my previous labor was fine, but the sadistic nurses in L&D loaded me up with Pitocin and will again. Just. In. Case.

(Dr's orders. I know. I still don't like day shift. ;p)

***

Choroid plexus cysts meant that there was a long silence from the ultrasound tech at the much awaited 'big ultrasound'.

I found out that The Cute was a girl.

The tech kept going over and over and over the same area. She left the room and returned with someone else.

Neither said anything to us or to eachother.

The Pit and I were too wrapped up in 'It's a GIRL!?' to notice. No clue anything was going on.

Then those horrible words were mentioned at my next appointment. Core-what plexa-huh?

Cysts? At the base of her brain?

Those words along with 'soft marker' and 'trisomy 18'.

Trisomy 18 means a lifespan of a few weeks.

So what he was telling me was that my baby was going to die within a month or so of being born...

Or...

the baby could be just fine.

Hearing that he was just spelling out a worst case scenario, and that everything was 'probably normal' was anything but comforting.

I found this out the week after making my registry. I remember the crushing feeling...the feeling of how I had just started to get really excited about the surprise pregnancy...and then those words.

Was it my fault? Had I not wanted the baby enough? Please...ME, anything, just not my baby.

Everything that I read on the internet, everything that I obsessed about over the internet, was bad. Alarmingly so.

I didn't even tell The Pit. Why break both of our hearts if there was a possibility that it was nothing?

And...it turned out to be nothing.

Thank You GOD.

Words can never hurt me? Words almost destroyed me.

And if you are someone who got here by searching for information about Choroid Plexus Cysts? My little girl had them on her ultrasound and she is happy, healthy, precocious and almost 2.

***

Cervical dysplasia meant many things, most notably not being numbed while my OB/GYN reached up inside me with a pair of scissors and snipped away at my insides while I was 24 weeks pregnant with The Cute.

Oh. So THAT's what a 'colposcopy' is.

It meant 'Hmm. Interesting'.

It meant that I don't have HPV but I still have some rapidly changing pre-cancerous cells on my cervix. That may or may not go back to normal on their own.

Oh.

Ok.

Glad you cleared THAT one up for me.

?

***

And now...

Pubic symphysis?

That means...

The Cute was a chubbalish fetus who damaged my pelvis and I'm just now realizing it.

I can't roll over in bed without stabbing pain along my pubic bone and down my left thigh.

I can't lift up my left leg to step over a baby gate or pull on my sweatpants or leggings.

I want to cry when I'm getting out of a car.

I have trouble gaining back the ability to walk after sitting down or laying down for more than an hour or so. I hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I hobble to my Cute when she cries. And it hurts.

Stairs are agony .

The pain isn't constant. I'm fine when I'm sitting or laying down in most positions.

I am stubborn. I thought it was normal. I have a high pain tolerance. I rarely complain when it comes to the physical.

But after finishing up The Bottomless Pit's to-do list over the weekend I felt that someone was cutting me up from the inside out.

***

Bad uterus.

Bum cervix.

Effed pelvis.

Just throw me in a damned nursing home, why dontcha?

***

But...back to what I was going to tell you.

I was translating for you.

I was just about to explain...

Those words.

What were they again?

Pyooobbaa-simfffff...ahh...

Pubic symphysis.

And what it means to me.

Pubic symphysis...

Means...

Freedom.

It means 'I can't lift that. I'm on bedrest.'

It means 'Cook your own dinner.'

It means that I'm going to be going a little crazy for a while but that's ok because what else is new.

It means I can sit on the floor and play with The Cute but I really shouldn't be picking her up.

I lack the self control to refrain from picking her up, but I have been warned.

It means that I have a WRITTEN ORDER to not move any ovens away from any walls, or bring power tools down to the basement, or continuously walk from room to room putting things where they belong.

You better believe I'm gonna be cracking the whip.

From the couch.

♥

***

Treatment for pubic symphysis includes physical therapy during pregnancy to try to help/fix the problem before delivery, especially since it will only get worse as I get bigger. It also includes an ugly maternity belt/brace/harness thing that looks stupid but really makes a difference. Most importantly it includes bedrest. And/Or crutches...also known as 'beating sticks'.

***

I could take Tylenol if I needed to, but being on SSRIs during pregnancy, I do not want to take anything else that could potentially exacerbate any side effects on the liver or other internal organs. Not gonna push my luck.

***

Holla if you've dealt with any of these foreign words. Tell me about it.

Stop That

2011-01-28T13:36:00.000-05:00

It's NOT me. It's YOU.

2011-01-27T00:01:00.000-05:00

I am the poster child for OCD.

I mean, I could be.

I am neurotic.

I am anxious.

I am clean.

***

The Bottomless Pit is a hard worker.

At work.

He is reliable.

At work.

He never misses a day, you could call him a workaholic.

He does what needs to be done. He shows initiative. He's ambitious.

At work.

***

17 year old me, weak-bladdered and pony-tailed, hopped up and down in The Bottomless Pit's parents' driveway, begging to be let in to pee.

He refused.

That mean fuck.

I'd never been in his house.

I'd never been refused entry to anyone's house before.

I had to pee.

I made a decision and took off running toward the front porch and burst through the door with him following behind me.

I stopped and looked around and forgot what I was in there for.

That. Bad.

Papers. Beer cans. Soda cans. Plates. Laundry baskets full of clothing. Hangers. Empty cracker boxes. Dirty socks. Footprints. Hair brushes.Shoes. Garbage.

Evvvverywheeeere.

He came in behind me and just stood there for a second. All he had to say was 'Yeah.'

The bathroom was just as bad.

Lights that didn't shut off. Lights that didn't work. A moldy shower with a mildewy shower curtain. A closet door that was rotting right off. Loose tiles, missing tiles.

O____O

***

I grew up in a well kept home.

I often found it to be messy.

Hello. OCD.

But it was always presentable.

There were no dishes piled up in the kitchen. Let alone the living room.

Something needed to be done? It got done.

The yard was always neatly landscaped and nothing ever waited long to be repaired.

***

My daddy worked full time.

He felt that your home should be a priority. It wasn't spoken, you just SAW it.

The Bottomless Pit's parents both still work full time.

And once they're out of work, they're done. Nothing else. No more. Done.

***

And then, the two worlds collided.

***

Every curtain that you see hung in our home has a screaming match behind it.

There is nagging, there is a list, there is time to work on cars but there is no time to screw in a lightbulb that I cannot reach or wipe down tiles that I can't get to.

There are messes made by Grandpa, and The Pit coos 'Don't worry, Grandpa, I'll clean it up!' and it turns into MY problem.

I want things done and he blames it on OCD.

Hey. I can be a pain in the ass, but I'm not asking him to mop certain rooms in a certain order before he goes to bed.

I just want help maintaining this house because I can't do it all alone and I don't want to be made fun of for wanting to.

***

The List will be celebrating it's 2 month birthday soon!

I'm gonna end up taking care of this one, I can tell. Area above my stove. Used to house the world's first ever microwave.

Where Grandpa has set up shop. Supposed to be a nursery.

Because it's so convenient not having any hardware on the cabinets and drawers.

***

The Prosecution rests.

And those are just a few examples.

I'd take a picture of the paint bootprints in The Cute's room, but I scrubbed those out myself while The Pit watched tv earlier.

Wanna know the worst part? His Dad called him the other day. The Pit was fresh out of work, complaining about how tired he was. His Dad needed help moving some tires that he couldn't lift and The Pit was on his way immediately with no whining.

Michelle? Eh, screw Michelle. She's just pregnant.

So tell me...

Will he ever put things back when he's done with them, do things without being nagged to death, become more helpful with time?

Do these kinds of things just sort of work themselves out?

Are we unchangeable products of our environment?

Do relationships get easier as the years pass?

Did I just get a lazy one?

***

Flashback...

'My parents are fucking pigs, kid, but stick with me through summer. We'll have fun. Maybe someday we can even move in together...?'

Run, run, RUN OMFG RUN.

Kidding. Don't run.

*Shifty eyes*

My Little Living Room, Before and After

2011-01-03T21:00:00.000-05:00

Taken when we were first considering the place.

New paint, (Behr Colonial Rose, I think with Behr Beach White used on the trim/door), new windows, new trim around the windows...

And...our same old furniture with new curtains and switchplates and stuff.

Still a work in progress. There's a door-to-nowhere behind where the couch is. (It's a second door to the new baby's bedroom.) It's totally pointless so it's going buh-bye.

The tv is to the right of the window, in the corner so that it's opposite the recliner.

I hate our couch and slightly dislike our recliner, but...they both...recline. The Bottomless Pit is very much attached to them.

If you walk directly from the kitchen, and go across the living room, you will find the playroom. (Don't go in there, system overload. It's like FAO Schwarz after a hurricane, I'm not kidding. O_O)

The kitchen is still in rough shape. Unpainted patches of wall, a formica backsplash that I don't know WHAT to do with (would wallpaper work there?!) and cabinets with no hinges or knobs. AGGGH.

It's been a project, but a fun one. I'm in love with our house.

Now go ahead and tell me what an amazing painter I am.

♥

Bad Days and Bad Boyfriends

2010-12-30T16:28:00.000-05:00

It isn't glamorous. It really isn't pretty. According to normal beauty standards, anyway.

But I genuinely enjoy being pregnant. I do.

I feel glowy. I feel lovely. Even though I have dimples on my ass and a recurring zit on my chin.

I feel strong and purposeful.

But,

For the love of GOD,

I would love to be able to simply express myself without completely breaking down and bursting into tears.

Especially since that makes The Bottomless Pit go 'Ohhh, ok. This is a pregnancy thing.'. It completely invalidates anything that I was just trying to say.

***

So.

I'll tell you guys.

I had a REALLY bad day today.

***

Eddie's grandfather came over. With nothing in mind to work on. He just...gets bored.

I had an antique Tiffany ceiling lamp that my sister had in her house since she first moved in with her husband. The Pit had admired it a while back and she brought it to us as a housewarming gift.

I asked Grandpa if he knew how to hang one.

He said 'Yes, I've done a few of those' and he grinned in that charming, Grandpa way.

He is sweet, he is helpful, he is cute.

I get it. I get it.

He trekked through my spotless house without using the doormat, as usual. Dragged mud everywhere he went.

Saw The Cute napping in the recliner and affectionately rubbed her head, waking her up.

Do I need to mention that she spent the rest of the day being a crab? A crab who wouldn't go back to sleep? Because....yeah.

Realized he'd need something to stand on and went to the garage to find a stepladder. Dragged it through the snow, the mud and then the house.

Of course. Of course.

Grandpa proceeded to CUT half of the CHAIN before I realized what was happening.

'That's what ya gotta do' he said.

'No. My sister had it hanging with the chain gathered.'

I stopped him from cutting anymore. I didn't want it flush with the ceiling. He disagreed with me. Made a point of muttering about it. Repeatedly.

I was already feeling that tightness in my chest. I am a pain in the ass about my stuff. I like it in tact. I like it perfect. I like things just so.

But I didn't. Say. Anything.

I just don't have it in me. Even if I did have a point...he's Grandpa.

And I know my place.

(Said only partially in jest, sadly. The Pit can talk all the shit he wants about my mother, brother-in-law, cousins; but if I even say I don't want something that Grandpa built it's taken personally and turns ugly.)

***

Cranky baby.

Muddy floors.

Lamp...antique lamp...altered.

***

I would've liked to have been rude. But I wasn't.

***

He dropped the lamp.

DROPPED the lamp.

From where it had been precariously dangling from the ceiling, to the hardwood floor.

It didn't completely shatter, but it cracked in a few places.

I wanted to cry.

But I was too busy being grateful that it didn't bonk my sweet little girl in the head while she played at her great-grandpa's feet.

'Want me to just wait for my brother-in-law?'

'Nope, nope.'

He apologized. I accepted.

He offered again to cut more of the chain.

I declined.

'I like it WITH the chain. I want the chain.'

***

The lamp is now up.

Grandpa has gone home.

The stepladder is where he left it.

The Cute is finally napping, after a heartwrenching half hour of her screaming like she was being killed.

I swept up the dirt and mopped up the mud.

And life goes on.

***

Just...

Sometimes...

When you...

(I, anyway)

have a bad day...

You need a 'Hey, I know that was rough. You handled that really well. I'm sorry, I know you're upset.'

And that's it.

***

I don't have a personal vendetta against Grandpa, nor do I want to call him on all of his flaws.

But...

Does The Bottomless Pit really HAVE to flip out when I don't talk about him as if he's some kind of saint?

***

The Pit called me.

I was crying.

I composed myself, but he asked what was wrong.

My voice shakes when I'm upset. No hiding it, yo.

I told him...

'I had a really bad day.'

He was sympathetic at first, so I continued.

Told him about the mud that was everywhere but on the doormats, the chain, the cracked lamp...

And he said...

'You weren't mean to Grandpa, were you?'.

***

Crazy cat lady isn't sounding so bad.

***

Humor me.

Who/what is off limits to your man?

I wish mine were this defensive about his child.

Kiernan? Sean? James? Shane?

2010-12-21T14:21:00.001-05:00

Your opinions on names are all totally invalid, just so that you're warned. The Bottomless Pit barely has any say himself.

This morning's anatomy scan revealed that...

I'm having a precious baby BOY!

The ultrasound tech was announcing the gender of New Baby and just as the word 'boy' was out of her mouth, The Cute ripped the loudest, rudest, rumbliest fart evvver.

Fart of joy? Fart of disapproval? 'I fart in your general direction'? Just a fart? PFFFRRRRAAAATTTATTT

It was loud enough to halt the ultrasound. The tech was flustered, I was hysterical, my sister was surprised, The Cute was confused.

It took, like, 5 whole minutes for my belly to stop shaking.

Like a bowlful of jelly.

The Bottomless Pit wasn't there. He just couldn't bring himself to take the day out of work. I was disappointed, but there are bigger fish to fry.

I'm not looking forward to dealing with his parents on Christmas. I wouldn't be ANYWAY, but they (The Pit's dad, mostly) will most definitely be super obnoxious about the news.

I might skimp on sleep so that I'm nice and bitchy.

Anxiety aside, I'm so excited. I feel like it's so much more real to me now. I went out immediately and bought him a gift, the Fisher Price Musical Seahorse thing. In blue, of course. ♥

Yesterday I had the most frantic urge to look at as many boy names as I possibly could. If spazzing wasn't part of my everyday behavior, I would call that a premonition.

***

I've already decided that my toenails will be painted a lovely shade of baby blue for labor & delivery.

***

Now, let the shopping begin.

Dear Santa, I Can Explain!

2010-12-19T22:08:00.011-05:00

I know you've probably heard some things that may be influencing your decision on whether or not I deserve the things on my list.

I'll have you know that not all of my requests this year are wants. Some are needs. Marc Jacobs eau de toilette? I'm almost out.

And someone spilled milk on my camera, that's why I'm asking for a new one.

Don't ask who.

I will never tell.

Pssst...it was The Cute and I don't think it was an accident.

The Kerastase shampoo and conditioner is a necessity and it saves money because it keeps me from getting my hair cut as often as I would if I used cheap hair products. My haircuts are $55. I haven't had one since February! See? I'm economical.

The Kiehl's body lotion (Creme de Corps) is because my poor skin is so itchy right now. It's winter. And my belly is big!

You know what that's like? Dontcha?

OMG.

I totally did not just call you fat.

It's just...

That I'm pregnant.

Mmmhmmm.

My feet hurt (pedicure gift certificates, please!), my back aches (I bet a featherbed would help with that, huh? King size.) and I'm soooo tired. (Maybe a new Keurig is in order? I know mine is less than a year old but I saw one that makes ICED coffee! You know how I like iced coffee, Santa, right? :D)

And...

After tonight's cooking shenanigans, I guess I could use a new 9 x 13 pan, a new saucepan and a new whisk.

*Sigh*

Let me tell you what happened.

***

You see Santa...

I had made reindeer food. Everyone else calls it 'white trash' but that is so tacky.

Melted white chocolate over cashews, pretzels and Chex cereal with some red & green M&Ms mixed in.

NOM.

(I asked for Chex cereal one year. I think I was 6. Funny huh? Oh. I guess you already knew that story, Santa. Because you were the one who didn't bring it to me, you bitch.)

'Scuze me, love. Hormones.

But, yeah.

I made it and The Bottomless Pit was eyeballing it. And it wasn't even for him but I let him have some. Brought him out a bowl of it, even, as he sat on his fat ass watching tv.

I'm so nice, Santa. See?

He was supposed to be watching The Cute while I slaved away in the kitchen, making Sunday dinner.

Slaving away, pregnant, making dinner. When I wasn't even hungry.

Too much reindeer food. Don't let me forget.... I need to make another batch to give out. : [

I was making parmesan crusted chicken breasts and homemade macaroni and cheese.

That's a lot of work, Santa, yes?

I was making my bechamel sauce and stirring and stirring, waiting for it to thicken.

And then...

The Bottomless Pit's cell phone rang.

He came into the kitchen, looking for a piece of paper.

I even handed one to him. Because that moron was about to write all over my CHRISTMAS LIST.

WTF. WTF. WTF.

(See me batting my lashes, Santa? The picture of sweetness, I know you agree. Diorshow mascara in black, by the way. Hinthint)

I noticed that he wasn't watching the baby, so I lifted her over the baby gate and held her on my hip while I stirred the bechamel with my free hand.

She jabbered at me.

She said 'Hot!'.

I said 'Thank you!'.

And then I giggled because I knew she was talking about the stove, and she giggled because mama was giggling.

We were having so much fun.

The Bottomless Pit made a nasty face at us and waved his hand at us. Um. Ew?

He got off the phone.

The call had been 'serious' and he was angry that we had 'made' him ask an 'important' person to repeat directions.

So then I said that maybe if he took the penis out of his ear he'd be able to hear better.

I don't know, Santa. You'll have to excuse me. Hormones.

He yelled at me, Santa. Yelled.

There I was. Being sweet.

Pregnant. Holding his baby. Cooking his dinner. Making cream sauce with organic whole milk and freshly grated cheese!

And he was telling me to shut up and asking why I hadn't left the kitchen when he was on the phone!

1. Because I was there first. 2. Because I was cooking and couldn't leave the stove. Hello. Bechamel needs to be stirred constantly. And he had left the baby alone in the living room, that's why I had grabbed her and brought her in the kitchen.

So then...

He told me to shut up again!

***

I know you're used to me being such a delicate little flower, Santa, so prepare yourself.

I was all 'SHUT UP?! SHUT UP?! I think you mean THANK YOU. THANK YOU for standing on your feet with an aching back and a massive belly and cooking dinner that you don't even feel like eating and picking up the munchkin who was just climbing the tv because I was too busy pacing and talking on the phone.'

He didn't say anything. He just looked at me. With that...look. You know which one I mean. All stupid and annoying but I can't really describe how.

Look? That reminds me. Were you around when I was trying on those black Dolce & Gabbana glasses? Didn't they look cute? Thought I'd just throw that out there. Dr. Kelser has my glasses Rx. In case you ever need it. :)

He didn't apologize. He actually stiffened his jaw.

And that's why I opened the front door and tossed his half-prepped dinner out into the front yard. Pans, utensils, all of it.

There goes the neighborhood.

And then I yelled, 'Go share your dinner with the starving raccoon out there! He'd be living off of our garbage if you EVER TOOK IT OUT!!!'.

And then I cried and cried and cried.

He apologized, but he was just saying it. He didn't mean it, you know?

So ridiculous.

Mmmhmmm.

***

I rest my case, Santa.

Thanks for being such a dollface. I knew you'd understand.

Have I told you that red is SO your color? Your shade is tough to wear, but it totally works with your skin's undertone. Amazing.

I hope this finds you in good health and whatever, etc. etc. etc.

Please remember, white gold. Not yellow. Yellow makes my skin look sallow and nobody wants that.

♥

xoxo

Pretty Pink? Baby Blue?

2010-12-09T13:38:00.000-05:00

Lookit mah bellah!

Ok. So this picture is from a couple of weeks ago, but you get the idea.

I'm a lazy, lazy girl.

***

I find out the gender of my May baby on December 21st.

I'm having boy vibes.

The majority of people are voting that I'm having a boy.

I need more opinions.

I need more opinions.

***

I'm up about 20 lbs now. (I was up more but I lost some. More pizza, please.)

I had very little morning sickness. A few bad days, that was it.

I'm exhausted.

I'm starving for pretty much everything in general. Not many specific cravings. Just junk food and cupcakes.

I was mean in the first trimester. Now I'm a crying ball of snot.

I conceived when my age was an even number during an even numbered month. Because people want to know.

The Chinese chart says boy. My mom did the ring test and it said boy...I think.

I hate the way everything smells. Especially deli meat (I never got over that one from my last pregnancy) and The Bottomless Pit's breath.

Creepy, vivid dreams. Every night.

No heartburn, per say, but I get a horrible sour taste in my mouth after even a couple of sips of coffee. Dammit.

The baby's heartrate is above 140. Usually around 150-160. I've heard that that means nothing. But I refuse to acknowledge that sentiment any more than I just did.

What does it all mean?

***

The Bottomless Pit would love a boy, but he's hoping for a girl thinking that with all of The Cute's stuff that it would be more cost effective. He's obviously forgotten who he's dealing with.

I have no preference. I want a healthy baby.

But I want to know now.

So.

Start guessing.

♥

Grandpa's Are Human And Humans Don't Shit Ice Cream

2010-12-08T23:01:00.001-05:00

Imagine the awkwardness when I had to call my Mother-in-Sin-Law when I got myself stranded at the new house the week before we moved in.

My mom, whose head is made of butt, had given me a hard time about driving 'all the way' out to East Greenwich to get me. 14 miles, Mom. 14 miles.

My boyfriend, once again, was going to be working late.

One sister was unreachable, one sister was doing her 4-1 shift at the hospital.

The many friends, who once jumped when I told them to, are no longer as available now that I'm a member of the world of the grown-up.

I was seeing those weird flashing lights in the corners of my eyes that I only see right before I get one of those horrid, pounding headaches. The Cute was bored. We needed to leave. And my car is still waiting on getting a belt tightened, even though 3 separate trucks and 1 Jeep have been taken apart and put back together, piece by piece, while I've waited patiently*.

*Kicking and screaming.

Her, the dreaded she's-not-my-mother-in-law's, work was less than 3 minutes away and I knew that it was about 5 minutes from her going home time.

I called her.

She got me.

I was grateful.

It wasn't even that awkward.

***

We don't have many topics that we can discuss safely. The Cute (you DON'T know better than her Mama, I don't care how much older you are), The Bottomless Pit (is a slob thanks to you and no, I'm NOT going to act as if I'm his mother now, he can heat up his own freaking leftovers), New Baby (bring up names again and I'll have to punch you), anything about me (hey, that was a dig, wasn't it?) etc.

So I brought up something neutral enough.

Shopping.

Not even fun shopping, like Sephora/Anthropologie/shoe section at Target...but a safe kind of shopping. Home stuff. Functional stuff.

I told her about my plans for the playroom and how I was going to buy a bookshelf.

And...

It wasn't neutral enough.

***

The Pit's grandfather is a lovely man but I have had my fill of him for the time being.

He stepped in and volunteered to do the finish work on all of our new windows.

We're paying for supplies.

Supplies that he isn't even buying because he's recycling an oak bed set to use as trim pieces.

Do I like oak?

No. I don't. I like darker toned wood.

Do we care about saving on money when it comes to projects like trim?

No. We don't.

I won't even mention that he ran out of oak and instead of buying some more he is using different wood in the bathroom. Leftovers from doing someone's floor. So now my house doesn't even match.

Excuse me. I'm going to go cry now. I mean...we're more than willing to pay for supplies!!!

***

I have builders in my family and I have family members whom I love.

They make stuff. They give me stuff.

Sometimes.

It doesn't get out of hand.

I turn down things based upon space, personal style, need.

I don't have to just take everything that is offered to me that is free, right? And if that is the treatment that my family is getting....well...

***

Grandfather Pit is over here, like, every day.

We're moved in now. (See? My Internet is back!)

My house is beautiful.

Except for when he tears it apart.

He takes off my outlet covers to plug in his tools. His tools get unplugged and moved and he doesn't put the outlet covers back.

He gets sawdust everywhere and doesn't bother to sweep it.

He moved my 200 lb tv into the middle of the living room. And he left it there.

He left a compressor and a nail gun in the playroom.

He leaves screwdrivers and pencils everywhere.

I bought myself a fluffy, expensive bathmat. I didn't want it to get ruined before I even had a chance to use it, so I rolled it up and placed it in a corner of a room that isn't being used. Wouldn't you know it not only got knocked down, but it got STEPPED ON. A sneaker print. A muddy one. Right in the middle of it. He didn't even tell me. A freaking room that wasn't even being used.

(I know it was him because The Bottomless Pit's feet are way bigger.)

If you get him a coffee he complains about it. Too sweet. Not sweet enough. He never brings his own yet he always 'needs' one.

He took my kitchen cabinet doors off. All of them. To be 'helpful'. Because I said that we were going to replace the hardware one day. ONE DAY.

He takes the curtains down every time he measures a window, which he does whether he is actively working on that particular window or not...so pretty much every day. He doesn't ever put them back.

I'm not allowed to say anything.

Not even if it's in a soft voice, proceeded by 'please'.

Because it's Grandpa Pit.

Kill me now.

***

The Bottomless Pit's Grandpa doesn't eat donuts. He doesn't like candy or cake or dessert or sweets. He's pretty loud about it.

I asked The Bottomless Pit to take me to Dunkin Donuts last Sunday.

Grandpa was at our house.

I asked for a Boston Cream.

(I know they spell it with K but that's just stupid.)

The Pit comes out with a dozen donuts and before I could delightedly help myself he stopped me and said...

'Wait til we get to the house. Grandpa may want that one.'

'That one? That ONE? The one that your pregnant girlfriend ASKED you to get for her?'.

'Yeah. See what Grandpa wants, first.'

The fucker got one Boston Cream and he wanted me to wait to see if his sweet-hating Grandpa wanted it before I ate it.

Grandpa turned it down. All ended well. But that...that was not ok.

***

I was up on a chair taking dishes down from the kitchen cabinets in our apartment.

Grandpa was, evidently, at the house. Working on the trim.

I had begged The Pit to please watch The Cute so I could get at least SOMETHING done. Yet every time she ran into the kitchen to grab at stuff I had to remind The Pit that he was supposed to be watching her.

I'm pregnant. I'm tired. I can't watch the baby WHILE I pack and I shouldn't have to when you're just sitting there, boy.

He then started telling me how guilty he was feeling. He wasn't helping his Grandpa.

He wasn't. Helping. His GRANDPA.

I'll not mention that when I asked him to hang curtains in the kitchen the other day before the rods that were leaning in the hallway got ruined we got into a fight and it ended in him telling me to 'Shut up' and me finding that the rods, indeed, had gotten bent. SOMEONE knocked them over and stepped on them. I need help, I get 'shut up'.

But GRANDPA....

***

Ugh.

Grandpa was telling us where we 'couldn't' put stuff on moving day because it would be 'in his way'. Like, The Cute's crib needed to be in the living room.

Right.

***

Anyone remember how bad I was spazzing over The Cute's first birthday party?

Scrubbing the house, cooking like crazy? 30 people crammed in my little apartment?

While Grandpa complained about it being too hot in there The Bottomless Pit started tearing the place apart, looking for these toys that Grandpa had made for him like 2 months ago. He wanted to show them that he still had them.

*Sigh*

And he did still have them. They were put away. Like everything else that we own that doesn't have a place to be on display.

We got into a brawl over it. In front of everyone.

'You don't LIKE them????'

'We're having a BIRTHDAY party. Things are put AWAY. I CLEANED. And things get BROKEN when they are left out, look at all of your stuff! They are in the hope chest in the closet!!'

He started digging through the piles of clothes to get to the chest and I almost ripped his face off.

Happy Birthday!

***

I'm sick of Grandpa. I'm sick of his stuff.

***

And I can't even mention a bookshelf to a living-in-sin-law without her trying to force something that I don't want onto me.

She told me that she had a bookcase (2 shelves, made of another light wood that I don't like) in the basement.

Grandpa had made it.

And that, to her, was that.

Before, during and after me saying 'No, thank you'.

***

I just want my furniture to match.

I just want 5 shelves so more stuff will fit and the room has things at different eye levels for visual interest. I just want to coat it in paint, distress it, and screw it into the wall so that it won't tip over.

Is that wrong? Is that soooooo wrong?

***

'My mom wants me to bring that bookcase over'.

'I told her no thank you'.

'But....Grandpa made it'.

'It's not what I'm looking for'.

*Silence. Angry stare.*

'Really? I can't politely turn down something that doesn't meet my needs and buy what I want because GRANDPA made it?! My house is not a shrine to Grandpa. Donuts do not only belong to Grandpa. Your Grandpa is not more entitled to your time and your help than I am. And I'm SICK of being manipulated about what we do in our spare time and on holidays based upon where Grandpa is going!!! Grandpa is just a guy, who is healthy and alive, who ruins $30 bathmats! If I took everything that everyone in our families offered us we would need to be on Hoarders! Shutup Shutup just SHUTUP about GRANDPA!'

***

The bookcase remains in The Pit family basement.

Grandpa is still working on our windows and bitching and tearing my house apart.

But I picked up on a little something in my furious rant...

I was jealous...

of Grandpa.

Grandpa got first pick at donuts, got thought of when he was doing something that may require help, didn't get told to shut up if he asked for something, was put first in furniture shopping/holiday plan decisions.

Meanwhile, Mizz D-list over here, hopes for a rejected donut every once in a while and painted the interior of an entire house without so much as an OFFER of help from her man.*

*Sound dramatic? I'm 17 weeks. 'Nuff said.

***

I got sent home from my recent Dr's appointment with a note saying that I am over-doing it.*

I've lost weight. I look exhausted. I need to take it easy.

*I pay him well. Just kidding. I mean, I do, but that's irrelevant. Mmmhmm. Anyway.

The Bottomless Pit took the bathmat to the cleaners, hung my Shut Up curtains, stopped being nasty when I asked him to do things.

And my daily fury with Grandpa has subsided a bit.

He's a pain in the ass, but it wasn't all him.

***

Behind every bitchy pregnant girl, there is a dumbass who made her that way.

***

Ammo: The Pit's parents did not spend Thanksgiving with good old 'But what if this is your last chance to spend ________ with him' Grandpa. I'll just stuff that one in my back pocket until I need it.... :D

***

Got to share: I love my house. Love love love my house. *Ballerina twirl* ♥

Passive Aggressive Notes (A Life Update)

2010-11-23T23:24:00.005-05:00

Dear Bottomless Pit's Mother,

Do not bring up the 'Have you thought of any names?' topic to push your agenda on me.

C'mon. Really?

You expect me to name my child after someone on your side of the family (someone who already HAS namesakes, by the way)?!

I'm not sure if you know this. But. I have family, too.

Am I naming the new baby after any of my family members?

Any of the ones I absolutely adore?

No.

So...

What makes you think your suggestion has a shot?

Suck it.

Imma slap you,

The Girl Who Won't Marry Your Son (Not JUST Because She Knows It Bugs You So Bad But That Is A Bonus)

PS. Your sneaky ways of trying to steal all of the holidays, even after they've been divided up? Not cool. This year we're going to Thanksgiving Dinner at my sister's, you get Christmas. Now you're saying we're supposed to come to you for 'Thanksgiving Breakfast"? Just like you ruined Easter Dinner with my nutty/ill mom by filling your son up at your first ever "Easter Brunch"? You never do these breakfast/brunches when we're spending said holiday with you, you're way transparent, knock it off. Unless you want me to start cutting into your holiday time by doing special "Christmas Desserts" with my family. Which I would love to do, but I don't because I have class.

Try it.

***

Dear Mom,

I know that I shouldn't be surprised, since you haven't had anything nice to say to me since I was...6...? But...When you came to see my, your youngest child's first home and you didn't have anything to say except 'There's paint on the floor'... That totally caught me off guard.

I'm only as neurotic as it's possible to be, and totally preoccupied with things looking new and pretty for as long as possible. So naturally, the fact that a size 15W workboot stepped in white paint and tracked it on a walnut wood floor got past me.

I surely wouldn't have noticed, or been upset about, a giant & visible foot shaped splotch in the very center of the room.

Thank God you pointed that out to me, instead of having something else to say.

Something else, like, congratulations.

I nevereverever would've noticed that huge mark that, just so you know, came up easily with some scrubbing using a Magic Eraser so whaddaya got to say NOW, huh?

Stop calling me by the wrong name already.

Love,

Noelle, no, Adrienne, no...The Other One.

PS. Stop being a Thanksgiving Nazi. The Pilgrims didn't eat macaroni & cheese? Well they didn't eat green bean cassaslop, either. Yeah, I hate turkey. And stuffing. And gravy. And turnips. And sweet potatoes. So I'll bring my own damned macaroni & cheese. Get over it. And my delicious pumpkin cheesecake? Well dontchu worry about that. It's not Pilgrim food. I wouldn't want you to be tainted.

***

Dear Bottomless Pit's Dad,

Hey.

You know we're moving this week, right?

And you know that my car isn't registered or inspected because your son keeps buying pickups that you point out to him as 'amazing deals' that eat up what little spare time he has.

Well, you see, I'm trying to say that we have a lot going on and I don't even have my own transportation. You know that.

So don't guilt trip either one of us at the last minute because your cousins from NJ are here to visit and you'd like us to stop in so they can see the baby.

Your son has been working 14 hour days.

We are moving into a house that isn't even ready for us.

And your cousins are disgusting pigs.

The first time the ex-crackhead blond met my newborn she did hand gestures, to be 'funny', that were so vulgar that I didn't even catch on to them right away. When I yelled at her she accused me of being hormonal.

Don't use the 'blah blah blah might die soon' on us, because you used that one up on Grandpa's last minute cookout that was the same day as my brother's birthday party.

Where is Grandpa, by the way? Oh. Right. On a hiking trip. Nowhere near his deathbed, so STFU.

If you'd ask me in a straightforward way I would politely decline and give you the reasons why it's not doable. But since you insist on manipulating and guilt-tripping, all I've got for you is a middle finger. And a 'Hey! I betcha don't know what this means!'. Relax, it's funnnny. Right.

Better luck next time,

Busy Girl

***

Dear Bottomless Pit,

Sweet boyfriend.

Keep me out of your damn 'nice gestures'.

How come everything nice that you want to do for someone only involves...ME doing work?

Why don't I bake your friend something? Why SHOULD I?

Is he fixing MY car? Is he covering MY shift? Is he turning in MY paperwork?

Well?

Girls aren't servants.

Especially not pregnant ones.

Pregnant ones who are in the middle of packing, who painted the interior of an entire house without any help from your punk ass.

Ya wanna mess with me?

'Sir, thank you for holding that door open for me. Do you have leaves that need raking? My boyfriend will do that for you.'

Please explain to me when I'm supposed to bake 3 dozen cookies if I'm painting all day tomorrow, I go to 'Thanksgiving Breakfast' on Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Dinner Thursday afternoon, finish packing on Friday, move boxes to the new house magically with no car on Friday night, and finish moving over the weekend. The Cute will help, right? Is this before or after I beam myself over to visit your father's pig relatives?

Oh. Wait. I'm not going to Thanksgiving Breakfast, visiting the pigs, OR baking cookies.

Problem solved.

♥

PS. Stop FARTING.

***

Dear CeraVe Lotion,

You are nothing like La Mer. The reviews on Makeupalley lied.

Thanks for the giant, underground zit on my jaw.

Impressive, considering I never break out.

Enjoy the dumpster.

Hatechu,

Girl With A Horn Growing From Her Chin

Excuses, Excuses

2010-11-01T18:32:00.001-04:00

Um.

Where have you been?

Yeah.

You.

I've been posting on the regular.

But Blogger has been eating my posts.

Or something.

Or...something.

*Shifty eyes*

***

I'd love to say that I've been packing for the move next month.

But...

I haven't.

I mean...

I've been thinking about it.

And now I only have a month.

Holy shit.

Got any garbage bags?

***

The first trimester of a nearly morning-sickness-free pregnancy has KICKED my ASS.

Am I supposed to be this tired?

All the time?

This is way worse than when I infected half the town with mono in 2007.

Yes. That was me. Don't let me drink out of your milkshake. EVER.

I. Can't. MOVE.

The Bottomless Pit has been burning his own dinners. Doing the laundry. Helping clean.

See, Dragon-MIL? HE CAN do those things. TOLDJA.

Ya fecking hosebeast.

AHEM.

***

Some of my little-time-on-the-Interwebz has been spent...

Cheating.

On you.

With sales.

Friends & Family Sales.

Purses. Makeup.

Sephora. Saks Fifth Avenue.

20% off.

UPS.

Longchamp and NARS.

mineminemine

***

I've also been eating. A lot. 13 new pounds worth. Which my OB/GYN thinks is 8 since I exaggerated my pre-pregnancy weight at my appointment so I wouldn't look like such a fatass.

Right now I'm in love with Kellogs Smart Start Cereal in Vanilla soy milk. And Kitkats.

***

I have a fierce sore throat today.

Am I getting sick?

Have I been snoring?

Do I have SARS?

It's sore.

OW.

***

I'm 2 ultrasounds deep and carrying a wildly flailing little thing that I will find the gender of in December.

***

So.

There we go.

Moving. SARS. Near-death. Having affairs.

Sorry for my absence.

Though I must say...

All those messages?

Hello ego-boost.

♥

***

What are you getting your boyfriends/husbands/significant others for Christmas/whatever ?

I promise not to steal your ideas.

*Shifty eyes*

What's Going ON?!

2010-10-11T22:45:00.004-04:00

Before I get back to my irregularly, unscheduled nonsense....

It's been a few days? Yes?

Pffft.

You don't know. You haven't even missed me.

***

What's going on with the house?

Tears.

Many tears.

Much negotiating.

Many rough drafts of contracts.

Much butting-in from the Living in Sinlaws.

Little communication from The Bottomless Pit. Well, unless you're his dad. His dad seems to know more about my future than I do.

The whormones, the boundary violations and my own inability to commit to much of anything that requires a signature.... no good.

This is as big as it gets for me, people. I'm unwilling to marry my man, for many reasons. So buying a home IS the big deal.

Me and my portion of the checkbook still have fleeting thoughts of running away.

Our projected move-in date is December 1st.

And since the windows are not yet finished and the boiler is yet to be replaced, it's still not 100% final.

I could still move to Oregon or Phoenix or Dallas.

***

One healthy baby (booYAH, Mom and your crystal ball!) is due in May. ♥

MID-MAY.

Mmmhmm.

ThankYouJesus.

Pregmood? Still bitchy.

I've been giving myself time-outs. Locking myself in the bathroom. To seethe.

Last pregnancy I used to sit on the bathroom floor and cry and not know why I was crying and that would make me cry more.

Now I'm just pissed.

I thought about getting a spray bottle, like you would use for a cat that's climbed up on the table, ya know? But if I spray myself with it, that takes away the element of surprise.

That leaves The Pit.

And if he were to spray me with a spray bottle, I just may go Amber on him.

So there goes that.

Pregzilla will be here for a while, peeps.

***

The cuteness of The Cute takes my breath away. Daily.

***

I need to start packing. Don't I?

***

A girl from my 2nd grade class recognized me at Walmart.

Remembered my name and everything.

HOW in the HELL?

***

I suck at blogging because not only can I not keep up with posts...

I can't keep up with awards.

I've gotten some. And I appreciate them, like crazy.

But I suck at responding to them.

So bad.

And I've gotten tagged in stuff that I've started to respond to...

Then by the time I get around to it, I feel it's irrelevant. And then I stress about 'This was days ago. Should I do it now? Should I not do it? What do I do?'

Because I'm cray.

I also suck at SITS. I thought I was blocked from roll-call for not participating. My comments weren't showing up!

It turns out that I was linking to my last POST and not my actual BLOG and that doesn't WORK and no, I wasn't blocked from commenting.

Is that dumb?

Just say it.

YES.

***

We were going to go apple-picking on Sunday but our local orchard? Picked out of apples.

Yep.

WTF.

***

The Bottomless Pit's mom and sister got directions to the house. They drove to it. Peered in the windows.

They told me this. And they started describing the interior to me.

Hardwood floors! Big kitchen! It's cute!

And I was all 'I know!'.

And THEY were all 'How do YOU know? YOU'VE seen it?!'

***

I think I'll end on that note.

**grinds teeth**

Home Invasions (Living in Sinlaws)

2010-10-05T12:50:00.002-04:00

"Why is Michelle going?"

I wasn't eavesdropping.

I couldn't help but hear that.

The Bottomless Pit's co-dependent father, who calls him multiple times a day, talks on the phone like he's trying to reach someone on the moon.

"Why is Michelle going?"

That's what that fool said.

He often makes me feel like an intruder. Like I'm interrupting something going on between him and his son that is none of my business even though it is my business. I feel unwelcome. Uninvited. Like I'm butting in.

Decisions, you see, aren't supposed to be MINE to make.

They are his. He's supposed to tell The Pit what to do. The Pit is supposed to listen.

Housing. Finances. Dinner. Where to buy socks.

It's all supposed to be up for discussion. It's all supposed to be up to him.

All these years I've cramped his style and come between him and his ability to micro-manage his grown son.

Uninvited. Unsolicited. Unwelcome.

That's me.

"Why is Michelle going?"

Because Michelle would be signing the papers. Because Michelle has a dog in this fight and you do not. Because Michelle would have a key to the front door and you would not. Because this is Michelle's business and not your's. <----File those statements under 'Things I Wish The Bottomless Pit said".

***

I heard that. That 'Why is Michelle going'.

I heard that.

I started ranting and The Bottomless Pit took his phone into the bedroom.

Functioning in the style of The Pit and his family 101: You do not call people out on what they do to bother you. It will hurt their feelings. Let them make you uncomfortable and you suck it up. That way it will happen over and over.

***

The place that his dad was horrified that I was going to be was the meeting with the sellers of what just may be our future home.

In this case, Our is defined by The Bottomless Pit, myself, The Cute and New Baby.

Before Monday evening I had not met all of the characters involved in this deal. Only spoken to them over the phone. I had only peeked at the house, not really done a tour of it.

I hadn't heard numbers and dates for myself.

I hadn't asked all of my questions.

I hadn't presented my list of things that I would like addressed before I signed papers.

I hadn't done any measuring of windows or rooms.

I guess none of that matters, since...

The Bottomless Pit's dad hadn't done any of those things, either.

Quick, everything, screech to a halt!

Never mind the other potential owner of the home....Daddy ain't seen the backyard!

***

Bring Your Obscure Relatives to Business Meetings Day.

***

The Pit and I argued the entire way to East Greenwich, a 20 minute ride from where we live now.

About his dad?

No. I already realized that his dad was going to butt in, and as long as The Pit has no problem with it and agrees that he can go there isn't much I can do. Except bitch. And blog.

About his grandfather?

Oh. Right. Pepe was coming, too. Because we want new windows installed in the house before we move in and Pepe is the only person in the world who could possibly look at them.

Have I mentioned that 6 of my close adult relatives are master carpenters? Three being in business for themselves?

Gotta be Pepe.

So, nope. No arguing about Pepe. I had already come to terms with Pepe being there.

We were arguing because...

Meme was going to be there.

Pepe's wife.

She wasn't staying home.

She wasn't hanging out with her daughter, The Pit's mom.

She was tagging along.

To the biggest business meeting of our lives.

To visit.

To hang out.

Why not?

Why. The. Hell. Not.

***

It's not that we were disagreeing about whether or not Meme should be there. We were on the same page about that.

It was more that the tension of the 'Hey, Meme is here, too!' realization was starting to get to us.*

'Why? WHY? WHY does your family think that this kind of stuff is ok? When is her next appointment with the eye doctor? Should I show up to that? This isn't visiting time! This is serious. It's not ok. It's not ok. Hey, who's that guy at the gas station? Let's bring him. We should bring my mom, too. Why don't I call my uncle? Next time I decide to change my bank account information I should probably bring a random cousin or two to hold my hand. No...that would be WEIRD to my family. I guess I should ask someone from YOUR family, since that's perfectly NORMAL to them!'.

*Getting to ME.

The Pit was driving like a madman, trying to at least make it to the house before the entourage did. Maybe we could at least beat the sellers there, right?

NOPE.

We got there right on time.

But The Pit's Dad, Meme, Pepe and the sellers were already there.

Um. Hope the poor bastards knew all these people were coming?

***

'Oh! Meme?! I didn't know YOU'D be here!' I said, despite being elbowed by The Pit.

The Pit told me to go take a look at the bathroom now that the medicine cabinet was fixed.

Meme followed. She showed me how to turn on the light, even.

'Oh, look! Meme knows her way around my house before I do! Isn't that FUNNY!'. (Another elbow.)

***

I didn't feel comfortable discussing numbers with...everyone.

I didn't like the way Pepe laughed and joked at the expense of 'us kids' during a serious talk about resale/remodel options.

Grown up time.

Talk about ticklish feet and love for Burger King at Christmas Dinner, Pepe. That's fine. But not now, Pepe. Not now.

WHO'S GOT YOUR NOSE?!?!

I am young. I have a ponytail. My nails are painted purple.

I also speak 3 languages, am a legal studies dropout and can crunch numbers like nobody's business. Except for when I'm at the center of a 3 ring circus.

Flustered. Overwhelmed. Confused.

What the hell is going on and what are we supposed to be accomplishing?

***

'Why is Pepe here?' I asked.

'To look at windows.' said The Pit.

'Did he look at the windows?'

'Yes.'

'Then he needs to leave.'

'Why is Meme here?'

'She came with Pepe.'

'She needs to leave.'

'Why is your Dad here?'

'To give a price on the boiler and ask some questions.'

'He needs to leave. I need to ask some questions. He needs to leave.'

***

The grandparents were ushered out.

The Pit's dad was told that he had to go. He didn't immediately comply. He didn't comply after 10 minutes. Or 15.

Giveaway coming up! A randomly selected blogger will be accompanying The Pit and I to our next meeting about the house.Bring popcorn and a lawnchair. Why would you be there? Well...why wouldn't you?

***

We will be handing over a deposit on November 1st, upon the windows being replaced and the heating system being fixed.

That was negotiated between the sellers and The Pit and myself. All sitting down, as adults. And it was done without the authorization or the interference of The Pit's father.

We are happy with our decision. We are excited about our future.

Even though...

On the car ride home...

Before we could even discuss our plans in private...

The Pit's phone rang.

It was his dad.

What had we done? Why? Why this house? Why not the house he pointed out in Richmond?

And so on and so forth.

The Pit defended his plans, as if he has to. The Pit argued about his decision, which is absolutely ridiculous.

I remembered the house in Bonnet Shores that The Pit's dad had picked out for us as a rental years ago. It was far from his work, a decent ride from anything we wanted, a sleazy neighborhood, overpriced, a cracker box.

I was officially the one who said 'No' and he wouldn't let that go.

It wasn't about the house not being right for us, it was that HE picked it and MICHELLE said no to it.

***

None of the adults in my family have a mortgage anymore. The majority of them paid their's off early.

The Pit's dad keeps taking loans out on his house.

I have respected business owners in my family.

The Pit's dad has jumped from job to job his entire life, and will be working until he's 80 because he keeps taking out mortgages.

Yet HE needs to make our decisions. WE'RE making bad moves. Unless it's a bad move directed by him. Then it's a good move.

He wants The Pit to keep buying trucks. He wants The Pit to sell my car instead of fixing the squeaky belt.

And I want HIM to mind his own business.

Please.

Why?

Pleeeaaase.

***

I feel that exciting moments in my life are tarnished by things like this. It isn't fair.

The Cute's birth: Snide remarks about how my mom holds babies. The Cute's first day home: Drama about how she was dying from jaundice/yellow pjs. Thanksgiving. Easter. Christmas. My birthday. 4th of July. It's all fights, drama, tension.

I am fine being closed off and rude. But I am so alone in that stance. For as much as The Pit complains about the meddling, he invites it.

It is hard.

Especially when I call my family members to tell them that I think we're on our way to buying our first house. All that they offer...is support. And...congratulations, even.

***

My only concern about that wonderful little house...

It's not far enough away.

They all already have the freaking address.

***

Shopping List: Electric Fence

Do I Start Picking Out Paint Swatches, Or What??

2010-09-28T22:21:00.001-04:00

We may be living here soon.

The bathroom is small and there is only one.

Having a garage and a basement of our own?!

In need of a dishwasher, I see...

I can work some magic here.

The living room is just peachy.

This is supposed to be a dining room.

Nursery?

The Cute's room?

Oh. Great. Carpet. My room.

Cozy living room again. Nice color choices...

Outside? Privacy? Yes please.

The ad.

We have so much going on right now.

We've been talking about buying a home and would feel most comfortable doing so in the next few years.

The average house around here is around $300,000 and that's a lot to take on.

And then we met a man with a fixer-upper who just wanted to sell his damned rental house without being jerked around.

We did some number crunching and negotiating and found that this little place in a sweet little neighborhood in a beautiful part of town would be more than doable for us.

Holy shit.

A real estate lawyer will be drawing up contracts next week....

We don't have any dates yet, which is driving me crazy.

Plans.

I need definite plans.

I'm going crazy.

Do I start packing?

Do I wait?

Will we be spending Christmas there?

What's going on?

Cross your fingers, people.

And pray for the sellers. Dealing with a pregnant girl who is suspicious about everything and doesn't even want to talk unless she can get what you're saying in writing...is...fun. Fun.

And I know it doesn't look like much...but...our first HOME? OMFG.

Feeling So Good (First Trimester)

2010-09-23T13:37:00.000-04:00

Last time around...

My precious Cute? She was a...surprise.

'Why am I puking so much?'.

That's how I spent the first half of that first trimester.

I spent the other half melting down. Freaking out. Losing my mind.

It was bad.

***

It was bad and it kept getting...

WORSE.

'You have cervical dysplasia.'

'You are anemic.'

'You have fibroid uterine tumors. Worst case scenario is that they cause fetal deformities or cause your labor to not progress.'

'We're seeing cysts on the brain and that's a marker for Trisomy 18.'

***

My pregnancy with The Cute nearly broke me but as soon as I saw her and knew that she was perfect I knew that I had to do this again.

***

I'm feeling pretty relaxed this time around. With everything that went on before, it would be kind of tough to shock me now.

(Dear God, Just so we're clear, that is not a challenge. KLoveYouBye.)

I'm just kind of...enjoying everything.

***

My Dr is keeping me on Lexapro. I'm nervous about that. I'm wondering if I'm going to need to switch to something else in the third trimester, because that is when Lexapro is considered to be 'risky'.

I will embrace the panic attacks to have a healthy baby, but my Dr is confident that I can have my healthy baby without them.

Said the Dr and the OB to the high anxiety girl: 'Relax'. Yeah.

***

My blood pressure has been on the low side (90 something over 50 something) and I've been having Vertigo-like symptoms.

I have NO energy until about 6pm. Then I'm fine.

I've been sleeping through an entire night for the first time in...forever.

I've been super-gaggy pretty much all day.

I loathe the smell of black truffles. They kill.

Ice cream is beyond delicious.

I've already suffered through my first pregnancy cold and it sucked.

And I'm already up 7 lbs. Like, whoa.

***

I'm feeling a little bit of guilt that The Cute will have to share some of the attention. : /

She's just so sweet.

♥

***

According to my last period, my due date would be May 1st if I had a normal cycle.

I don't.

According to me, my due date will be closer to Mid-May.

May 1st is The Bottomless Pit's mom's birthday. Yuck.

But, yeah. My ultrasound in approx 2 weeks should clear that right up.

I'm right.

***

I'm already getting annoyed with The Pit's dad's overzealous yammering about me having a boy.

I think he has my uterus confused with Starbucks.

And I am not collecting state quarters, here. Healthy baby prayers will be more appreciated than gender preference prayers, bitch.

***

I'm way pissier than I remember being last time around.

Way.

Pissier.

I was weepier with The Cute.

What does it all mean?

***

The Chinese Gender charts say I'm having a boy.

They were right for The Cute.

Were they right for you?

What were you like in the first trimester?

Most obnoxious unsolicited advice you were given?

Things that pissed you off the most?

Tell me.

♥

Scary Stuff. Ghosts & Clean Laundry. (Repost)

2010-09-21T13:15:00.001-04:00

I live in an apartment complex. It's a pretty big place. I'm all the way in the back...I'm not in the 'building' style apartments...I'm in the 'house' looking apartments..... The 'building' style has 1 laundry room per maybe 10 apartments. The 'house' style has 1 laundry room per maybe 20 apartments. Our laundry room is bigger, though. I guess because more people use it, right? Right.

So one could probably assume that the chance of running into someone when you're doing your laundry is pretty good.

Remember that, kids.

Those little bitty details just never occur to me naturally. Well, maybe they occur. They just don't sink in when they occur.

Whenever I do laundry NOW I come around the corner kicking through the crushed stone as loudly as my flip flops will allow....(Why don't I walk on the sidewalk? I don't know either.) I cough on the short walkway into the laundry room and swing the large door with the window open as loudly as I can while balancing a full laundry basket.

Just in case anyone thinks I am a ghost.

There ARE people like that in the world, ya know?

Flashback to November 2008. I was very pregnant. It was a Friday night. I was watching Ghost Adventures with my boyfriend. I had my heart set on doing a load of preggers clothes but couldn't seem to drag myself off of the couch. Boyfriend decides, suddenly, that he's going to bed. I'm left out there alone. To watch a ghost show. With a full laundry basket and nothing to wear tomorrow.

I watched until the next commercial. What I watched until the commercial scared me. Pretty bad. I blame the pregnancy. Of course.

Off I went to do laundry.

I stepped outside with my laundry basket.

Winter. Cold. I could see my breath. Kind of like those guys on that show. But they could see their breath because of ghostly activity. Ghostly activity, yes. It makes your breath cold. Or look like fog in the cold air. Ghosts, fog, cold. Just like me, outside.

You know those cartoons with a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other? Well I kind of have that. Only it's more like 'rational' me and 'super, SUPER dumb' me.

Walking into the laundry room my thoughts were something like:

Rational Me: "Now, DON'T make a spectacle of yourself. Please. There might be someone else in the laundry room, dumbass...you aren't the only one that washes clothes in there so don't do anything stupid..."

Super Dumb: "Wouldn't it suck, SUCK, SO bad if one of the washing machines were haunted?"

I was almost there, to the laundry room. Seriously pregnant and out of breath. Hot in the middle of winter.

Super Dumb: "Oh SNAP! I never noticed this but the laundry room is kind of a little basement. Just like what Ghost Adventures showed that dark mass in tonight!!"

I walked the walkway and heard shuffling and was not scared. I rationally thought that it was just another tenant doing laundry, like me.

RATIONAL THOUGHTS.....FAIL in 3...2..

I ended up walking into the well lit laundry room and seeing a man in a long choir robe sort of outfit bending over by one of the dryers and tossing things into it.

2 1/2...

Normal enough. For a laundry room.

Until...

I dropped my basket onto the cement floor. THUD! I stood there frozen, not believing what I was seeing.... A ghost. A ghost. A frigging GHOST! My mouth fell open and I screamed. For a full minute or so. Massive belly, almost as big around as I am tall. Sweaty. Disheveled. Screaming.

My laundry buddy stopped what he was doing and stared at me, his turban lopsided from standing up so fast.

He had friendly eyes and a thick middle eastern accent. His dark beard had some lint stuck in it.

"WAAAAT??? Wat eees eeet? Was WRONG?"

Oops. My bad. Clearly not a ghost.

I remember feeling myself turn bright red. I apologized. I guess I could have said it was a mouse, a spider, a contraction. SOMETHING besides...

"Sorry...I was watching this ghost show before... I thought you were a ghost!!!"

Not too quick of a thinker.

I started picking up the clothes that were now all over the floor. The ghost bent down to help. He looked very confused and uttered one of the best inside-joke quotes ever... (This has become one of my boyfriend's favorite stories when we're out having drinks. Of course.)

"I em NAWT a gooooooooost."

"Ok. Sorry."

He offered to help with my laundry. I declined. He wandered off into the winter night, his sandals thumping on the sidewalk outside. Yes, sandals.

He is now pretty much the only person that I ever run into in that damned laundry room. I run into him a lot. And I have to make a conscious effort to not do anything overly weird for that ten minutes or so that we're around eachother in there. Not as easy as it sounds.

My laundry buddy. The friendly ghost.

(Originally posted a year ago)

Sunday Sucker (Daaaaaamn, my weekend sucked!)

2010-09-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

I've told you before that The Bottomless Pit is a micro-managing workaholic, right?

Well. He is.

He worked late all week. He worked on Saturday. All day.

After work and Saturday night he effed around with his stupid scrap metal business.

Since he is busy all of the time he doesn't have time to get my car ready for it's inspection.

(It needs brakes and a new serpentine belt. I know stuff.)

His dad, who usually has his meddling hands in every one of The Pit's projects AND has his own fully-equipped garage, is useless.

Our local trusty mechanic would have things whipped into shape in no time. And I'd get my family discount since I'm obscurely related to everyone in town....But NOOOOO. The Bottomless Pit wants nothing to do with that.

He'll fix it.

WHEN?

Not now, obviously.

So I'm STUCK at home while he works a zillion hours, hoarding away money while I don't even have a running vehicle. And he flat out refuses to teach me to drive stick-shift so I can't even use the stupid Jeep.

ARRRGGGGGHHHH.

***

That is all completely relevant, Your Honor.

***

I was getting a little pissy with my boyfriend as he drove me and The Cute to church Sunday morning.

He had already woken up at the crack of dawn on his day off, because that's when his dad likes to go to breakfast.

His dad wanted the baby to go, too. Yeah.

Except...

No.

I am not waking up a 1 1/2 year old at 5:45 because some grown man can't wait any later to eat. The Cute normally wakes up at 9.

I had to call The Pit at 8 to ask him to come home and help me so that I could get The Cute and myself out of the house by 8:50.

He was cutting up scrap metal at his parents'.

NotgonnafreakoutNotgonnafreakout

And then, on the way to church he tells me that he's going back to his parents' while I'm at church to help his dad unload a washing machine.

His brother lives at home but he'd still be sleeping, poor dear, so it would be easier for everyone if The Pit spent his day off driving back and forth.

?

He said he'd definitely be back by the time I was out of church.

***

I took my time letting my mini-Baptist mingle.

My cousin, as usual, drove us home.

He offered to treat me to Dunkin Donuts. Hell yeah. So we were on the late side by the time he dropped us off at home.

And I didn't see a stupid Jeep anywhere in sight.

No. Bottomless. Pit.

I called him. He says he'd be on his way home in a minute. He was sorting out scrap metal. At his parents'.

Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout

***

The Cute and I had woken up 2 hours earlier than we are used to.

We were tired.

We were sick of hearing about scrap metal.

We were getting irked that our Bottomless Pit did everything but poop at his parents'.

Can we spend time together? Can we see you? Can we go somewhere that's fun for us? Can you come the fuck home?!

***

The Bottomless Pit arrives home in typical whirlwind fashion and is going on and on about how I need to hurry up, c'mon, his mom is cooking a big turkey dinner for the whole family, c'mon c'mon c'mon, she's making you chicken (I don't like turkey. Don't start.) and it's going to be amaaazzzzzinggg c'mon c'mon c'mon.

I was still wearing my long-sleeved shirtdress from church because it had been 50 degrees that morning.

So away we go. 1 pm. Sunday afternoon. Still haven't spent any time together in days.

The big turkey dinner? Not so much.

There was turkey. It got eaten for lunch while we were on our way over.

The house was a wreck, as usual.

There was grilled chicken, served to me on a paper plate as I sat at the table and ate by myself.

The Bottomless Pit found himself a turkey leg and then disappeared.

Just like at home. Only totally uncomfortable.

So I'm here....WHY?

***

THREE HOURS LATER.

***

I'm standing outside holding The Cute who is writhing and screaming.

My warm shirtdress has turned into an enemy now that it's nearly 80 degrees.

I'm exhausted. And done.

His mom and his sister and his dad are just kind of hanging out while The Pit hammers away at something.

I asked him what time he thought he'd be done.

The first time I'd interrupted him to ask a question since we'd gotten there. I hadn't spoken to him, complained, bothered him, anything.

You know what he said?

You know what he said?

He said....'WHY?!'. And he yelled it.

Bad move, kid. Bad move.

I put down the baby and I stomped over to him and said 'Come talk to me for a second!' and then I changed my mind. 'No! Since you want to be an ass in front of everyone, we'll stay right here. I'm asking because you said we were coming over for DINNER. I'm DONE EATING. We have other THINGS TO DO. I'm DONE WATCHING YOU fuck around with tools. Your daughter wants a NAP. NOW. WHAT TIME WILL YOU BE FINISHED?!'

I may have also said something about answering me in a better tone of voice than what he had used before because he was gonna look really stupid walking around with a Frye boot sticking out of his ass. Who can remember in the heat of the moment, really.

He stood there giving me a dirty look, a really dirty look. And then he CRACKED his KNUCKLES at me.

The Bottomless Pit is the calm one. The Bottomless Pit is the sweet one. The Bottomless Pit is the last to yell and the first to apologize and here we were, at his parents', and he was yelling at me in front of everyone. Not the first time it's happened. What IS IT about that place???

So I got mad about the knuckle-cracking and started flipping out even harder. 'It's easy to be a tough guy when you're 16 inches taller than me, isn't it? If I were a guy I would KICK YOUR ASS.'

***

That went well.

***

We fought the whole way home.

***

He refused to acknowledge that maybe the whole 'turkey dinner' theme was, perhaps, a wee misleading. He couldn't see where I could possibly have a problem with how my day had gone.

Until we got home.

Holy shit. It's 5:00!

He thought about things for a while. And then he apologized profusely.

And then he asked if I'd be cooking dinner.

I wouldn't. I was still full from my chicken, thank you.

smirk

He agreed to cut back on the scrap metal bullshit and then he immediately hit the computer to scan Craigslist's free section. For scrap metal.

***

I guess we'll try again...next weekend?

Date Day Sunday. (I Was SEVERELY Misled)

2010-09-16T14:04:00.001-04:00

"You don't leave The Cute very much." Said The Bottomless Pit. "You and me...we don't do anything that's just us two. There's an antique trunk show going on over the weekend. Let your sister watch The Cute and we'll go."

An antique trunk show?

Well. I'm not sure exactly what that is...but it sounds delightful.

"Where is it?" I asked, the next time the conversation came up.

"At the fairgrounds."

And that sounded a little odd because our fairgrounds is...in the middle of nowhere. But I did not delve further. Why should things have to make any sense?

In my sweet mind an antique trunk show could not possibly be...

An Antique TRUCK Show.

(Antique Truck and Equipment Show. The Nationals, if that means anything to you. Tractors and digamabobbers included.)

Am I too young for hearing aids?

WHAT? And...WHY?

***

There was dirt.

You had to walk through the woods to get to the spectator area to watch old equipment digging in said dirt.

And...

The living in sinlaws were there.

That was conveniently left out of my itinerary.

They were actually no problem at all. But still.

I...just don't know.

***

The 'Show'

Exchange between myself and an ornery retiree:

"Ain't no place for sandals."

"I'm not delicate like you ladies in your work boots protecting your pedicures. I don't mind getting my feet dirty."

And it was a lie. I was quite upset about my dirty feet. But it got me some laughs. And a white-haired, John Deere hat- wearing BFF.

The path. Not kidding.

***

I lined up a babysitter for this. And our 'just you and me' time was spent with his parents.

Can't win 'em all.

Now I'm just working on a way to make 'baby store' sound like 'navy store' without giving it away by giggling...then our plans for next weekend will be set.

***

The heart hears what you want it to hear.

Or something.

Coming to Blows (I'm Not Your Biggest Fan)

2010-09-15T11:55:00.001-04:00

I have had 2 close-quarter living situations, with 2 different boys.

1 being my black-sheep brother. The other being The Bottomless Pit.

I don't care about the toilet seat being up or down.

I've got bigger fish to fry.

(Though I would love it if The Bottomless Pit could keep his piss stream under control.)

Boys can be slow about taking out the trash. They're still gonna take it out.

Boys can stink up the bathroom. I'll just wait awhile before I get ready and that means I'll take longer, too.

What am I gonna throw down about?

Fans.

Enough with the freaking fans.

***

My brother was not only being kicked out of the house that he shared with 2 roommates, he wasn't allowed on the property without the cops being called.

At the time he thought he may have a warrant and he was skeered.

Ladies...he's single!

This drama was all unfolding at the same time that I was moving into a place of my own.

Working, packing up all of my life's possessions and moving them a little at a time...all by myself.

Everyone in our family was sick of my brother's stupid problems and decided that this was the one that should be his rock bottom.

The only person who was willing to take him in was a guy who was rumored to have a major drug problem.

I couldn't handle that.

So I moved myself and I moved him.

I packed up all of his stuff for him. It was fun. He's a slob and a packrat. My bleeding heart and I and let him tag along to that little apartment next to the town hall/300-year-old cemetery.

"Come live in my teeny apartment, fatass."

"It's just gonna be for a couple of months."

***

One year later.

He was still living in my den. My doorless den. Using a sheet as a makeshift door. He had his boxes stacked in my kitchen and in my bathroom.

He had run up my phone bill hitting *69 to see who was calling my house phone.

Ah. So he was in fight club. That would explain the weird sleeping habits.

He used up all of the hot water.

He'd hunger-strike until I went grocery shopping, and then he'd eat all my food.

He'd bum cigarettes.

He didn't have 'any money' but he always had beer.

Trouble was a-brewin.

***

He wanted to make fun of people who still slept with stuffed animals?

Well what about him?

He always slept with that damn fan running.

Couldn't sleep without it.

A dusty, old fan. A loud one.

He was the first to turn up the heat and run that bill up, too.

I'd come home at 1 in the afternoon and hear that stupid fan. I'd know that he was in my den that I couldn't use, sleeping on smelly sheets, doing nothing with himself and expecting me to be quiet so he could carry on with his napping while his precious fan kept him feeling comfortable.

Where was my comfort?

That stupid brother. That stupid fan.

I remember plotting with The Bottomless Pit to hide it and watch my brother freak out.

The Bottomless Pit backed out at the last minute.

My brother can be hostile.

The fan lived on.

***

My brother moved back in with one of his best friends, who was now living with our other brother.

He lives in their basement. A match made in heaven.

He almost lost his fan privilege there, because he was sleeping on the couch upstairs. He'd sleep with the fan blowing directly in his face and his face happened to be inches from the thermostat on the wall. The fan would make the thermostat think that the place was 10 degrees cooler than it actually was and the heat would run constantly.

That fan is nothing but trouble.

Our other brother talked about trashing it but never actually did it.

It wasn't like his little brother was going to be there for more than a few months, right?

It's now 3 years later...

***

My problems with fans annoying me were finally over.

???

***

The Bottomless Pit and I are not on the same page when it comes to sleeping/comfort.

He grew up in the messiest house that I have ever seen. He feels that the most normal, comfortable way for a bed to be made is throwing a comforter over a flat sheet.

Kid...have you ever stayed in a hotel?

I beg to differ.

I like clean sheets. A neatly made bed. Layers of blankets in the winter. Comfy and cozy. Everything but the comforter tucked into the mattress at the foot of the bed. My feet able to escape out the side of the blankets because I cannot sleep with them covered up.

***

Sometimes 2 people just do not agree.

That is when you have to go the direction of the most reasonable opinion.

Hello.

***

We have a fan that tucks perfectly into our bedroom window.

One of The Bottomless Pit most common, monotone complaints: "I'm hot".

Even when it's not hot.

I set the fan up as soon as it starts getting too warm to sleep comfortably at night.

We had a perfectly good air conditioner but it got replaced by an air conditioner with lower BTU because it was second-hand from The Pit's parents and anything from them is automatically 'better'. Our bedroom hasn't been cool for 2 summers now.

Fan. Summer. Fine.

***

"I'm hot".

"It's 60 degrees in here. It's not hot. Something is wrong with you. Don't make me suffer."

"I'm hot".

***

When I am tired the first thing that gets overlooked is the making of the bed.

The Bottomless Pit goes to bed before me.

The Bottomless Pit flings the flat sheet on the floor and snuggles himself up in the comforter.

I come to bed. I turn off the fan. He turns it back on. I wake up shivering. With him hogging the blanket.

This has happened one too many times.

***

"Why is the fan in the garbage pile?!"

"Because it's garbage."

"NOOOO!"

"It's dirty. It's blowing dust at you. I wake up every morning with a sore throat."

"Oh."

"We'll get a new one next year."

He agreed to that. All was well.

And then...

"I hate that stupid fan. It's enough that I'm tolerant of you sleeping with the freaking window open in September when it's going down to 40 degrees at night, but you want me to sleep with a FAN blowing COLD air on me when YOU'RE hogging the BLANKETS? You're ridiculous! You're almost as bad as Nate!"

Nate = my brother.

Thank you, Lord, for my natural way of boiling over with my true feelings in such non-confrontational ways. It's really helpful. Thanks.

***

The obvious solution?

The Pit and my brother move in together and they both leave me alone.

***

Dumb things that you will NOT back down on?

Spill.

Pee-ing on Sticks

2010-09-10T17:57:00.009-04:00

I am a person who has only recently discovered the wonder that lurks in the Dollar Store.

There's...cleaning stuff in there.

There are...toys in there.

There are...thank you cards in there.

There are...pee sticks in there.

***

Pee sticks: the objects that the potential preggity-preg-preg chicks obsess over. Especially given the day and age of Interwebz and message boards.

***

I not-so-casually inserted the mention of a faintly positive pee-stick into one of my recent blog posts.

That line showed up before it should have, mere days after conception would have occurred. But it was there.

And my period wasn't.

(It wasn't due for a while, anyway.)

I tend to be obsessive. I think you know this.

I wanted to 'make sure' and I wanted to see the line again...darker. So I went back to the Dollar Store and dropped almost $20 on pee sticks.

That's a lot of pee sticks.

It's ok. My bladder is the size of a walnut.

I tested the next day. There wasn't much of anything there.

The next day. Same. The next day. Same. And the next and the next and same same same same.

Then again.

Faint line. Super faint. Barely visible.

Why wasn't the line getting any darker???

It was supposed to be getting darker. Something was wrong.

Meanwhile, I was stealing The Bottomless Pit's thunder by eating like a beast.

So hungry. So hungry.

All the time.

***

Up until a few days ago I continued to test. First thing in the morning. Pretty much every morning.

Sometimes the lines were there. Sometimes they weren't. And if they were, they were still so horribly faint.

The line should've been showing up by then.

***

Go figure that this stuff happens to the spazzy, high-strung girl, right?

Meanwhile, I was harassing my OB/GYN's office.

'You've gotta squeeze me in.'

'We're very busy.'

'I don't care. Squeeze me in.'

'I'm very sorry, but we can't.'

I had an appointment for September 16th, but that seemed years away.

***

I've been exhausted every day.

I've felt a little sick to my stomach, but I haven't puked.

I cried watching Pocahontas (the Disney version). And when The Bottomless Pit said he didn't want to go to the grocery store. (I needed Lysol wipes.)

And my stomach...the part of my body that I never have problems with...is poking out ever so slightly. (Don't say it's from all the eating. Food goes to my ass and thighs. NEVER registers in my midsection.)

My stomach is poking out.

As I'm getting negative tests.

And the Dollar Store pee sticks came so highly recommended.

Damn you messageboards! Just kidding. I still lurve yous.

***

This bumpkin town that we live in has it's beautiful points.

Today's example:

I was walking through the Wakefield Mall with my sister and my mother and The Cute.

Wakefield mall has 7 stores. One is a Staples and one is a grocery store. Mall. Mmmhmm.

Well. Who do we bump into?

My mom's old OB/GYN.

He delivered me.

Isn't that a funny way to put it? Delivered? *Sign here please*

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Me, an adult. With my own baby. And now I'm a patient of the man who took over his old practice.

Isn't that an awful way to put it? Practice?

And yes. He remembered my mom and knew who my sister was and had an idea of who I was. Us crazies don't get to lay low in a town this size.

I mentioned my dilemma. To see what he thought. Because what good is retirement if you're not plagued with questions about what you used to do?

He whipped out his cell phone.

He called my Dr. Made some small talk and some not-so-funny jokes. (Dr humor?) Briefed him on my situation.

He then asked me if I could be at the office in under 15 minutes.

YES.

YES I could.

***

I'm pregnant.

PREGNANT.

Either the Dollar Store tests are garbage, or they don't agree with me, or I was unlucky enough to buy a bad batch.

Or I was just doing it wrong.

Which is likely. Remember the story of how I found out I was with Cute? I thought my test was a digital. I sat there waiting for a word to come up and wondered why it just had a plus sign on it.

I even bought a test on the way home. Just to see. And...there was a line. A line darker than the control line. A super dark, super pink line.

Note: I did not get this test from the dollar store.

Holy shit.

I'm pregnant.

***

Interesting how it never even dawned on me to just try a different test?

Oh well.

*sigh*

And...my short-lived relationship with the Dollar Store is over.

***

I am elated. The Bottomless Pit is excited. The Cute is cute and we're going to make the most of her last few months as an only child.

Have a beautiful weekend.

♥

Ass-sault and Battery

2010-09-09T16:00:00.006-04:00

Fun with word association:

Pizza?

Woo-woo-woo!

(That's a siren noise.)

***

That pizza place that I worked at was full of clowns.

The most unprofessional work environment...evvver.

Everybody was either under 25 or wanted to play like they were under 25.

Except for...

Maureen.

(Dun Dun Dun...)

***

Maureen is like 50 and she looks amazing for her age but she wears skin tight leggings that are so stretched to their limit, you can see her booty-bumps.

Maureen started working at Johnny's Pizza when she was like 21.

Yes, your math is right.

She's a waitress and not even a very good one...even after all these years.

She just kind of flings people's food at them and rushes around all frantic-like, all the time.

She tries to steal tables from other waitresses and complains that no one does anything, just her.

She's snippy and loudly talks smack about the rest of the staff. To her tables!

Like the customers care about the behind the scenes pizza drama.

They just want their pizza.

Shut up, Maureen.

Shut up!

***

Maureen sounds like a real pain ass, huh? That's because she totally is.

She's actually got a really good heart and is sweet enough outside of work.

I bump into her in Walmart all the time.

She's just...

I don't even know.

Maureen.

***

There was this one day in the middle of winter.

A normal kind of night.

Not too busy, not too slow.

Maureen was zooming around, hands shaking.

Messing up orders.

Hitting the most awesomely incorrect buttons on the computer...'Italian grinder, no meat.' 'Mozzarella sticks, no cheese.' 'Steak wrap, no steak.'

Blaming the cooks.

Handling money and not washing her grimy paws.

Bitching about having a migraine.

Dropping things.

Looking constipated.

Sipping water spiked with white vinegar.

She fell for that one daily. *Curtsies*

***

Maureen was on her 3rd mess-up of the night and was loudly explaining to her table that their food would be out 'as soon as the cooks made it right. Fucking idiots!'

Which is kind of a clever way to put it.

But...they heard her.

OooooOOOOOoooh girl. You're gonna get it.

***

Maureen was punching out and everyone was breathing a sigh of relief.

She was doing her check, double-check and re-recheck to make sure that she didn't forget any of her stuff or that no one had stolen a penny of her measly tips.

The head cook, the big fat one with the shaved head, came wandering over.

He smiled at her.

Uh oh.

She stopped.

Of course she did.

In addition to being psychotic...

Maureen was man-crazy.

Boy-crazy.

A mitten fell from his hand and landed on the floor.

He pointed to it and smiled, looking at Maureen.

"Is that your's?"

It wasn't.

But she bent over to pick it up anyway.

A-cuzza she's Maureen.

And as she bent over the cook moved faster than he ever moved in the middle of a dinner rush on a Friday night.

He turned. He squatted.

He...

Farted.

On. Her. Head.

***

Pffffrrrrrrttttttt!

***

I looked on in disgust.

As I collapsed with a hysterical fit of snort-laughter.

I'm a 13- year-old boy.

Maureen screeched, her face turning purple, that angry vein in her forehead doing that scary throb-thing.

She snatched the phone from the counter as she screamed...

"I'm callin the cops!!!"

Everything stopped.

Except me. I was guffawing so hard that I couldn't catch my breath.

I couldn't speak.

Tears were streaming down my face.

My side hurt.

I couldn't get enough air.

She, meanwhile, slammed the phone down and started to storm off.

And our manager appeared from whatever planet he had been hiding on and asked me what was going on and all I could get out was 'ASS-sault and battery!!!!!!!' as I pointed to the angry woman who was pushing the dishwasher and prep cooks out of the way of the door.

The dishwasher and the prep cooks don't speak English.

They had no clue what was going on.

***

I really actually wish that she had called the cops.

That would've been stellar.

But she didn't.

And life went on.

And I wanted to tell my non-english speaking, back room buddies what the hell was so funny, but the only words that they knew were 'no work for you', 'cheese', 'stop', 'onion' and 'dishes'.

They caught on to the siren noise, though.

Whenever she'd storm through, all crazy-like, they would make that 'Wooo-woo-wooooo' noise.

Sometimes a cook would make a farting noise.

And she'd scream 'FUCKING ASSHOLES' and slam down a customer's cup of Sprite so hard that the person would jump.

Good stuff.

***

The pizza at Johnny's is really good. I like the chicken fajita with no tomatoes, myself. Best to go there on a Tuesday or a Wednesday night. Maureen ain't usually around after 6 and the staff is a wee bit calmer.

Wooo-woo-woooooo!

Guns and Intruders

2010-09-09T10:14:00.003-04:00

Shortly after telling me that the level of my anxiety was like nothing that he had ever seen before, I was seated across from my Dr in one of his examining rooms. He had no notebook, no chart, no reading glasses. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then he said, 'Sweetheart. You are smart, you are pretty, you are financially secure. Your relationship seems great. You have a good attitude about your mother's problems. What is it that you are so anxious about?'

Smart. Pretty.

Say it again.

I paused for a second so that I could think. The perfect word escaped me but I settled on an answer of 'Everything. And nothing.' And then I shrugged.

On the way home I realized that I at least could've given him some kind of insight.

Maybe next time.

'Let me tell you about my in-laws. Pin-laws. Living in sin-laws.

These mother-fuckers will blow your mind.'

***

The story of that damn gun continues.

***

Hey. Wait.

That Dr didn't say anything about me being SKINNY. Does that mean I'm fat?!

***

The Bottomless Pit's family is pretty close knit.

Almost in a creepy way.

He has a brother and a sister. Twins. 23. They live at home with the mother and the father.

They all talk.

They all know eachother's business.

For example: The brother's first girlfriend only liked the missionary position and used a lot of garlic every time she cooked. Her dad was probably going to end up filing bankruptcy because his business wasn't going so well.

I didn't like the girl at all...but I felt such an overwhelming amount of sympathy for her. Like, hey girl? You know that last fight you had with Sean when you threw up and said you were having a panic attack and then you called your friend Jeanette...you yelled at Sean to let you out of the car so she could come pick you up and he said he wasn't sure if he loved you anymore...I know all about that. Eddie told me. His sister told him. Because Sean told her.

It's all done in a very strange way, as if they're a team of 4 (the mother, the father, the brother and the sister) and anyone else is an outsider to be bitched about. What is worse is that they will kind of sidle up to you and try to pry personal things out of you.

Yeah. It's not almost in a creepy way. It's very much in a creepy way.

I've learned to just not discuss anything with them that I would mind being giggled about while the 4 of them eat dinner. It's hard sometimes...The Bottomless Pit's business is my business and he grew up with this as his normal. He is a sharer. An over-sharer.

***

Though his children communicate to the point of being excessive, The Bottomless Pit's father is constantly stepping in and trying to bridge the gap between them.

He meddles.

He speaks on people's behalf when he has no clue how they feel.

The Bottomless Pit's mother is shit-stirring and overbearing. She is rude but backtracks when you call her out on anything. She refuses to admit to ever being at fault for anything and lies to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

Like when she was busted altering the guest list to the baby shower that my sister threw for me. She swore that she mailed out her portion of the invitations but all of those people just happened to say 'No'. All 15 of those family friends.The ones who later asked me why they weren't invited...? Yet her physical therapist and her work friends, whom I'd never met, were there... I couldn't even acknowledge them directly for their gifts when I opened them because I hadn't even been introduced to them before...

Aaaand I trailed off.

***

Hi, I'm Michelle. Nice to meet you!

***

The Bottomless Pit's brother asked to buy the gun. The infamous, blogged about gun. This one.

The gun was sold to The Bottomless Pit's brother for less than half of the original price, which seemed fair enough.

The brother seemed happy with his purchase.

They had no problems communicating the sale. The brother is a nitpicker who has no problems ever voicing his dissatisfaction with something. It's just how he rolls.

The gun was out of my house and that was that.

Right.

***

Sunday afternoon I was in the car with my cousin when I got a phone call from The Bottomless Pit, who had gone to breakfast with his father.

He had his 'woe is me' voice on and I knew there was a problem.

"My dad said that Sean didn't really want to buy the gun."

What?

"He didn't even want it. It's not what he wanted. I'm gonna buy it back from him. It's the right thing to do."

***

Now.

What purpose would saying something like that serve?

Would it be helpful?

Would it fix things?

Would it be meddling?

Is there a problem that can't be communicated between two brothers? Two brothers who speak on the phone almost every day?

When Sean hadn't said anything to this effect when they talked last? If Sean wasn't voicing this as his opinion...why was someone else?

Is there truly a benefit to getting the gun back in our home?

Is this just because something was done without the direct interference of a 50 year old man?

Because that 50 year old man, for some reason, was implying that Sean (who contacted The Pit about the gun in the first place) had been forced to buy the stupid thing and didn't want to say anything because he loves his brother so much. Not what happened. But enough of a disruption to really screw things up. And did you catch the little justification to the meddling? The opportunity to say 'I'm not butting in, I'm just telling you that your brother loves you!'. The Bottomless Pit knows that his brother loves him. But that's a typical pattern of behavior in that family. And if that fails, you can always fall back on a guilt trip. The Pit is a sensitive soul who falls for it every time.

***

We got home around the same time, 10 minutes later.

"Did you call your brother?" I asked.

"No" said The Pit.

"Are you going to?"

"No" said The Pit.

"So. What's going on now?"

"I'm going to give him back the $400 and get back my gun."

"I need to talk to your dad before you do any of that."

***

He begged me not to call his father.

He didn't want to upset things.

He didn't want his dad to know that he didn't keep the 'don't say I said anything, but....' promise.

Sweet boy, I'm gonna tell you what I remember when people are gossiping to me about someone we both know. If they're telling you that person's 'secrets', do you honestly think that your name never comes up?

Your dad is a dramallama.

Like it would ever be ok for gun-exchanges to be settled via The Pit and his father without my involvement.

WTF.

He told me he was going to be angry with me and asked me to promise him that I wouldn't call his father, I was just going to complicate things.

I told him I'm sorry but I just need to talk to him and see exactly what's going on.

"Not going to lie to you. Not going to be secretive. But I want to know exactly what it is that your Dad is saying is happening and I want to know, honestly, what his intention was when he said that to you. Because I really do not understand."

***

I left the room.

I dialed the number.

Voicemail.

I left an average message.

"Hey, how are you? Just wanted to talk to you for a minute, nothing important. I'll catch you some other time. Give me a call if you get a chance, ok?"

I wanted a call back.

But I never got one.

***

I never told The Bottomless Pit about the voicemail. He didn't know what I said or if I actually spoke to his dad...and I guess he thought that his father and I had a fight, because he made a point to avoid speaking to him at all the next day.

He's a tough guy in public and a weenie with those jackasses and I wouldn't mind if it was opposite day for a while.

***

So the day after I left the voicemail, the day that The Bottomless Pit was in hiding, was the day that my phone rang.

It wasn't The Bottomless Pit's father calling. It was his mother.

Now...I ain't a detective...but something tells me that they talked amongst themselves to try to figure out what I would be calling about and how to handle it.

We made small talk for a minute or so.

Then I couldn't take it anymore.

"You know Sean bought the gun, right? Why in the HELL would John tell Eddie that Sean didn't even want it? It has no business here. Eddie and Sean talk almost every day. Why is John speaking for Sean? And what does he think he's gonna accomplish? Now Eddie wants the gun back and I don't want it in our house! What was he trying to do there?"

She didn't even hesitate.

For a second.

"Oh, no. He didn't say that at all. And we talked to Eddie about it this morning. He's not buying the gun back. Sean loves that gun. I guess we were just talking about whether or not Sean was going to re-sell it, and...and...and..."

Beautiful story. Too bad none of what she was saying was even remotely true.

Eddie had not left the couch all morning. He never talked to anyone about anything. He didn't warn his parents, talk to his parents, ask Sean about selling a gun, have his mother lovingly step in and say 'No, honey, NO! No gun for YOU! Michelle doesn't want it! No!'.

As long as the conversation stays pleasant, who cares what's true and what's not, right? Her philosophy. Not mine. If I may be so bold as to speak on her behalf.

She then proceeded to give me unsolicited advice about selling one of our vehicles.

Now I understand why The Pit is trying to sell my car when both of us agree that it's not a smart move.

His parents want him to.

And that obviously trumps my opinion.

What? You want to buy a toolbox? Let me call my sister and see what she thinks. Let me make sure my mom agrees that you should have one.

She didn't even ask me about The Cute. Her granddaughter. Because if I don't let her rule all the decision making with The Cute I guess she just isn't interesting to her anymore?

Honestly I would love nothing more than to not have to deal with these people ever again. But I will have to deal with them. Over and over again. I would like my daughter to not be affected by our feelings for eachother...it's tough. They're more 'my way or the highway'.

***

Anyway.

The phone call.

Right. The phone call.

I'm 1 part relieved for getting my opinion out there; 2 parts annoyed by that whole conversation.

***

"Your mother said that your brother never said that."

That was all that I said to The Pit.

No name-calling. No pointing out that I was aware that she wasn't completely truthful. No hammering home that the meddling was unacceptable.

"Your brother really likes that gun."

If she's going to besiege me with random 'everybody is happy, honey, what's wrong with you' phrases and make it seem like there never was a problem...

I may as well repeat some of that bullshit back.

***

I can blame those annoying family members of The Pit all that I want to. The truth is that we wouldn't have the drama that we do if he made it clear that some things just weren't up for debate.

He feeds into it, he aids it.

I'm right. Of course.

But it's hard to prove that when you're the only one with a problem with what's happening.

I told his mother that no matter what they discuss amongst themselves, the gun is not coming back here, the Altima is not for sale, the Jeep is not getting a new clutch since we have two other vehicles with less miles on them that are in better shape, and we are not trading the movie channels for Netflix...it's just not what we want.

I shouldn't even have to share our answers with them.

I should just wait for them to pick my boyfriend's brain and disagree with whatever he tells them I've decided so that we can fight when he comes home from work.

***

So this time it happens to be a gun. A big issue. A hot button issue.

An issue that people have strong feelings about.

But the real moral of the story is that it is our place to make the decision. Our = Us. Us = Me & The Bottomless Pit. No one else. And it is very frustrating feeling like that all can be undermined in a breakfast/gossip session/phone call.

***

I think that it is hard enough transitioning into adulthood, becoming parents (and doing your best to be good ones), and have a successful relationship. Agreeing on sensitive issues doesn't always come naturally. I'm sure that this is all much easier with a support system that is...supportive.

Conversing. Butting in. Not the same.

***

Dear Doctor,

I'm sorry but I just cannot go there unless you promise to take them away or something.

I've told you about how annoying they are and that's as far as I'm gonna go; even hearing their names stresses me out.

And it's not just them that I'm anxious about.

But they sure as hell don't help.

Wordless Wednesday. Hey Dollface.

2010-09-08T11:41:00.002-04:00

I See No Point in Arguing When My Mind is Already Made Up. Guns Have No Place in My Home.

2010-09-07T22:44:00.000-04:00

It was a few days before I started 8th grade that I went to a funeral with my friend Janet.

They had done a good job of hiding the damage that was done to the back of that 14-year-old boy's head. From what I could tell, anyway. As we stood in line to pay our respects I kept my eyes away from the casket and I whispered 'Rest in peace' while standing 2 feet away from a sobbing mother.

CJ was wearing the polo shirt and jeans that he had picked out for his first day of high school.

He was buried in them, instead.

CJ and I weren't friends but I still think about him.

***

Hanging out in a living room with no parents to be found, a group of boys stumbled upon a gun.

A gun that was loaded.

A gun that CJ held jokingly to the portion of skull just behind his right ear.

Laughter turned to screams as the blood started pouring before they even heard the BANG.

***

I was reading off a list of symptoms of OCD to The Bottomless Pit.

One of the symptoms was about 'believing that people have evil intentions, bad intentions'.

"Do you believe that people have bad intentions?" he asked me.

"No" was my answer.

I do not believe that people have bad intentions. But I do believe in human error. There's a lot of it. There are a lot of mistakes that are made because people are not perfect and they do not try hard enough and sometimes I worry about how people's mistakes are going to affect me.

***

I was with The Bottomless Pit when he first started pulling in big paychecks.

Back when he was a boy who lived with his parents and I was a girl who was always busy.

I was looking at antiques. He was looking at guns.

He laid down a large chunk of cash on a semi-automatic something.

We left and he brought it home. On the short ride he happened to mention that he kind of wished he could get his money back...that was a big purchase and it wasn't even exactly what he wanted.

Mental note number 3216 part B.

We walked back into the woods, him carrying one of his father's signs...the kind you stick in the ground. Metal or something.

He cleared away some sticks and set the sign against a tree and he shot at it. A few times. His aim was bad and the gun sounded like a frigging cannon; someone would've called the cops if Exeter had a police force, but it doesn't.

"Wanna shoot it?" he asked.

"No. I don't like guns."

Houston.

We have a problem.

Little girl. Delve further into that conversation, right there right there right THERE. Damn. She can't hear me.

***

I cannot stop being the voice of reason because once I stop there is talk of 'zombies in 2012' and 'shit going down' and 'we need guns and we need to stock up on food'.

I am slightly resentful that I play grownup while The Bottomless Pit plays pretend.

I've said it before and you can hand me a stick and lead me to that dead horse, at least beating it won't ricochet into anything.

I am more than slightly resentful that The Bottomless Pit's mother told me that 'he just doesn't get it' and that I need to be 'kind of like a mother to HIM, too'.

Eff you, Enabler. Your little Peter Pan is 25 now.Your house is a mess and your husband calls you 'fat' in front of company. 'Nuff said.

The weight of making reasonable decisions is constantly falling on me. I'm making decisions based upon the well-being of my family. The Bottomless Pit gets to do things based upon what's going on in his imagination, or what his parents think, or how hungry he is.

Well guess what, boy?

The shotgun you bought a few months after the handgun is the next to go.

I would rather spray an intruder in the eye with a can of wasp spray than live every day with a handgun and a shotgun in my home. My sweet-faced baby girl's home.

***

The Bottomless Pit's brother is a rookie cop.

He goes to a rifle range.

He was in the market for a new gun.

All he had to offer was $400 and The Bottomless Pit mentioned it to me.

"Should I sell my gun to him?"

Yes.

Yes you should.

He does not live with a baby.

He has a purpose for a gun.

Do you hunt?

Do you go to a rifle range?

Could you use $400 on something else?

Would that gun being gone contribute to my feeling of safety?

Sell that son of a bitch.

***

What about intruders?

We are in the boonies.

If it is that big of a concern I would like an alarm. A loud one. That contacts 911.

I don't know how to use a gun.

If someone happened to come in with no weapon and stumbled upon that thing... that would be a great way for them to be able to kill me instead of possibly just rob me.

If the gun is stored the way that it should be for me to have a little bit of peace of mind that means it is unloaded, in a safe.

That means it is not going to help us if it comes down to a split-second. Ever.

So something that is not going to help us, that doesn't get used, that cost nearly $1000 is just sitting there. Causing me distress.

While The Bottomless Pit can't remember where he put his keys.

Here, lemme get you a bow & arrow while we're at it.

***

The Bottomless Pit sold the handgun to his brother.

Because I was so adamant about him getting rid of something that he didn't want to get rid of, The Bottomless Pit did not speak to me for the rest of the day after that happened.

And that really got to me.

Except...it didn't.

Because my peace of mind is worth me pissing my boyfriend off, any day.

I believe in human error.

And I don't have an opinion on what you should, or shouldn't do with your guns.

I don't want them in my house.

And I vote Republican. I'll fetch you the smelling salts.

Annoying tip of the day: No matter how you feel, discuss how you feel with the person you think you may spend your life with. It's tough learning these things as you go. Especially when there's such an attachment to the item in question.

Kindly refer back to mental note 3216 part B. That's what I thought, too.

***

My wish for CJ's parents is that they get a little comfort these years later by knowing that their son is not forgotten and that I will tell my little girl his story one day.

***

Stay tuned for my next post.

A fabulous edition of 'Butting In. The Curse of My Living In Sin-Laws and How that Fucking Gun Almost Came Back.'

Mmmhmm.

***

Written in purple gel-pen on the front cover of my notebook for Mrs. Bailey's English class: "I'll stop being so mean if you stop being so stupid."

Middle-schoolers understand more than you think.

Here I Am. Rock Me Like A Minor Gust of Wind. A Breeze is Fine. Really.

2010-09-02T10:30:00.009-04:00

I've told you before about my impromptu trip to Florida back in the day. (Goin back almost 6 years, yo.)

Near Christmas I told my mother that I couldn't bear spending one more holiday season feeling unloved. I told her that I wanted to leave. She pretty much said 'Ok' and drove me to the airport.

Little experience did I have with the cold, cruel world. But I knew that it couldn't be much worse than cold, cruel her.

Not even old enough to drink, I left on a jet plane and later found myself in South Florida.

A wide-eyed New Englander whose only experience with a tropical climate was her parent's summer house became a sun-tanned child of the beach.

I was a resident of Fort Lauderdale.

I lived directly across from the teal water, on A1A, in a hotel-turned-'apartment building' with the most random collection of people I had ever met. I loved most of them dearly.

I had plans to make my way north, to a town just north of Palm Beach. That was where the house that was supposed to be mine stood and it was for sale. Thanks Mom.

I am the only child of my father who wasn't given a house as a gift welcoming one into adulthood. I know, I know. World's smallest violin.

I had connections there, though. And a storage unit filled with furniture and things belonging to my grandma.

I had STUFF, more than what I had hastily shoved into 2 suitcases before a plane ride full of tears.

I had no car in Florida, though. No car.

***

My home.

I was working diagonally across the street from where I lived, at a beautiful resort. I'd walk to and from work and I was making decent money for a girl with no life skills and no bills to pay.

I would lay on the beach or sit by the pool at my 'home' on my days off. I was enjoying my life on my own.

My mother had been in touch with me every now and then, but I felt assured that my presence wasn't missed.

My work.

***

My landlord was a hippie man who was turning 50. His new wife wasn't much older than I was.

My neighbor was a girl from the Ukraine, who would come over annually to spend a few months working in strip clubs.

A loud girl from New Jersey lived 3 doors down from me. She became one of my BFFs.

A woman in her fifties who waitressed at Denny's became my 'mom'. She bought me a hamper. I still have it.

A lady from Kentucky who was trying to escape from her psycho ex is someone who I still miss.

A man named Lonny who drank like a mofo died. He lived upstairs. It freaked me out. Pretty bad.

***

There was Hurricane Katrina.

I watched that happen on tv.

Hurricane Rita didn't do us too much damage.

And then there was Hurricane Wilma.

That one hit us. Hard.

***

Our windows were taped. That doesn't do any good, by the way.

I was huddled in the center of my studio with a boy I'd known since I was 16. He had driven to see me so that I wasn't alone. We were trying to get radio reception on my cell phone.

I was scared and I heard the wind and somehow I fell asleep.

Glass broke and palm trees snapped.

And then, after hours of noise, it was quiet.

We had to work hard to get our blocked door open. When we did, we just stood. Just stood. Like everybody else was doing.

A bunch of kids, a bunch of adults, a bunch of people. Just standing. Not knowing what to do.

And I, amazingly, did not take one single picture of the devastation. But it was intense.

My friend had the back of his new car smashed up.

There was a lawn chair from the high rise behind us sitting neatly in our courtyard.

Everything was broken.

The sky was grey.

Glass was everywhere.

Everything was so silent.

***

I rode to Walgreens with my Jersey Girl and a man I had never met, to stand outside waiting for hours as they let people in 5 at a time.

I bought juice and cigarettes and chips. There wasn't much of anything left to buy.

We had no power.

We had no running water.

My cell phone wasn't working anymore and CNN reporters were covering the impact.

My family was panicking.

***

We weren't allowed to walk across the bridge that connected our little beach world with the rest of the city.

We were allowed, but we wouldn't be allowed back.

A1A had a lot of wealthy homes and looting was an issue.

So even though there was a little more civilization just a 15 minute walk away, we couldn't get to it.

***

The water came back on slowly, after about a week.

We had to schedule when we were taking showers and keep it short, because the water wasn't back to normal yet. But to wash in something other than that salt water, the joy was indescribable.

My work was running off of a generator and I hung out there as much as I could. As much as management would allow.

Cold drinks and air-conditioning made that place seem like heaven.

My Jersey Girl BFF and I were allowed to bring our laundry there so that we could have clean clothes.

Those clean clothes were amazing.

And after about a week I was able to call my family on a borrowed cell phone and let them know that I was ok.

My mother even seemed concerned.

It was about time.

***

We got used to living without tv.

It had been about a month with no power.

The return of the electricity was a blessed event.

It had been torture, seeing places 2 blocks away get power; hearing about places in the same county getting power as we listened to battery operated radios in the dark...feeling that we would have to be getting power soon...but when was soon?

I now have random knowledge about how electrical grids are spaced along A1A, if that ever comes up on Jeaopardy or something.

Then, one day, I was in my little apartment and the tv came on.

On the channel that it was on when the hurricane knocked the cable and the power out.

And things went back to normal. Normal-ish. Normal-esque.

I moved back to RI a few months later.

***

I learned that everything in my storage unit was ruined. Gone.

That hurt.

***

Now I'm stalking Hurricane Earl and running out of things to clean because I am worried.

I joke about how badly I am freaking out, but I am freaking out.

Does anyone have statistics for natural disasters per average lifetime?

Because I'm done, really, I think I'm done.

So done.

Words of encouragement/assurance that nothing is going to happen in RI despite what the dramallama newscasters are saying is more than welcome.

Go 'way Earl.

***

Hurricanes don't follow people. Do they?

My Aunt Flushed Her Cellphone Down the Toilet! Her! RIGHT THERE!

2010-08-31T09:48:00.000-04:00

I'm a really big deal amongst the Connecticut 2nd grade crowd.

***

My brother's two kids are two of the most amazing kids that I've ever met.

And that's not because I'm biased or anything.

And I'm not saying this in the style of The Bottomless Pit's mom. When I'll say something similar about The Cute and mention that it's not because I am biased, she'll say something similar and say she IS biased. The stupidity right there is really some of the most complex that I've dealt with...it has LAYERS.

Where was I?

Yes.

My niece is 12 and not going through that horrid awkward age that I was so familiar with. She's just...beautiful. She's got my face but it looks better on her. She's got a fabulous, witty sense of humor and is a little stand-offish but very demure and lady-like. She's perfection.

My nephew is 7 and he's a chatterbox. He's the friendliest person I've ever met. He's a ball of energy. He's charming and conversational. He's way entertaining and super sweet.

***

3 years ago my nephew was 4.

Betcha didn't know I was a math whiz.

***

Back before my brother was getting the divorce from his wife, they threw Christmas parties about 2 weeks pre-Christmas. For all of the people who they couldn't spend the actual holiday with.

They were major.

Drinks flowing. Food everywhere. Ginormous house decked in beautiful decorations. Gifts galore.

PARTY.

***

I was addicted to my cellphone.

WAS.

*Shifty eyes*

I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt hours into Christmas-party-time and had my cellphone tucked away in that front pocket that the pullover hoodies have.

What are those pockets there for? It's just like one big handwarmer. It makes you look lumpy.

I had to pee.

So pee I did.

And in one clever move I stood up at about the same second that I was pulling my sweatshirt back over my head, to go back to maximizing the cuteness of my shirt underneath.

SPLASH.

I had noticed some matchbox cars sitting on the back of the toilet and when I heard the splash I assumed that I knocked one in. In the toilet.

INSTANT PANIC.

There was PEE in there.

My body took over and before I could stop it I saw my hand reaching out to flush the toilet.

Oh NO.

As I peered in I saw my cell phone swirling around.

No matchbox car.

CELLPHONE.

It was punishment. Punishment from GOD, I say.

She who is willing to part with a little boy's toy will have her cellphone taken from her in a swirling tornado of piss.

***

"Hey. I just flushed my cellphone down your toilet."

"Dropped?"

"No. Flushed. It's gone."

"Shit."

"No. Pee."

***

A plumber got it out but I didn't want it anymore.

***

I don't see my niece and nephew nearly as much as I would like to.

Divorce.

Two hours away, which may as well be Mars in New England speak.

I miss them bunches.

And when I DO see them...

What is the MAIN source of chatter from my 7 year old nephew, who was only 4 at the time this happened?

'You FLUSHED your CELL PHONE down the TOILET.'

He told his classmates all about it.

And told them that I wear bikinis.

I can burp the alphabet, too.

Everyone is a star. Somewhere.

♥

Things Your Mama Never Told You About Living On Your Own #401

2010-08-27T08:50:00.004-04:00

Crazy skankwhores for neighbors.

***

Once upon a time I was a small town girl who worked 2 jobs.

Don't get all impressed, one was 12 hours a week and the other one was about 20.

But that's not the point.

I worked at the local hillbilly bar and at the little pizza shop near Wakefield.

(Wakefield: closest 'town' that isn't much of a town by town standards.)

I was the closing waitress at the pizza shop and I also handled the bar. It served beer and wine. Three drafts, plenty of bottles, the cheapest jugs of wine that could be bought.

And all of the wine was served in glasses for red wine, which bugged me.

Aside from our local hoarder (likes Cabernet) and my cousin (likes Budweiser) and my brother with his friends (like Budweiser done as shots out of wine glasses and being obnoxious) there wasn't too much bar business.

We did have a girl come in with her friend's ID, trying to get a glass of wine once. The ID she had was a girl who used to WORK at the pizza shop.

'Hey, you used to work here!'

'I did?!'

It was great.

But normally, a slow business.

***

The Bottomless Pit is big and friendly.

I am little and mean.

Not mean, but less conversational and smiley than he is.

I don't want to talk to random people. I don't want to make friends with people in passing.

You'd think it would be the other way around.

Lame things that I ponder.

Pit: Happy Great Dane. Me: Nippy Chihuahua.

***

I wasn't the best waitress. I wasn't the worst.

(Pretty close to the worst.)

I was good on busy nights but when it was slow I'd forget about my tables and stuff.

Since everyone is either related to me, or has known me forever or is a perv I always got really good tips.

If it was a table full of strangers I'd work my faux-friendly. Possibly do a fake Southern accent if I was bored.

*Shrug*

Work.

The accent thing...that's normal, right?

***

The Cute was living in our living room and our lease was coming up, so The Bottomless Pit told me to pick out a bigger apartment.

We decided to stay in our complex, just because it was easy. I guess.

There are a few different buildings and a few different layouts.

One of the much lusted after 'back apartments' was available. The kind that isn't actually in a building, it's a long series of apartments with their own front doors.

I took a look at it and fell in love.

Asked my buddy, our psychotic maintenance man, if I would like the neighbors.

He said 'Yes, absolutely.'

We signed the lease and moved in.

***

Ten minutes before close one night a disheveled, skinny, bleach blonde came in.

She didn't want any food. Just a glass of wine.

A glass of...

White Zinfandel.

I'm a little nuts. You know that. So I always brought the wine glasses back to the coffee pots full of hot water. I'd hold the glass over for a minute, so it filled with steam. Then I'd wipe the glass with a coffee filter so that there were no finger prints or water spots.

Then I would crouch down into the cooler so that I could pour the glass of wine without the customer seeing the stupid jug that it was coming out of.

Not that most of them would care. It just bothered me.

Johnny's Pizza...your wine selection shamed your employees. How could you?

So I did my routine and gave her the glass on a napkin on the counter.

I'm the only waitress that ever bothered with a napkin. Most would just slam it right down on the formica.

There would be spots all over the glass and glass clinking on the formica, plus the counter probably wasn't even wiped down nicely...

Oh. Right.

She took a massive swig or two and went outside for a cigarette. She came back in, sipped delicately and stated 'This wine is stale.'

Did ya switch personalities when ya went outside? Some skankaroo cigarette portal from PMS Hell? Because personality 1 seemed to like it just fine.

I just kind of looked at her.

She continued 'No, like, for real. It's stale. I can't drink this. I'm really picky about wine.'

Can't drink this + barely a sip is left. You want...what exactly?

I sighed.

'No. You are not picky about wine. You ordered White Zin.'

And if she was so picky about wine...wouldn't she be across the street at Pane Vino which is open an hour later than Johnny's Pizza, anyway?

***

'Open the fucking door, Shelbie!'*

*Not her name but super close. If this were a true story, I mean. Any similarities are coincidental and unfortunate. Blahblahblah.

Ahhh, the sounds of a relaxing Friday afternoon.

***

The Bottomless Pit and I have lived in this particular apartment for almost 2 years.

During that 2 years, our lovely neighbor Shelbie has been nothing but giggles around him and nothing but a bitch toward me.

She's one of those obnoxious females who is all 'Ohhhhh, hiiiiiiii!' when she sees a guy but is totally cold when she sees a chick. She's even like that with the older lady next door.

(Pssst. For the longest time I thought people were saying 'Next Store' instead of 'Next Door'. I guess that's pretty dumb.)

That skank is just rude.

I didn't like her for that reason. I didn't like her because I heard rabies-worthy meltdowns between her and her boyfriend coming from their apartment. I didn't like her because I realized...

Shelbie is Mizz White Zin!

If you like White Zinfandel I have nothing against you and will keep my opinions to myself. If I went to a meeting of beer-snobs and toted my liking for Budweiser I doubt it would go over well. I still like it.

And Mizz White Zin might want to switch to Snapple for a while...

***

Not only is Shelbie a beeyotch, but she speedwalks on the sidewalk directly in front of our building. She circles it and circles it. All day long.

Yup, there's Shelbie. Walking past my window. Wait. Yup, there's Shelbie. Walking past my window.

If it were anybody else I don't think it would bug me, but...

***

I was outside with The Cute, chatting with some other neighbors.

I got sick of the small talk and headed back toward our apartment.

Shelbie was sitting outside in her little front yard.

I saw her but I didn't say hi. I don't bother anymore.

She'd been acting nuts earlier, according to my ears, anyway.

A guy was in the parking lot and I actually didn't recognize him. I don't really LOOK at people sometimes, ya know?

He smiled and said 'Hi' and I smiled back and The Cute giggled at him.

Shelbie went inside and slammed her door.

I sat down on my front step and The Cute and I started rolling her ball back and forth.

I heard SCREAMING coming from Shelbie's apartment. SCREAMING.

I heard things BREAKING.

The guy who had said 'Hi' to me said 'Uh oh' and started running towards Shelbie's door. That's when I realized, 'Oh yeah. That's Shelbie's boyfriend.'

He tried to open it but it was locked and he started knocking lightly.

A demonic voice was screaming from inside 'Leeeeave me ALONNNNE!'

I tried to act casual.

So I could be nosy.

But The Cute blew our cover.

She started repeating 'Uhoh uhoh uhoh' and I started giggling, so we retreated into our apartment.

And opened the window to save energy. No need to run the AC all the time. Right?

***

The maintenance man ended up using the master key to let the boyfriend in.

Shelbie screeeeched 'Respect my right to privacy!' at the top of her lungs.

Uh. Ok.

Her boyfriend took off in his Jetta, speeding out of the parking lot.

Not the first time that's happened.

Accio shitshow!

Spectacle.

Oh mah Gawd.

***

The point?

My neighbor is a chick that I disliked far before she was my neighbor.

Yay smalltown.

My maintenance man is not a good judge of who I would/would not like to live 2 doors down from.

And...

Make sure you can hold your White Zinfandel.

Please drink responsibly.

:p

***

Happy weekend.

***

***

***

Oh. Yeah. This week I am a brand new participant in Follow Me Friday on the awesome Mannland5 Blog, which I am probably the last of you's to discover. Do I do a separate post for this? Do I just link to the blog? Do I have any business on the Internet if I'm this confused by the basics of blogging? Do tell. But remember that I ♥ you. Click the button. It'll tell you more than I can. But so could a racing tortoise.

Well. THAT Was a Bad Idea.

2010-08-25T17:41:00.001-04:00

Scene of the crime...

Please use as directed...

Do not want. (I lie. I'd still eat it.)

My crazy mama decided to start going to therapy when I was 8 years old. After I got out of school we would drive to Narragansett and she would stop and get me a vanilla frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles as a bribe to behave out in the waiting room. My backpack would be loaded with markers and homework and paper and books and I would take tiny bites of my donut to try to make it last those long 2 hours that I spent sitting all by myself.

My crazy mama's crazy mama did some damage with her craziness, and my mother's 2 living siblings (sisters) started going to therapy with her. Aunt Norma and Aunt Eve. Uncle Wallace had died from health problems a few years before all of this.

Aunt Eve's husband was Uncle Jimmy. He was weird. He would drive Aunt Eve to the therapist's office but wasn't allowed to sit in on the sessions.

He would ask about my donut and interrupt my drawing and homework-doing.

Uncle Jimmy bugged.

I started making a point of wandering outside to get away from him.

***

As a parent you won't forever be raising a child. Someday that child will be an adult. With all the child's memories and an adult's perspective.

***

Uncle Jimmy wasn't quite right and now I understand the thinly veiled stories about him 'doing things' to his kids.

Uncle Jimmy never did anything physically inappropriate toward me in the time that I spent with him.

He did often mention that I was his 'favorite' and that he kept pictures of me all over his house.

Like, he'd repeat that. Over and over and over.

If he'd see my brothers or sisters he would make a point of keeping the conversation about ME.

Ew.

Good work, Mom.

I'm pretty sure Uncle Jimmy was a diddler.

***

I did not know that Uncle Jimmy was one umbrella-ride away from two black eyes.

I'm not sure that he knew, either.

And you know what?

If getting a fist to somebody's face only took holding on tight to an umbrella in my adult world?

I'd do it every day.

Watch out.

***

I went outside and he followed me out.

He encouraged me to try to listen to what was happening in that therapy room by laying under the open window.

I refused.

He watched as I jumped and climbed and practiced my cheers and ran.

I grew bored.

I checked my mom's car to see if it was unlocked. And it was. I rummaged around for anything good and found...

An umbrella.

***

You are not Mary Poppins. I repeat. You are not Mary Poppins.

I've actually never even seen that movie.

***

I had never heard the story of my brother holding tightly to an umbrella and jumping off the barn roof.

I grew up kindasorta like an only child. My half brothers and sisters are all older than me.

According to Uncle Jimmy, my brother jumped and held on tight and gracefully floated to the ground. It was amazing.

And it sounded a little 'off' to my 8 year old mind...but...my brother was still alive, yes?

The seed was planted.

And it's always all downhill from that point on

***

To think, that day's therapy session was only 10 minutes from being done.

If I could've just held on for 10 more minutes...

***

In the beach town of Narragansett there really aren't many ways to go.

You can head toward the beach. You can make a right at Stop & Shop. Or you can make a left at The Indian.

The Indian is a big-ass Indian statue. A tribute to the Narragansett tribe.

Famous for skirmishes with Pilgrims and recent riots over tax-free cigarette disputes on tribal property.

The therapist's office was in the little strip mall that is to the right of The Indian.

I made my way over, Uncle Jimmy following.

With him going on and on, saying 'Just like Mary Poppins!'.

I climbed up the big statue's base. I tried to climb up his braids but he was just too slippery.

So I settled for that.

Altitude: 6 feet.

Thank you, carvers of very large Indian for making said statue nearly unclimbable. You must've had kids.

***

I opened the umbrella...

I held on to the handle.

I held on tight.

I closed my eyes.

I jumped.

'This is so awesome!' barely even had time to register in my head...

Before I landed on the ground with a crunchy-sounding THUD.

I tried to get up but I couldn't stand.

I whimpered in pain.

Uncle Jimmy ran over to help me and I screamed 'Don't you touch me you SHIT for BRAINS!'.

Vulgar. Yet insightful.

He ran and got my mom. Who yelled at me. And brought me to a Walk-in clinic.

***

I only think about this when it rains. Because my ankle hurts.

Or when I see a vanilla frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles. Or when I drive past the Big Indian.

Or when I see an umbrella. When it rains. When my ankle hurts.

***

My mom stopped going to therapy shortly after that.

***

Did I happen to mention that Uncle Jimmy was a BUS DRIVER?

***

I guess when my brother had jumped off the barn roof those years ago he had broken his leg and my mom hadn't done anything about that, either.

***

A week or so later my friend Abby's bus driver picked her up in Bus 4 (the one with multi-colored seats instead of the boring army green ones)...

With two black eyes.

I said my Mom didn't do anything about my ankle.

My Dad did.

Uncle Jimmy died a couple of years ago. From cancer. Not black eyes. I planned on skipping the funeral but there wasn't one.

Maybe FAKING It IS The Problem

2010-08-23T14:08:00.016-04:00

Sunday afternoon at a Walmart in a small town can be Hell on Earth when there are lots of people in the town that you don't want to see.

Our Walmart isn't even a Super Walmart. Weak. And it's a fairly new build because our townspeople protested like crazy. Yet we're all in there. Go figs.

So I'm in there with The Bottomless Pit, who is the ultimate people spotter.

Me? I rarely have any clue what's going on.

Don't ever kick me under a table to be subtle. I'll be all 'HEY, WHY did you KICK me?!'

He ducks behind the picture frame section and hisses at me.

'Jen is over there! Jen and Dave! With their kid! Fuck!'

Jen doesn't like me.

But I didn't bother ducking.

She has every right to not like me and I just don't care.

***

The Bottomless Pit's family has a history of planning things at the last very second and expecting us to show up with no notice.

With a few 'Ohhh, Eddie. Your grandfather probably isn't going to be around much longer' kind of remarks tossed in there if we...God forbid...have plans for his one day off.

The grandfather that he sees every other weekend, by the way. The one who was fixing the parents' roof a few weeks ago. The one who just got back from a ski trip.

***

The Bottomless Pit doesn't want to hear complaints of any kind unless he can fix them.

If he cannot fix what you are speaking of he doesn't understand why you are telling him.

He is a Boy Listener.

(My lightbulb about Boy Listeners went on while catching up on My Baby Sweetness's blog. Click HERE.)

***

I do not hate my mother.

I do recognize that she messed up and she's a human and she is completely and totally insane.

And she is...my mother. No one else is my mother.

*Shrug*

***

So Jen is this skank and Dave is this guy. Years ago he was my brother's roommate. And years ago I thought he was really cute.

I was on 'a break' with my on-again off-again longterm boyfriend. (We were always on 'a break' when it was convenient. He was my sweatpants boy.)

Dave was an older, adorable moron who liked to draw and was that 'awww, shucks' kind of guy.

I was just an annoying teenage pest who hung out at that bachelor pad for the digital cable and the snacks and the drama and the eyecandy.

I made it my mission to force the quiet Dave into conversation. We smoked cigarettes together. I listened to him play drums. He told me I was gorgeous and I told him that he wasn't stupid.

Even though his drawings sucked and every other word out of his mouth was 'Uhhhhhhhhhhh?'.

You can see where this is going.

Dave was the 2nd notch on my belt.

Slore-ish.

And so it was, until my brother caught on to what was happening and threatened to cut him up into pieces and bury him in his drum set and I pouted and went back to my sweatpants.

***

This town is too incestuous.

***

The Bottomless Pit is the type of guy who makes a plan for things, way in advance. He usually plans things based upon what he knows. If things don't go according to his plan it is very distressing to him. Because his plan is 'the way'. The right way. The only right way.

The Bottomless Pit's mother didn't have the closest relationship with her own mother. She adored her mother-in-law. They talked on the phone all the time. The mother-in-law was in the delivery room while the mother waited out in the hall. She taught her how to cook. They spent all holidays together.

It worked for them.

***

Dave and I were forbidden to speak and a little later down the road he started dating a girl who was 1/2 a foot taller than me.

Fatter than me, too.

A fun girl who liked to drink, like, as much as she liked to bone.

And that's a lot.

The town harlot.

She'd been with like, every guy with two legs and a peen.

Including, back in the day, The Bottomless Pit.

Awkward...

Dun Dun Dunnnn.

She ended up getting pregnant around the same time that Dave was doing her. Dave ended up getting a place with her. She continued to sleep around after she had the baby. She smoked while she was pregnant.

And so on and so forth and ew.

***

I have an understanding of why The Bottomless Pit is the way he is with his mother and I. He had an idea in his mind of what we would be and it didn't work out. He's slowly getting over it.

Hey, I would've loved to have a loving and supportive maternal figure. You can't have too much positive energy.

But sometimes things just don't work out. No matter how much you obsess.

***

The Bottomless Pit actually kept in mind one of my complaints that he felt was valid enough to voice to his parents and he did it in an adult, non-confrontational way.

'Guys. If you want to do something for (sister) and (brother) and (grandpa's) birthday next weekend you need to let me know.'

They answered 'Yes.'

It was that easy.

And he told me.

And I appreciated what he did SO much.

But then the realization hit.

I have to go over there Sunday.

I started feeling uncomfortable at just the idea of it.

I'd rather bump into Jen at Walmart.

What is wrong with me? I'm working on my anxiety. They haven't even DONE anything offensive recently. I only have to go over there every once in a while now. Why can't I be positive about it? WhyWhyWHY?

***

I was unfortunate enough to wander into the restaurant that Jen worked at a while back.

I was with a friend of mine.

I may or may not have looked in Jen's direction and giggled 'Watch out. It's The Herp.'

My friend LOL'd. Mmmmhmm.

That name may have caught on like wildfire since then.

Her reputation may have helped things along.

If I was really dumb I may have wanted to take credit for my cleverness, years later.

That gleeful admission of guilt probably spread like wildfire, too.

Girl has every reason in the world not to like me.

I fully understand her position. I do not like her either.

And I don't hide in Walmart.

I do not like Jen. Jen does not like me. And we're OK with that.

Dave doesn't like The Bottomless Pit. Everyone likes The Bottomless Pit. He finds this stuff harder to handle.

***

Older people always like me.

They think I'm cute. Smart. Spunky.

I'm good with parents.

I, at one time, wanted a mom-aged BFF to commiserate with and go out for coffee with.

The Bottomless Pit wanted that for me, too.

I even kind of expected to find that this not happening with his mother was all me and all my fault and that it would go away as my anxiety faded.

I asked my Dr about it.

I felt guilty because he was saying how much better and calmer I seemed and I said 'NO...I still have PANIC attacks at the thought of going over to my boyfriend's parents' house!'

He sat patiently and listened as I vented. I left out details. I left out a lot of stuff. I gave him every opportunity to say that I being an asshat and that somehow this was me, again, starting trouble and being a pain in the ass and not letting it go.

After all...I did start telling people that Jen had The Herp.

I didn't tell my Dr about that. She should probably tell her's, though.

SINCE SHE HAS THE HERP, and all.

What did he say to me?

What did he tell me?

What did he say?

'I think I would have a panic attack before going over there.'

Really?

For real?

Like...REALLY?

I'm not blacking out during arguments any more. I'm not shutting down over minor stresses. My hands aren't going numb if The Bottomless Pit isn't home exactly when he said he'd be. I'm not shaking uncontrollably in the bank or the post office. I'm not as nervous, as jumpy, my heart doesn't race any more, I don't have stomach aches, my ears don't ring, I don't have trouble catching my breath, I don't feel like someone is standing on my chest.

But I hate, hate, hate going to see my living-in-sinlaws.

And I guess I always will.

And I will just suck it up and go anyway.

And if anyone makes a 'like your inlaws for 4 hours pill' I will take it take it take it.

***

Forcing things isn't always the solution. ? .

***

And now that I'm so brilliantly self-aware that bitch is not coming NEAR the hospital next time I'm in labor. The smartest thing I ever did was not allow her in for the delivery. Telling me how much it's gonna hurt at 8 cm. Who does that?

***

Ah. To think all of this energy could've been spent spreading salacious rumors.

Herp de Derp.