Disgusting Housewives

My husband is the Patron Saint of Dealing with Disgusting.
He's squeamish to be sure, and stands on propriety fairly well.

Other then the gas, the mad disgusting gas of being pregnant, I try to limit, and he limits for sure, the amount of body function interaction that goes on. We pee with the door closed, I don't use the bathroom while he's in the shower, we sh*t on different floors. there's no nose picking, surreptitious of otherwise. a dutch oven would be cause for divorce.

all and all, we both like to maintain a little distance, decorum.
which is why it was particularly humiliating to require his assistance last night.

See somewhere in the postop kit I declined to take, the "Dealing With Your Loss" portfolio I blithely waived away, somewhere in that kit and likely said:

"And we recommend you take a fiber supplement or a gentle laxative post surgery."
Because prenatal vitamins and the lack of coffee combined weren't doing you any favors and the anesthesia is likely to make your shit rock solid. Causing what will cause an extraordinary amount of excruciating pain. Pain that render you in agony, rocking on your livingroom floor for several minutes whimpering before you associate the pain, not with passing a blood clot but specifically from an impacted ball of shit. A shit so dense pressing thisclosely to your cervix on the inside, that will leave you writhing and moaning on the floor.

Likely it went on to tell me that it would be akin to a labor cramp. That'd I feel a sweat on my neck and a lightheadedness heretofor associated with fainting.

I saw my husbands legs.
"What can I do?"
I think I'm going to throw up" I said.
I knew he's go for a pail, I preferred to be dragged to the bathroom.
He comes back in with a yellow little tikes Bob the Builder helmet. Ellie's. I laugh.
I'm going to throw up into her helmet.

"I think" I said. "I think actually I need to poop."
I start crawling towards the doorway. The bathroom kitchen is closest.
"I don't want you to look" I said. While I hoisted myself up.
"It hurts"

He mixes up a packet of orange Metamucil, leftover from bedrest with Ellie. When shitting was my doctors obsession. If she gave out gold stars for proactive potty, surely I would have earned enough for an xbox level treat.

"Just slide it in."
He did. Like Tom Cruise in cocktail.
"ohhhwwww" I moan loudly.
"MY GOD, MY GOD whats wrong."

"There's a bug. There's a huge huge bug in here. Please. you need to come get it. I need to to come get it. I can't relax."

Dear god, the man comes in, I'm gross, I'm crying. I'm sitting on a toilet yelping "Dont look" and he's got 1 cubic inch to crawl OVER my legs, kill the bug and pass back all the while like some delicate Houdini that Isn't Going To Look.

"Owwwwwwww." I'm still in pain. "I cannnnn't. Nothings happening. It hurts."
He's helpless. I'm humiliated.
And then I snap.
I'm going to pull that sh*t out. Literally. I'm done. I'm in pain, and I'm certain my ass can take it.

I stick - good lord with a vengeance, my finger, with its long prenatal fingernail UP my ass. SURE THAT THIS IS A GOOD IDEA. Thinking, Maybe I can SPEAR this sucker.

Wait 24 hours before making decisions, it read.
Yeh, Like engaging in ass play. Would that I took that fucking kit home.

And through the closed door he hears me say "I think maybe this wasn't a good idea."
Him: "What can I get you"
Me: "I'm not sure. But I don't think fishing for shit with fingernails was my finest solution"
I hear with every fiber of my being that man freeze on the other side of the door.
But lord love a duck, he rallies.

"Wait" He says. "Just wait"

Then footsteps traveling through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, UP stairs, some banging and down again.
And a graceful hand opens the door.

"DON'T LOOK" I'm squealing.
"Trust me. I don't want to look"
And he passes me a bottle of lubricant. One that hasn't seen daylight, or frankly dark of night, neigh on two months.

"Good idea" I breath heavily as I reach.
And several seconds later I peer out the door.
"Um, can you get me upstairs to the shower?"

And we hobble ala the three-legged race at the fair. He turns the shower on.
"Hot" I say. "As hot as you can make it"

He sticks his head in.
"You alright?"
"He was my neighbor. And he violated me. Now I'll never end up in a fancy pie"
"Yeh, you're fine."

And I am.
I really really am.

The Best Laid Plans

I was supposed to get a pedicure today.
I was supposed to get up at 6, be out the door by 7, to the Doctors by 8. I was supposed to hear the heartbeat and make plans got a cerclage, and then for progesterone shots. I waited deliberately until i was this far along, to give the baby as much time as possible to decide whether it was going to stay around.
I was supposed to finish at the doctors, stop at CVS and buy a wedding card. I was supposed to pick up a bottle of OPI Magalia Wine and convince Lulu that I don't want a french manicure. I was supposed to get home late, have a snack, and see my daughter and husband as they return from NY. I was supposed to get up tomorrow, have my hair flatironed and go to the wedding of my dear dear friend. I was supposed to come home happy, maybe a little sick, and I was supposed to announce at playgroup on monday that I guessed the sex based on the heartrate.

I was not supposed to go to the doctor today and find out that my babies, my twins, had died.

Didn't even see it coming.

One Example of Apples Not Falling Far From The Tree

Have I ever mentioned that in my family of four am "The Quiet One"?
I shit you not.
Not The Funny One, The Successful One, The Pretty One, The Happy One, The Simple One. It's possible that I am The Neurotic One but when all is said and done, I'm actually "The Quiet One".

Proof:
FB - From Me To my Brother:
Can you refriend me? I think I X'd a conversation a couple of months ago and instead killed you off. Today I deleted you to re-add you and it won't let me request you. Unless you BLOCKED me?

FB - From Him to Me:
No, you were not blocked. Since I am a social media expert and I know intuitively how Facebook works (because I have un-friended many an asshole myself), you have to un-friend me to remove me from your friends list. Nice try.

This certainly is a poor effort at an excuse. Given your intellectual prowess, you could have come up with a better story. For example, a hacker infiltrated your Facebook account and deleted all your friends. Or, better yet, the Securities and Exchange commission was investigating your family for insider trading. You deleted your family from your Facebook profile to save you from embarrassment, or worse, scrutiny that you actually married a secret day trader and that your daughter is a ruse for some kind of tax shelter. Her birth certificate is from Panama.

That being said, I took into just consideration you may have simply just been (rightfully) annoyed, peeved, or exhausted from having to be interrupted by my thoughtful, enlightened, or intellectual musings. You reconsidered our familial friendship based on the realization that some tragic incident (I had nothing to do with) may have burdened you with the untold psychologically distress you may have experienced during your periodic human growth episodes, which have left you unable to discern familial bonds with the stress of corporate life while working for "THE MAN."

Being that you're considered "family" and all (and I use that term in the loosest form grammatically possible), your request has been evaluated and reference checked against the common code of social conduct as it relates to sibling interpersonal communication.

With careful thought and consideration to the fact that our past and futures are summarily intertwined--in that I may run into you at a family function or assist your beautiful daughter and oddly funny husband with their lives should you accidentally (or not) meet your untimely demise--your request to re-friend your f'ing brother, for chrissake, has been granted.

Consider yourself lucky, because--you know--it's an honor and privilege to be friends with someone as popular as I am (in my own mind).

Next time you do something so stupid as to un-friend your own brother, I will ex-communicate you from my online social world. You will therefore only be able to communicate with me through third-world communications systems, like the freakin telephone OR snail mail.

Yours truly,
Your F'in Brother!

Mama Called The Doctor and The Doctor Said...

The plan is a cerclage at 11 weeks, followed by weekly progesterone shots starting at 16. The shots can be administered at home (yeh) but my husband is likely to faint. Id ask a friend but really, I don't think I'm that close to anyone.

Then we'll see. The risks are pretty standard with a cerclage(1 in 250) but without a cerclage, I'm at high risk for premature labor. So either way, your assuming some risk. The downside is that there is no long term data avaialble for the effects of elevated progesterone on children. So there's always the chance that today's breakthrough is tomorrow's thelidamide.

Having said that, this is where I'm putting my trust.
They have a vested interest, perhaps even moreso then we, on bringing a healthy live baby into this world.

For them, it's a career, a life study, a passion, something to propel their hospital as a leader in perinatal care. Maybe a pathway to a Level 3 NICU. For us, well, we have each other and we have Ellie. It's simply "wait and see."

In the end, we're going with the aggressive Western Medicine option and hoping for the best. And honestly, the best is going to be "Whatever happen, happens."

Let's Not Get All Melodramatic

Doctor Doctor, Gimme The News...


9 weeks.
It's early, to be sure, and certainly nothing I'm declaring, but it may as well be out - metaphorically.


Hence/Thus the obsession with weight, the start of recent melencholy, and the beginning of what just may be The Longest Seven Months Of My Life.

But man that coffee roll looks good.

The Glamourous Life

photo credits: scottdamgaard.com

There used to be a time when I was no holds barred cute. Not a knock out, not a hot babe, but on a scale of 1-10 I was running a 7. A New England 7, sometimes an 8. I was a New York 5, a Chicago 6. In warmer weather cities likely a 4, but if I lived there long enough, I'd have worked out into a serviceable 6.

I had long dark thick hair, a relatively trim figure. relatively? Sigh. I was 122lbs until I was 33 so yeh, I was trim. And clothes? again. Cute. The standard jeans and cute top. I didn't have the moxy for halters, the hootspah for hoochie but throw me out into any random bar and I got the sleeper / value buy / sexy librarian vote virtually every time.

Then I got involved with my ex, and added about 5lbs of hell to my life that I never "really" shook, then I got lethargic, then I got pregnant.

And after Ellie never lost "all" the weight. Oh I came close. One fine morning I broke 130 but it was fleeting. And faded. Fast.

And it wasn't just the weight either. My hair texture changed. It's curlier, courser. So I cut it, and it's lost it's way completely. I tried overcoming vanity. I dressed Ellie first then myself. I have 2 pairs of jeans, the rest too small, a promise I made to myself but couldn't keep. In my closet bins are the 4s. The 6s were prepregnancy. The 8's immediately after. But my 8s became my 6s and the sexy stopped.

Oh that's not to say I think you have to be thin to be sexy. In fact, everyone who knows me, husband included, by far knows I prefer, in terms of sexy, although I dont/won't "go there" - a heavier girl. Always.

But for me, with small boobs, you need to keep a low weight, to have any curves at all. Else I look stocky, like Mary Lou Retton. If she'll forgive me the comparison.

So it's two years after Ellie and I'm a rectangle. With bad hair. And ill fitting clothes.

I tried. I paid the stylist, I walked, I Shredded, I bought what I thought were key items at Ann Taylor, at the Gap.

But my body changed. And my attitude along with it.

I became.
I have become.
Cumbersome.
(sorry. Couldn't resist the 90s music reference there)
Dumpy.

I've become Dumpy. Cute enough in a Plain Jane cute way but as far as kicking ass and taking names? Not. Likely. At. All.

Back In September I thought Id join a gym. But the days became packed with Ellie things and my husband found it unfair to be out at night. I thought about working out, and like Scarlett O'Hara, pumped me fists at tomorrows day.

"And this time. THIS TIME. I mean it" I thought.

I wasn't lazy per se. Because I was a mad woman. Plans everyday, field trips, corunning the church group, baby gymnastics, dinner on the table, home organized, bills paid, life running smoothly along. And by nighttime the day would be gone and I'd have eaten PERFECTLY but alas, no loss. Because I was always a good eater. So the body was used to the amount of calories.

I needed exercise.

September turned to October, then November (no shit) and December. I didn't join a gym because of the money, the time of year. "I wont go" I thought. "We're traveling to NY, to CT, to wherever." It's a waste of cash. Janauray. I'll start then. Then we contemplated the maybe baby. "I can't join the gym NOW" I thought. What if I get pregnant? Because balh blah fucking BLAH - as everyone ELSE who knows me knows. I can't work out while pregnant.

So even though we carefully moved the goalie, we didn't exactly...um...put a power play in motion right away. So even though I knew I "wasn't" there's always the chance I "could be" so for January, then February, I was too scared to exercise. "Well what if it took? What if, even though I wasn't ovulating (too graphic? sorry) Even though all these things, if I am...at all. I don't want to find out when I'm gushing down my leg. (Oh what, and that WASN'T graphic?)

March I exercise like a mad woman. And success! The sixes were starting to fit.

We were BRINGING SEXY BACK.
Butch haircut notwithstanding.
I lost the momentum in April, and here I am in May.
Fantastically obsessed.
Wanting Weight Watchers. Wanting to do the fat flush. wanting with a college dorm passion to eat less. The discipline on those anorexics I tell ya. Waking up in the morning thinking "What can I NOT eat today."

It's awful.
And the warm weather, and fit friends aren't helping.

And I'm stuck. Because I know with utmost certainty that there's nothing I can do about it.
Not right now.

And of all the things I SHOULD be concerned about, I find it appalling that this is the thing I care about the most.

Hot. As in Africa Hot.

I had forgotten how stale the air is on a hot day. I forget that here in New England spring lasts about 2 weeks and it's raining before and after then one day...it's fucking hot. And not in a mellow "oh lordee isn't it warm" but a back sweating, bitchy, humid hot. Too hot to eat, too hot to cook, too hot to be civil. Hot.

Hot enough that the DPW guys are yelling "Hot enough for ya" out the window.
Hot enough that the fleshy flab of winter can no longer be hidden.
Hot enough that on this first day of hot we are looking at one another thinking "I can't stand a summer of this".

So hot that the bottled water I drank today at a friends house leaves me rife with guilt as I likely contributed to global warming.
HOT.

It's SO fucking hot out.

Status Update | Facebook

May 19, 2009

is finding that she REALLY likes this comment found in Business Week. "The right people display window-and-mirror maturity -When things go well, the right people point out the window, giving credit to factors other than themselves; they shine a light on others who contributed. Yet when things go awry, they do not blame circumstances or other people; they look in the mirror and say: "I'm responsible."

Alone

I hear the ticking of the clock
I'm lying here the room's pitch dark.

A million years ago I started this blog, lying on a bed in the hospital, alone. And so many people after the fact, after Ellie, thought that I handled it marvelously.

A million years ago, I lay in bed awake at night swearing that I would never, ever, do it again.

The nurses said "You'll forget"
Friends said "Oh but you'll try again will"

"But we won't" I knew emphatically.
I told my husband I'd rather die then ever ever do it again.

But people do do it.
People who can't would seize the opportunity, a 10% chance over no chance. The worst that can happen, the very worst, people think is that your baby could die.

But that's not really the worst, is it? The worst, the very worst is that a child is born to early to survive but too late to die. So damaged, in balance, destined to half a life or none at all. Death delayed? Death prayed for?

I think...I think I'm thinking what if my karma's bad?
I think I'm thinking that I really don't mind doing it all over again but I think it's going to feel really - really long.
I think I'm not borrowing trouble but I'd be a fool not to acknowledge that trouble is wrapped in a neat package with my name on it.
I'm not complaining, I'm not scared, I just think I'm....thinking.

Just Stuff

I met a woman today who referenced Harvard Business School twice in a one hour and 35 minute time frame.
Methinks she went there.
I called a friend who wasn't at the playdate.
"Hey - I met A. today"
"Oh you did" she said "What did you think?"
"Well. I think she went to Harvard"
My girlfriend laughed.
"Yeah. I met her twice. She mentioned it both times."

**************************************************************

I picked my mother up from the airport last night. She was coming back from a wedding in Virginia. Or maybe Tennessee. She waxed lyrical for neigh on 30 minutes and at no point in time did she ask me how I was, how my husband was, how traffic was, how Ellie was, how anything was. She monologued. I interjected often, and politely. "oh is that so?" and "and was your outfit equal to the others there?" her concern, not mine. I exclaimed over detailed descriptions of flowers, I marveled over the menu, the growth of grandchildren, I asked after the seating arrangements. 34 minutes by the car clock into it, she explained a minor detail with "...because it was at a golf course..." Whereupon I seized a common thread. "oh! I have a wedding at a golf course next weekend" and she talked louder, over me, about the chicken, and beans. I thumped the steering wheel in exasperation.
"Oh how nice Deb" I voiced for her. "Do I know her?"
"You don't" I parroted for myself back. "But thanks for asking"
She stopped talking. Astonished.
I laughed. "Well really" I said.
She huffed. "We aren't talking about YOU right now. We're the ones that went away."
*** oh ***
"You're right" I said. "I'm sorry that 38 minutes in I ventured to mention my life. Go ahead. Tell me more about the chicken and beans. I'm on the edge of my seat."
So she did.

**************************************************************

I am tired of people From NY who assume b/c you are from Boston you participate in the Yankees Sox rivalry.

Therefore: Please note much like all Irish people aren't drunk and named Seamus, you can be from Boston and not really give a shit about the Yankees either way.
Just sayin.
It gets old.
Sincerely, Me

**************************************************************

My daughter likes her potty.
She also likes to sing.

Tonight I composed a ditty to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and sang it in the round like a twentysomething on a pub crawl...

"Tinkle Tinkle in the potty,
the pee pee comes from my twatty."

My husband just looked at me.
"Dainty"

**************************************************************

Ellie: "mommy burp?"
Me: um..yeah. that's it. sure. "Yes..Mommy burp"
Ellie: "Ellie burp?"
Me: "Yes, Ellie can burp"
Ellie braces herself and squinches her face. I hear a fart.
Ellie beams.
"Ellie burp too"


***************************************************************
WHY SHE'S MY FRIEND

From: ME
Subject: I -HEART- Me Some Bride
Hola Chicki – Very VERY excited for your big day. I’m thrilled or you and looking forward to seeing A’s sister again too! So – just to clear this up, because I’m nothing if not brassy and tacky. I heard a rumor that you old country club types (read: WASPs) give presents at weddings, and that it’s gauche to do the townie Massachusetts Irish/Italian check in a card thing. Lets’ be honest. Cash is extremely nice. So I am just going to say it outright. If you and A can’t deal with having townie friends tell me now. Because, my friend, I totally believe in Going Green.
xoxo (laughing as I type this…)
Ok, ok, no response necessary. LOVE YOU!!!!

From: Her
Subject: RE: I -HEART- Me Some Bride

LOL - I can't wait to see you guys in 12 short days!!! I can't believe it. Us WASP's will take anything. We take cash, checks and credit cards (JK). There are no lines being crossed here. Giggle.

How I Spend My Free Time - Part III

And lest you think I have an even BIGGER issue, yardsaling every weekend, I adhere to the one in, one out rule.

So several hours were spent ALSO doing this.

How I Spend My Free Time - Part II

Lest you think it's all sweetness and light, I will go on to say that after i put the cherub to bed, I spent 20 minutes creating a dollhouse tableau.
And after inspection the final product at leisure, this is what I came up with:

1. This item is actually named "Fisher Price Loving Family Twin Time Dollhouse"
Which, I dunno, I think is kind of creepy. Like this is "the loving family's" dollhouse. As opposed to the "you rotten bastard you knocked me up, I gave up my career, and now we are mortgaged to the hilt" family dollhouse? It just seems a little Stepfordesque.

2. Why is everyone blond?
I get that this house was manufactured with two different family options: Caucasian and African American. But overall, here in America, we don't really have a disproportionate numbers of fair hairs. So why does Fisher Price sell a house where it's main option of a family choice is blond? Isn't that like, less then 5% of the population? Aren't blonds all supposed to be extinct by 2210? You'd think by making the family brunette you'd be able to capture the majority of Caucasians, and a greater percentage of Hispanics and Asians. Look at the woman on the Tide box. She's designed as an amalgamation of, oh, four different races. She's like that woman on Seinfeld who's beautiful sometimes, then ugly? Mrs. Tide Box turns into the light and HEY, she's Hispanic. Oh wait, she's Latino. Ooooh, I think I see a little Cherokee. Meanwhile when can we go back to saying "black people" because I'm not convinced that every single person with dark skin is African American. What if they are from Cape Verde?

3. Why are there two Mommy's?
At first we thought Mommy II was the teenage daughter but we realized that her boobs were bigger then Mommy I. I suspect that in order to get each gender child, you had to buy a different set. But what do I do with Mommy II? We are calling her "New Christine" actually. Ultimately she may be the Auntie. Or Nanny. But I'm fairly certain that there's some serious Big Love going on in my Loving Family Dollhouse.

4. Subliminal Forces...Gender Roles
You'll notice in my tableau that BOTH Mommies are working. One putting down the baby girl, the other in the kitchen. Daddy is of course sitting on his ass reading the paper.

5. Subliminal Forces...Gender Bias
You'll also notice that I can given both girls optimal placement. Girl One, the child, gets the tree swing while her brother, the bastard from Daddy's affair with New Christine, get's relegated to just sitting on the tree. Girl Two, the infant, is being hand rocked to sleep while infant baby boy is left standing alone in his crib. Additionally, Boy I sleeps in the attic, with no discernable means of getting upstairs. VC Andrews anyone?

6. My husband queried "So, where do the parents sleep?"
Telling. Very telling. Apparently Fisher Price has tapped into the narcissistic psyche of children and realizes that a bedroom for Mommy and Daddy, and apparently New Christine, is superfluous.


All and all I'm finding our new dollhouse an interesting example of the expression of American ideals.

How I Spend My Free Time - Part I

Every Saturday morning I go yardsaling for four hours.
Yardsaling.
It's a verb.

Sometime between 7:30 and 8 I pull out of the driveway, ,cellphone to ear, right hand extended turning on the gps. At the train tracks I call my friend Jess. "I'm crossing over the tracks" and she's out the door within 30 seconds. In hand she carries a list of yardsales, carefully culled for choice items, entered into Google Maps to mimimize trip time, and charted in terms of start time, location, and maximum benefit. I drive North about 3/8 of a mile to Honeydew, where I get coffee, and while I'm in there she plugs in the first 3 stops. Then off we go.

Every week I swear I'm not going to spend much. She keeps silent. Not because she mocks me, or doesn't believe me, but because she's too smart to say the same. She knows, and I know, that the pickins are good when you live next to rich towns, with formerly affluent moms, in a down economy.

We catch our share of goodnatured grief. Some may think "I'd never" while others think "I can't" One has said "Who has the time?" while others vouch they surely have enough.

Me? Meh. I live in a tiny house with just enough plus 3 toys - none of which have ever been bought retail. By me anyway. And while she diesn't have it all - by golly, she has all she could want. But i'm ok with it. Beacuse it's limited to one room, and when I bring IN, I also send out.

Our finds are spectacular.
Beautiful wooden easels, ikea tables, stand up pianos. Little tikes, smaller trikes and today, oh joy oh rapture. A dollhouse.

I wasn't looking, I'm not gender biased but she..well, the girl child loves - and I mean loves - her retro 1972 Fisher Price schoolhouse and her 1974 Sesame Street General Store ($7 and $2 respectively). So when I saw the dollhouse, ok, the two dollhouse combined WITH all the parts....I didn't negotiate. How much? Um, sure.

I felt a twinge about the money, more about the space. Until I got it home.

And one little girl played for hours on through the night. The tree went in the house, the boy into the bed, the baby in the swing. She has no use for the Mommy and Daddy doll, nor the sinks, or kitchen. But the cribs? It was baby heaven.

send not to know for whom the birthday candle flickers, it flickers for me

Him: "I woke up at 4 today. I couldn't get back to sleep. I'm wondering what to do for your birthday."
Me: "Nothing! I don't want you to do anything for my birthday."
Him: "I have to do something. You're only 40 once."
Me: "Oh no. That's not true at all. I'm going to be 40 for, like, the next 4 years."

Go Ask Alice

I wonder if anyone younger then my remembers the expression "The Rabbit Died"?
Or finds it ironic the the White Rabbit was always Late. Late. For a Very Important Date.

All Quiet on The Western Front

"I'm tired of reading about Miss Rhode Island" she said. "When are you going to get that pig picture down?"

I haven't lost my love of writing, or of thinking, but maybe I've lost the will. For a while. Mostly because what compels me is what's immediately around me, and who is immediately around me, and there's not much to say that isn't being said about someone else. And I can't really say it. And be left with anyone. So I say nothing.

Oh really not because I have something deep dark and judgmental to say. It's just my life, my present life, is being determined by what's around me. I'm assessing. Whose parenting I admire, whose goals I mirror, whose ideals I agree with. Where I spend my time, my days. Who I talk to, who I listen to. So what I think about daily and the direction I'm moving in now, is, in part, a reflection of what's around me.

Certainly I'm making my own choices, and decisions, but I'm also reexamining values overall. Your mine and ours. Hers and his. And the funnier aspects that are worth discussing are always the things you don't agree with.

And now, since all the corners of my life seem to be overlapping, well. I just say nothing.

Status Update | Facebook

May 11, 2009

woke up proud of her brother, her OLDER brother, for putting himself through NYU, nights and weekends, at his own expense - graduating today - with honors. An undergrad at 42, now THAT'S dedication. ***tears***

The Cutest Cake I Ever Made...

ok, my husband is cute too...

The First Step is Recognizing There's An Issue

So I got a call from a mom the other day. I had asked her is she wanted to hostess an at home soiree, just a girls night in with sweats and wine and maybe the game Scene It. Nothing crazy. Something after the kids bed time but not far away etc. We all live local, we could likely walk if we weren't lazy Americans.

She was on board and we started talking. There was some chit chat about the date, the time. She drafted an evite that was blank, so I edited it with the details. She decided she didn't like the start time, the guests, the idea for entertainment. I thought "Ok, it was my idea but it's your house so no big deal. The end still honers the agreement". And then she sent the evite.

Blank.

With no information whatsoever but her name and address.

I emailed her a "let me know what's up? Are you all set?" email and she didn't reply.

Several days later at my daughters birthday party I asked her what was up and she expressed frustration and aggravation that no one was interested. That she was ready to do "All This Work" and no one responded. I quickly, annoyed, replied "Actually, about 6 people responded to the evite and almost all of them said they were interested but couldn't commit until they knew the date" to which she responded that she was confused on how to use evite and that she hadn't bothered to check RSVPs.

I asked her if she wanted to bag it and that I'd do something instead and she replied "Yes, that would be great"

Several day later still I hear from mutual friends that the date that has been bandied about is Friday the 8th. The date which three of us are already invited to another soiree, and that all three of us told her about at various times.

I didn't bother to email her or ask because it was a) hearsay and b) she already had an email from me asking about it and c) she told me not 7 days before that it was being canceled. I assumed my other friends were confused.

Until yesterday.

When ADD mom calls and "confronts" me about "What my problem is". How I "planned something with her and blew her off" How I asked to come to do something and then "made other plans".

About two sentences into her diatribe she got the hand.

"You might want to stop talking now" is what I said. Followed by "Before you say something that you aren't going to be able to step back from"

And then I proceeded to photographic memory replay the entire conversation library.
Whereupon after she quickly switched subjects and said it wasn't at ALL abour that she just wanted to know if something was wrong and that I shouldn't get "defensive"

Which is funny. Because with all her therapy you'd think shed know the difference between defensive and angry.

So I told her I wasn't angry but that her position was flimsy and I think she needed to understand what went wrong before she blamed everyone else.

Ultimately, her "anger" is around the fact that I apparently run hot and cold - one minute I have time and plans and the next I "drop" her. Which I have now heard three times from three seperate people.

I'm not sure what to say to that. I'm flattered and gratified that someone wants to spend time with me, and I think I'm pretty open about the fact that I have plans EVERY day every week so I'm not ever really "open" - but I'll clear something with notice. Is that fun? No. Flattering? Nah. But you know, it's kind of my life.

My friend Jess says that these three people thrive on drama.
I'm inclined to agree.

How I Feel About The Phone Call From Psycho Mom The Other Day

WHAT I THOUGHT
The more I think about our conversation the other day, the less I am inclined to let it go. Although I think I handled it poorly, in terms of cutting you off before you fully expressed yourself, what I am realizing now is that the implications of your conversation – the being “put out” a bit and the being frustrated/angry at my lack of communication – is really an issue that you have, and not one that I’m comfortable being thrust on me. Over the last several months, over the course of knowing you, you have often times been quick on the defensive, seeing slights and injuries where there are none. Or where you could have perceived something better about the other person and chose not to. For example some mothers in the group, or the lack of response from A, or B. The “choosing to assume someone is less then they are more”. In the cold light of day, a day later, I’m realizing that although I didn’t follow up with you and can clearly see that you might have been confused or hurt, the fact that your FIRST instinct about why I hadn’t touched base was a negative one, tells me something about where you are in your life right now. The fact that I haven’t communicated is justifiably offensive surely. But your anger is disproportionate to our relationship, and your expression of it, in this “post therapy letting me know how you feel era” was inappropriate.


WHAT I SAID
...ok, well, I'm glad you told me then...

Status Update | Facebook

May 5, 2009

has a full day of returns, contractor calls and administrative life maintanance to do. Hold me whilst I swoon with domestic excitement.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

MY NEPHEW
Watching Franklin with Ellie, 8:19am EST, Tuesday, May 5
Me: Did he just talk to an animal and the animal didn't talk back?
Him: Yes
Me: See. That's what I mean about cartoons. How can Franklin talk but the animals in the woods can't? Inconsistencies...
Him: Well. Those animals were colonized while the woods animals are still wild.

MY SISTER
Her: Now that Ellie's two you are going to be able to do "time outs"
Me: Really? Why?
Her: Well accordingly to Jo on Supernanny, you can have 1 minute for each year of your life. So if Ellie's 2, her timeout is 2 minutes. Julia's is 6.
Me: That makes sense
Her: Yeah, that what I'm thinking. That's why I figure I can act out and do some really really bad.
Me: Um?
Her: I figure I can just be a bitch and someone will send me to my room for 42 minutes. No phone, no computer. Just me up in my room for 42 minutes.

MY GIRLFRIEND HEATHER
Her: Yep, October 25
Me: What's that?
Her: That my friend is the due date of the 4th Hockenshmocker
Me: Calculating in my head... OMG - You're pregnant???!!!! How far along???
Her: 15 weeks.
Me: Nettled. So, I know we don't talk EVERY day but there wasn't ONE time in the past 15 weeks that you couldn't mention it?
Her: Well I would but we just found out last week.
Me: Snorts and Hoots with laughter
Her: Yeh, I'm like some village girl in Pompeii. I had no idea.

MY HUSBAND
Me: So, what are you getting me for Mother's Day
Him: Pausing "I could give you another baby?" Puffs out chest and swaggers towards me
me lecherously.
Me: Or you know, flowers are good I guess.