wrong, so wrong

razor thin patience
is not cool like that one phone
nor is it shiny

It is wrong that I want to pick up my dog and punt him over the backyard fence so that he can lick his butt in the trees amongst squirrels and other furry wildlife that annoy me but shouldn’t.

It is wrong that the only food I bought at the grocery store today was Carnival Food: corn dogs, frozen cheese pizza, tiny expensive water bottles, lemonade, etc.

It is wrong that I yelled at the wee one for "trying to help" while at said grocery store. Though, in my defense, his "trying to help" included overhanding a glass bottle of chocolate milk onto the conveyor belt at checkout so hard that it rolled right off the edge and exploded into a million, tiny, glassy chocolate pieces on the floor.

It is wrong that it’s 9:35pm and I am so tired that I feel guilty for still being awake.

It is wrong that my only plans for tomorrow include going to Target to buy myself extra soft, long-sleeved sleepwear shirts to wear as real clothes.

It is wrong that I got, like 400 pages into a book I really like and then the protagonist’s wife had 6 miscarriages and I don’t think I can finish the book even though there are only a handful of pages left and I should just suck it up.

It is wrong that when I made rice krispie treats today, the smell of the melting butter made me gag a little bit.

That is all.

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this morning

blindness is funny
when it isn’t dangerous
or, uh, in bad taste

I woke up at some ass early time this morning (when it was just barely light outside) because I had to pee. So I staggered out of bed, sat on the toilet and what do I spy right by my foot? ANOTHER SCORPION. I pick up a magazine and smack the shit out of it. Then, after I’m done going to the bathroom, I stand on the magazine and jump on it for extra emphasis. At first I feel slightly bad about karma and all of that, but then I reason that I killed off this scorpion’s mate a few days ago, so at least they’re together in scorpion heaven.

I leave the magazine on top of the squished scorpion and decide it will have to stay there all day so my hubby can throw it away when he gets home, as I don’t want to accidentally sting myself and the Gestator with a dead scorpion.

A few hours later the wee one is awake and he wants to go potty in my bathroom. I tell him to mind the magazine because there’s a dead scorpion under it. This, understandably, freaks him out a bit and he no longer wants to go potty in my bathroom. But my MIL is in his bathroom. And will be there. For a while. So I reason with the wee one and offer to show him the smushed scorpion as proof that it can no longer terrorize us. So I carefully lift up the magazine and I carefully avert my eyes, because even a squished scorpion is enough to give me the heebie jeebies for days and I just got rid of them from the LAST scorpion adventure.

The wee one says, "THAT’S a scorpion?" and I open up my squinched eyes and peek around the magazine. I have smacked and stomped and killed a pile of red string.

This is what happens when you pee at an ass early time in the morning and you don’t have on your glasses. You kill string. Oh well.

My eyes may suck, but at least my karma’s OK.

Holiday visitor

so black and shiny
the holiday arachnid
is not met with joy

Here’s something I learned about myself today: When I scream, it is not the blood-curdling slasher movie scream that so many girls and women are good at. I tend to whoop. Which is kind of nice, but it doesn’t garner the attention you need when say, you’re sitting in the shower (I was tired) and you notice a SCORPION crawling on your FOOT and you SLAP IT like and IDIOT and piss it off so that it comes after you with tail raised and you are trapped in a confined, stand-up shower whooping your head off, but no one hears you or takes any notice because you are not piercing the quiet holiday morning with actual Halloween part XVI screams.

So you have to leap out of the shower, soaking wet and nekkid, and run, hollering, out of the bathroom and into the living room and shout for someone, anyone to please come remove the creature from your formerly peaceful shower.

And someone does. Which is nice. But now all you can think of is that you were sitting on the floor of your shower with SCORPIONS crawling around and that maybe it’s time to start wearing contacts again so that you can see the creepy-crawlies that want to eat you, but then again, wouldn’t that just freak you out more? So you decide to never, ever sit in the shower again, which sucks, because you are tired all the time and it’s nice to let the water bang on your head until you wake up enough to stand up with falling down.

At least it didn’t sting me. Remember when that happened?

*shiver*

Thanksgiving haiku!

pie filling tastes of
relatives’ holiday stress
eat store-bought instead

grandmother’s china
filled with turkey and gravy
all it’s ever known

Thanksgiving morning
It’s time for the parade! For
us all to ignore!

ah, sweet potatoes
please do not be mad that I
like your topping best

stuffing or dressing
a debate for the ages
‘cept that dressing wins

broccoli and rice
with butter, cheese and butter
and Phazyme sprinkles

on this occasion
will football be allowed, or
must I talk to you?

meltdown

who would have thought that
16 millimeters could
make someone so sick

The short answer is: After 22 months, a radioactive dye thing, a threat of an "exploratory" laparoscopy, 2 rounds of drugs, and one shot of hormones in the ass – I’m pregnant.

I don’t know whether to say Woo! or Whew! I kind of hate saying anything at all, to be honest. I know jinxes aren’t real and all that, but with my history of evil, ER-requiring miscarriage, it’s spooky to be in the first trimester. I feel crazy all the time. Scared, tired, weepy, queasy, I pee five times a night. I know much of it is hormones, but I can’t help thinking I’m exacerbating it with my general freakedoutedness.

I never thought I’d be this freaked out – especially after wanting it so badly for almost two years. Sure, I was fairly freaked when I got pregnant with the wee one (after two consecutive miscarriages), but now I am a complete and utter basket case. And this is AFTER we’ve seen an ultrasound of the little heartbeat and everything measured normally and it all looks good. I’m STILL being a nutcase about it all. I don’t want to tell people, I only feel marginally happy, I am FLIPPING OUT.

I can only hope that the flipping out goes away. Because I’ve wanted to have more kids for a very long time. The wee one is over the moon ecstatic about everything. He tells everyone that "MY baby is in mommy’s tummy" and he gives me little pats. It’s so sweet and wonderful and I feel terrible that I’m not really sharing in his blissed-out-ness. I want to be blissed out. I want to be excited. I want to plan a nursery and think of baby names. But right now it’s everything I can do to keep from have a mental breakdown every single day.

Possibly a lot of the drama right now is related to food and zits. I can’t eat. Everything is gross. It smells gross. It tastes gross. Even crackers and water make me want to hurl. All food disgusts me. So I am constantly hungry and queasy and dizzy. I’m sure this doesn’t help matters. And my face… well… let’s just say it’s hard to feel confident and happy when you look like you’re busting out with smallpox. I mean, seriously. I never had zits like this when I was pregnant before. Maybe it’s the stress.

And then there’s the guilt – the guilt that I’m making the wee one watch too much TV because I don’t have the energy to do anything. The guilt that I’m harming the Gestator because I’m scared shitless pretty much every waking moment. The guilt that my house looks like a pit. The guilt that I am being way too self-centered right now.

So now you know. And maybe by confessing my secret I’ll feel better. And if something bad happens I’ll have the Internet’s shoulders to cry on. And if something good happens, I’ll have you all to share it with.

And if I eat something I’ll feel better. Ditto with the sleeping.

I can’t believe I’m such a basket case. I can’t believe I’m pregnant.

forsaken 

blast you darn google
I thought we had a good deal
but you are no help

Argh. There’s this hair cut place specifically for little kids. It’s down kind of near the mall, and suspiciously located next to an ice cream shop. The wee one is in desperate need of a hair cut and I’m even willing to pay an exorbitant amount for it, if he can sit on an airplane or a horsie or something while someone professional cuts his hair. But I want to know more about the place before we show up. And google is no help. The phone book is no help. I am vexed every way I turn. So I guess we’ll go do a drive-by. I just hate to walk in and either A) totally freak him out or B) suddenly find out that it’s gonna be like $40. Because when I say exorbitant, I mean like $15.

This is a lame post. But it’s about the most exciting thing happening today: hair cuts. Aren’t you happy to be filled in on the very minutiae of our lives?

***UPDATE***

Success! Well, by saying "success" I’m ignoring the part about having to wait 50 minutes for our turn, watching a mean little boy horde all 70,000 Thomas the Tank Engine train cars while his mother said NOTHING, listening to blowers because I guess the hair cut place’s bathroom exploded, watching a seriously unfriendly and OCD mom (grandma?) sign her kid in, leave, come back, get pissed because her kid got skipped BECAUSE HE WASN’T THERE, and then take it out on the hair cut lady by making her cut his hair like 4 times to get it exactly perfectly right. Oh, and I’m ignoring the part about the other mom who forced her maybe 18-month-old to get his haircut despite his continuous blood-curdling screaming and gagging sobs. Oh, and the part where there was only one hair stylist working. And the part where we’re probably getting Hepatitis from the legos.

But the wee one’s hair is cut. It looks pretty cute. It cost $16. He got to sit in a fire engine. It was followed up by a Swiss Chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone decorated with white icing and colorful sprinkles, which cost $3.88 and seemed wholly way, WAY expensive to me. I barely got change from a $5 bill for one ice cream cone! Am I old and ornery and cheap? Is this the going rate for ice cream? I could get a whole tub of Blue Bell for that. But the wee one was totally blissed out by it and he got ice cream on his nose and he kept grousing at me for touching his hair because he didn’t want me to mess it up and "make it go back the way it was." But now he looks like a little kid instead of a just barely post-toddler and I kind of wish we’d left the rats nest alone.

Next time we’re going to JCPenney’s hair salon. And buying a tub of Blue Bell. I would rather the wee one be mesmerized by all the hair salon commotion than be forced into watching Dora so that he keeps his head straight. I don’t know what I was thinking being sucked in to all that "a fun place for kids" crap. It’s just like that one time we went to Picture People and it SUCKED SO HARD and the pictures were all spotty and blurry. Places that are specfically created to be "a fun place for kids" are generally kind of run down, filled with vipers dressed like other children, and have exploded bathrooms.

Just an observation.

You lie!

no longer trust you
your book "recommendation"
has made me dry heave

OK. To all of my friends who said, "You HAVE to read Stiff, it’s so great and fascinating and not gross at all!" I say this to you:

you lie.
you lie.
you lie.

I agree with the fascinating part. But the "not gross" part?

you lie.
you lie.
you lie.

But I can’t stop reading it, so I guess you win. And I like how Mary Roach calls maggots "haciendas" so that it’s less horrifying to think about.

But still.

I no longer trust you lying liars (and I’m only on page 75).