Red Pen Mama

I could not be happier that the weekend is over and that I can spend most of the week sitting at my desk. I seriously overdid it this weekend, especially at a Burgh Mom’s get together at the zoo, and a long day of sitting is in order.

The Pittsburgh Zoo was awesome, however. I just need to get something to attach to my stroller so it can carry two toddlers, because Monkey was seriously flagging by the time we were heading back to the car. I decided that giving her a piggy-back ride (why is it called a piggy-back ride?) part of the way would be a good plan. Not so much. The small of my back was very bad on Sunday.

Much thanks to my fellow Burgh Mom attendees who were kind enough not to lose us in the crowd out of sheer embarrassment of being seen with me and my children. You see, by the time we all met up, my children — at a perfectly dry day at the zoo — were covered in mud. I proceeded to get quite filthy myself, and I can’t remember the last time I was so happy to take a shower at 3 p.m.

How did such a thing happen?

I managed to park myself in the concession area next to the only mud puddle in the whole zoo. It wasn’t too bad when Monkey decided to step in it; true to form, Monkey was wearing her rain boots. Not because it looked rainy, of course; Saturday was a gorgeous, if hot, day to stroll the zoo. The problem was when Bun, also true to form, decided she was going to do exactly what her big sister was doing. Unfortunately, Bun was not wearing her rain boots. I thought sneakers were a much more reasonable choice.

Silly me.

I could have engaged in a public battle royale with my younger daughter regarding the puddle of mud and her desire to splash in it. Changing tables wasn’t much of an option as it was already close to noon and the place was crowded. I was already sharing my table with two other moms (not the people I was here to meet, but that was okay) and their two kids.

In the end, though, I just let Bun have her fun. First of all, the mud puddle pretty much guaranteed that my children were not going to wander off. Secondly, I was able to just sit for a period of time as I looked for the people I was meeting. Third, I figured “kids playing in mud puddle” was an easy landmark. And lastly: Dirt washes off.

So Bun and Monkey tromped and splashed in the puddle. I managed to keep them from splashing others, which was good. They got some laughs, and I got some glances of sympathy. (Monkey was already getting a lot of comments as her outfit consisted of a cute little orange, red, white and black skort with a white tank — and pink rain boots.)

After us Burgh Moms finished lunch and/or snacks, I got Bun stripped out of her wet and muddy shoes, socks and shorts. For some reason I had dry shoes and socks for Monkey but not for Bun — serious oversight there — so Bun spent the rest of the walk in her stroller, bare feet propped up on her tray. She was lounging. We saw the monkeys and gorillas; all the kids seemed to like each other and get along together, although Alexis was very shy for awhile.

We took off before this fun ensued, and it took us another hour to get to the car (the Pittsburgh Zoo is BIG). Monkey developed a little crush on Gina’s boy, who (and I’m seconding Burgh Baby’s Mom here) needs to be cloned, or at least loaned to mothers of little girls for days at the zoo or similar outings. He was very sweet, and I think Monkey would have followed him into the lion’s den if he was going, and it was quite a trick to separate her from him.

Boy, you’ve got a job if you ever want one.

At bedtime, along with all the animals that we recounted seeing at the zoo, Monkey added, “And I talked to The Boy. I was very shy at first, but then I talked to him!” She smiled to herself at the memory. Oh, dear, I’ve a 3-year-old going on teen. We are so doomed!

I left that zoo sweaty and filthy — those shorts may never be clean again — but it was totally worth it to spend that time with my girls, and meet other bloggin’ moms and their kids. What a good time. Next time I meet the Burgh Moms, though, I hope air conditioning and alcohol will be involved, the kids will be at home, and nary a mud puddle will be in sight. I think I will be able to make a little better of an impression that way.

You know, today (yesterday by the time this posts) was the longest day of the year!

Believe me, I’m feeling it.

Lifted from the ever-funny Ms. Gina.

Hope I make it to the zoo tomorrow.

1. You have 10 dollars and need to buy snacks at a gas station. What do you get?

If I am forced to buy snacks at a gas station for myself, it’s going to be potato chips, French onion dip, a Milky Way and caffeine-free coke. If my kids are involved, probably a slushy — or the most healthful snacks one can find in a gas station.

2. If you were reincarnated as a sea creature, what would you want to be?

It would be pretty cool to be an octopus. It’d be nice to have extra arms (or legs?) for once — I’m always wishing for at least one more hand quite often these days.

3. Who’s your favorite redhead?
My mom. (And I’ve a lot to pick from in my family alone: two red-headed nephews, five redheaded cousins, their parents (both red heads) and my redheaded sister-in-law.)

4. What do you order when you’re at IHOP?
I have never ventured into an IHOP. I would order a pile of fruit-topped pancakes, though. Sure, leave on the whipped cream. And coffee!

5. Last book you read?
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I’m making my way through all seven books this summer. I took a bit of a hiatus, because four Harry Potter books in a row is a lot of J.K Rowlings to take.

6. Describe your mood.
Anxious. Ready for the weekend.

7. Describe the last time you were injured.
Recently I was standing over Bun when she decided to jump. Her noggin — and all 25 pounds of baby fat behind it — went into the left side of my nose and left eye socket. I discovered what getting punched in the eye would feel like.

8. Of all your friends, who would you want to be stuck in a well with?
N! We could get caught up on everything, talk about books and movies, share some wine (we’d have some wine, right?), and reminsce about our shared past. Which means N would remind me of all the stuff (good and painfully embarrassing) we had been through together.

9. Rock concert or symphony?
Rock.Concert.

10. What is the wallpaper of your cell phone?
A flower (came with the phone). To my credit, I have had pics of my kids on there, but I haven’t used my phone’s camera in awhile.

11. Favorite soda?
A soda has ice cream in it, and I am going with a root beer float. If you mean pop, then caffeine-free Coke.

12. What type of shirt are you wearing?
Bright orange T-shirt from Target. It’s casual Friday.

13. If you could only use one form of transportation?
Helicopter.

14. Most recent movie you have watched in theater?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

15. Name an actor/actress/singer you have had the hots for.
Naveen Andrews. Holy cow, that guy is just… almost beyond words, how sexy he is. Also, since the question is “have had”: Hugh Jackson. Although, really, Wolverine.

16. What’s your favorite kind of cake?
Chocolate with chocolate icing. This is the type of cake I ordered for Bun’s first birthday, and people hated me. I had no clue it would be such an unpopular choice. I quite enjoyed it, though. Bun had a little of the smash cake (yellow cake).

17. What did you have for dinner last night?
Channa masala (home made) and rice.

18. Look to your left, what do you see?
My kitchen.

19. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
If they are tie shoes, yes. If they are flip-flops, no.

20. Favorite toy as a child?
Lite-Bright!

21. Do you buy your own groceries?
Who the hell else is going to do it?

22. Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
In a mean way? No. I’m actually pretty nice. In a good way? Possibly. About how unbelievably smart I am and/ or how hot I am for a mother over 35 years old? In my dreams.

23. Gummy Worms or Hershey Kisses?
Kisses. Hershey or otherwise!

24. What’s your favorite fruit?
I love spring/summer fruit, berries and melons. But a good, crunchy Gala apple will do the trick, too.

25. Do you have a picture of yourself doing a cartwheel?
No, but my parents probably do.

26. Do you like running long distances?
I used to run, and I did love it. I’m not sure 4 miles qualifies as a long distance though.

27. What is your secret trash food pleasure?
I don’t really like trash food. If junk food is what is meant here: see #1.

28. What color are your bedsheets?
This week: green with little white dots.

29. What’s your favorite flower?
Tulips. Except for yellow ones (I don’t know why).

30. Do you do ballet?
No.

31. Do you listen to classical music?
Does Baby Einstein stuff count? No? Then, no. My musical tastes are not what one would call refined.

32. What is the first TV Theme song that pops in your head?
None really pop in there — I had to think about this one. I barely watch TV. It’s a tie between the song for “Greatest American Hero” and “Dora”.

33. Are you really worried about Global warming?
YES! I like my current job a lot, but I wish it was one to which I could take a bus instead of driving 30 minutes. Still trying to talk DearDR into a possible move, but it doesn’t seem likely. But the gas prices and the knowledge of what I am contributing to in terms of pollution are killin’ me.

34. What temperature is it outside right now?
Mid-70s, maybe?

35. Do people consider you smart?
Yes. And you know what, they’re right!

36. On what occasions do you lie?
I tend to lie by omission. Especially about money and what I might have spent it on. Like a bright orange T-shirt from Target. (It was $6!) Especially to DearDR (if one can said to lie to someone by omission).

37. Are you signed on [to] AIM?
No. I’m not sure what exactly this is — instant messaging of some brand?

38. Have you ever tried gluing your fingers together?
Er, no. Why would I? Why would anyone?

39. How do you feel about your family?
They are the absolutely best thing that has ever happened to me; my kids are by far the best thing I have done/will ever do. Even if I ever manage to write a best-selling book or two.

40. Do you have an iPod?
I have a Shuffle. I have used it exactly once since it was given to me (by a former boss — he gave the whole office one).

41. What time do you go to bed?
Usually around 10:30 p.m. Yeah, I’m a pansy.

42. What CD is currently in your CD player?
Which CD player? In the car, I have a children’s jazz album (i.e. Ella Fitzgerald singing “Old MacDonald”); Pearl Jam Live on Two Legs; two U2 albums, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb and All You Can’t Leave Behind; and Hole Celebrity Skin. In the CD player at home, I think it’s Death Cab for Cutie Plans, Wilco Summerteeth, Billy Bragg and Wilco Mermaid Avenue and Old 97s Fight Songs. Aren’t you glad you asked?

43. What movie do you know every line to?
The Princess Bride.

44. What is your favorite salad dressing?
Balsamic Vinaigrette.

45. What do you want for Christmas this year?
World peace. Lower gas prices. My kids to have a great time. And for everyone to remember/acknowledge why it’s called Christmas.

46. What family member/friend lives the farthest from you? Where?
I have distant relatives in Ireland. For true!

47. Do you like hugs?
From my children, husband, (most) other family members, and close friends: very much yes. From people I don’t know so well, no.

48. Last time you had butterflies in your stomach?
Interviewing for my current job — the second face-to-face was especially intense because I wanted the job, but I was afraid I wasn’t going to get paid well. I was so relieved when I read the offer letter.

49. What’s the way people most often mispronounce any part of your name?
My married name is slaughtered regularly.

50. Last person you hugged?
Monkey, before bed last night. My children will be the next people I hug, too, when I pick them up from Day Care Lady’s today. Frankly, I spend most of my huggin’ on my children. It’s only right.

I have been lovingly creating this post for two or three days. It’s taken me so long to post because I seem to be having some issues with my Mac at home and Safari and WordPress. Some combination keeps kicking me offline. Thank goodness we have a PC at home also.

I never thought I would be this grateful for a PC.

X

Instead of spending last Friday with all the future Mrs. Ginas (i.e. the very bunch of funny and cool other bloggin’ Burgh moms), I attended the X show.

It was at the Rex Theater, on the South Side, my old stomping grounds. Walking into that concert was like going to 1996. Except everyone looked 15 years older (go figure). Oh, and instead of dating The Ex (more on that in a moment), I was with my husband of almost-seven years.

Attending the concert (if I can use so high-falutin’ a word to describe seeing the LA punk band from the 1980s) made me feel young. Primarily this was because everyone else around me was obviously older: a lot of gray-haired or balding punk guys, many of whom I was acquainted with (no, not like that) back in the day. The women, including myself, seem to have aged much better.

Although low lighting, make-up, and hair dye may combine to cover a multitude of sins.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I wore a white shirt with my dark jeans. I stood out just a little bit in that sea of black. I partly attribute that white shirt to a lot of the looks I got that night.

But, if I may take a step away from the modest, self-effacing persona I affect: I also think I looked damn hot. And not just damn hot for a 37-year-old mother of two girls. I was just looking good. It must have been an excellent night for bloggin’ Burgh moms.

X was amazing. If I closed my eyes, I could have easily believed I was hearing them in their heyday. They were tight, they were loud, they played the hits and then some.

With my eyes open, it was a bit of a different experience.

This was my only time to see this band. Guitarist Billy Zoom… let’s say he has an odd stage presence. He stood at the very, very front of the stage, legs spread as far as 60-year-old hips would allow. Sixty-years old, looks about 45, silver-blond pompador and cold blue eyes — Rutger Hauer with a guitar. He smiled and nodded, and winked, and smiled and nodded — honestly I thought maybe he was stoned on something.

But, crikey, he played the hell out of that guitar.

John Doe looked pretty good for a 60-year-old punk bass player. He had great stage presence, too, talking to the crowd, being relevant and funny. Pretty good for a guy whose debut album dropped in 1980.

D.J. Bonebrake looked very good for a 60-year-old punk drummer. Although very, very bald.

Exene Cervenka looked like the creepy psychic from Poltergeist. DearDR actually leaned over and said, “This house is clean” when she walked onstage. The years have not treated her well.

(This is not Exene. This is the Poltergeist lady. May she rest in peace.)

This woman has a child with Viggo Mortensen, people. I don’t know what she’s hitting these days, but she should stop it from hitting her back.

The Ex

The weirdest, most time-warped part of the evening was after the show, when a number of people with whom I spent the most of my time in 1996 spontaneously assembled in front of the Rex. There they were: The Ex (married the same year I was; wife was home making cupcakes); The Drummer Guy (now divorced with three children); E (still a good acquaintance, married — his wife attended the show, too — with a 7-year-old).

And then we went down the street to the place where I drank more beer and spent more time than almost any other place in the years from 1991 to 2000: Dees Cafe.

And the weirdest part of this weird part was how The Ex was raving about how gorgeous I looked, and how I was getting the … love-sexy vibe from him.

The Ex — if I can call a guy I broke up with 10 years ago that — is a good guy. But, in the words of Douglas Adams, “He’s just this guy, you know?”

Ten years ago — well, to be honest, more like eleven years ago — I thought I loved The Ex. We lived together. There were times during that time I figured we were going to get married. There were times during that time I thought I wanted us to get married.

In retrospect, to be perfectly honest, I cannot adequately express how relieved I am that we did not get married.

The Ex is not a bad guy. He did not beat me; he did not cheat on me; he did not bilk me out of a lot (or any) money. Yeah, he smoked pot (I did too back then) and occasionally — like once a year — did heavier drugs (this very behavior was the thing that lead to our first of two break-ups). He was a fantastic cook.

The thing that lead to our second break-up was me figuring out what I wanted in a partner and finally recognizing that The Ex wasn’t it.

I wanted someone who was interested in me. I wanted someone who was interested in my life, my family, my passions. The Ex liked me, he said he loved me, and he never went out of his way to ever hurt me. But he really wasn’t interested in me, in being my partner.

To give you an example, here’s a conversation we had at one point when we were living together. The Ex was talking about buying a house. How much he wanted to own his own house. The type of house he wanted to buy, and where, and what he would do to it.

Me: So, would I be living in this house with you?
Ex: Well, yeah, if you wanted to.
Me:…. Well, do you want me to?
Ex: I would be happy if you lived in a house with me.
Me: I wouldn’t live in a house that you owned as your girlfriend.
Ex: …

Yeah, that’s kind of how it was. If I wanted to do what he was doing, he was perfectly content. If I wanted him to do something I wanted to do (i.e. attend one of my cousins’ weddings, go to one of my poetry readings) there were problems. Big problems. When I finally wised up and realized that he was not interested in a life together, I dumped him. Literally, almost, as I had to drive him, at 3 a.m., from the hotel at which we were staying (out by the airport) after my brother’s wedding back to his car (on the South Side).

My last words on that night were not very nice. There were two. One started with F. Do the math.

That was ten years ago. I didn’t talk to him for a long time. I had zero interest in being his friend, in seeing him at all really (I could tell that story about walking into the Big Bird on the South Side about a month after our break-up and seeing him in line with a big-boobed girl and what that did to my body, which felt simultaneously feverish-hot and ice-cold, and how I almost walked out, but figured I was going to have to deal with catching sight of him, and went ahead and did my shopping).

But now we see each other in social settings. He and DearDR occasionally play poker together. His wife is very funny (and chesty!), and pretty, and — I get the sense although I don’t know her well — can be sweet. He has a huge “crush” on Monkey, which cracks me up.

But it’s always weird because there comes a time in the night when we are saying good-bye, and he gives me a hug, and murmurs “I love you” in my ear, and I’m like, “Me too” because what the hell else am I supposed to say. Friday was one of those nights. His wife wasn’t around; he was kind of feeling me up with his eyes and going on about how great I looked (and I did look great, did I mention), and how lucky DearDR is (damn skippy) and when he sat down next to me in a booth at Dee’s he muttered something about not throwing me out of bed for eating crackers.

Yeah, so, that was my Friday night last week. The band rocked.

The time warp was weird.

Wow, those last 50 things really took it out of me.

Not really. Not very much good — or bad, for that matter — stuff has been going on lately. Just life!

First, the cute news: Bun is on the verge of that language explosion that takes place around now. She occasionally seems to be trying to repeat words (I think I’ve heard attempts at “apple” and “thank you”). “Hi”, “Bye” and “baby” are still the standards. She can find her nose, ears, and feet when asked. She can tell you what a duck says — “kak, kak, kak” in case you wanted to know. She signs “more”, “please”, and sometimes “eat”. I am trying to get her to work “cup” and/or “drink” into the repetoire. Because she’s cranky when she doesn’t get her glass of wine.

I took her to the chiropractor last night. The adjustment went well; Bun didn’t cry at all or squirm too much, and it certainly didn’t take long. Monkey, in the meantime, ran around like a maniac, although I asked her repeatedly to get a book and sit and read, or at least, stop running around. We had to go potty twice, of course, at the top of a flight of stairs. It was exhausting.

But if it helps Bun with the fluid in her ears, I am all for it. Doing the math as I was filling out the paperwork last night, I realized that Bun has taken about 40 doses of antibiotics since February. That seems like a lot to me.

Also cute: Monkey singing “Here Comes the Sun” with the Concert for George CD. DearDR decided to teach it to her. Without fail, when Joe Brown sings, “Little darlin’”, Monkey interjects, “Tadone calls me little darlin’.”

He does indeed, my sweet Monkey. I know why.

In other good news: We are the proud owners (of a big, fat loan for) a 2002 Toyota Camry sedan. Actually, the loan isn’t that bad because we were able to put some money down; the monthly payments are well within the budget.

On the not-so-fabulous side of the equation: DearDR’s car, a 1993 Chevy Lumina, the inspection sticker on which is almost two years out-of-date (yes, I know he could get a ticket. He DID get a ticket) gave up the ghost. To put it in my husband’s words, “No human being should get into that car and drive it out of our driveway ever again.”

All our options for getting a new car pretty much add up to: Go deeper into debt. And take the time to shop for a car. Yesterday. Between this message, DearDR’s long hours, and my continuing mandatory overtime, it’s enough to make our heads explode.

So I’m sending him shopping with his friend Pete and Burgh Baby’s Mom. I’ll get you two the terms. BBM, you won’t be looking at an Audi this time. Think Hyundai. A 2000 vintage.

And I was seriously pressed for time yesterday to get Bun to the chiropractor (for a 6:15 appointment, and I had to cross the Sewickley Bridge), so we went to Burger King.

Now, I know that for many families the occasional trip to a fast-food restaurant is nothing out of the ordinary. But it was Bun’s very first time in a fast-food restaurant; Monkey’s… fourth, I’ll estimate.

The primary reason we don’t go, of course, is that we are vegetarians. The other two reasons are: Supersize Me (seriously funny, but seriously disturbing) and Fast Food Nation (the movie is good, too).

I reconciled myself to the fact that the BK Veggie and fries were probably not 100% meat-free, in the interest of time, and in the interest of not having screaming toddlers on my hands. Practicality won over idealism.

Please don’t judge me too harshly. (Just kiddin’.)

I dropped the daily blogging ball on Sunday. I hadn’t made Sunday’s post a priority, so it’s not surprising to me that it didn’t happen. We stayed over at Bella and Tadone’s house Saturday night on Nanny duty (my in-laws are out of town, and we’re all taking turns hanging out with Nanny). Earthmother and her husband and their two children were there too. It was a good time, in general, although I was severely disappointed in Spider-Man 3. Whew, yawn, what a slow movie. The “blooper reel” is very funny though.

Then Sunday I was supposed to get up and go to 8 a.m. mass. Instead of hitting snooze, I must have turned my alarm off, and didn’t get up until 7:30, with the kids. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity: shopping, making brunch and visiting with friends (at our place), and three near-emergency room visits. Then DearDR and I sniped at each other, and our friend and stylist came over to cut our hair.

I have to admit, I didn’t even think to myself, “I should try to get a post up today.” All the stuff that was happening required full attention.

Our three almost-visits to the emergency room:

Number One: Bun, trying to climb onto the table at Costco, slipped and fell on her head. It scared the crap out of Dan and me, but as she didn’t lose consciousness and I managed to get ice on the bump right away, we decided against going to the hospital. After she calmed down, she was fine: no seizures or twitching; she smiled and was cheerful, and helped me eat a vanilla frozen yogurt berry sundae. More than anything, it was embarrassing — drawing mostly sympathetic glances and a couple well-meaning inquiries.

Interestingly enough, I then came across this post over at Mary P’s. I didn’t feel guilty about Bun’s fall — kids tumble from time to time, and you just hope they don’t hurt themselves too badly. DearDR blamed me for Bun falling (I was getting the high chair ready for her to sit in, and was not right by her side). I think we were equally culpable because he was sitting next to her, eating pizza and feeding pizza to Monkey. Neither one of us were in position to catch her, and neither one of us stopped her from climbing. That was probably the seed of the spat we had later that day (that and some sexual frustration).

Near-visit two was much less dramatic: DearDR was wiping the stove off, and almost burned the palm of his hand when the wet cloth he was using stopped moving over a hot (very hot) burner.

Then at dinner, I sliced my finger with a very sharp knife while cutting up Bun’s pizza (yes, DearDR and Monkey had pizza twice in one day). It wasn’t a big cut, but in the first five minutes or so afterwards, I thought it was deep enough that it was going to require a stitch or two. Actually, I probably could have gone and gotten those stitches, but I didn’t want to. With enough pressure, it stopped bleeding enough to get two bandages on it, and we went from there. (To literally add insult to injury — or injury to injury, really — I slammed the same finger in the door of Bun’s room last night.)

It wasn’t until yesterday that I thought, “Ooops. Forgot my ABC post. Oh well.” I’m not that upset about it (the way I would have been upset back in November if I hadn’t “succeeded” at the original NaBloPoMo). I let myself off the hook.

I seem to be able to do that more easily more often these days. Hmm. I’ll have to think about that.

And thanks to my (2) commenters from yesterday. I was looking at my stats, and my traffic is pretty good. Just no one says anything often, so I wondered. I’m not the best a posting comments elsewhere, so I have nothing to complain about.

I would like to formally welcome Eve Monica into the world (because that’s how we formally welcome our friends’ babies these days – on our blogs…).

Little Miss Eve, I cannot wait to meet you and hold you, and tell you crazy stories about your mom and dad, dear friends of mine whom I love so much. We’ve waited a long time to meet you.

J & P, I am so happy for you! Welcome to parenthood. All the clichés are true. Don’t forget to relish in and marvel at all the wonder that is a baby. And breathe!

The same day Eve was born, I stumbled onto this post from reading over here (A Little Pregnant). Although I myself have not struggled with infertility, I have had a different tragedy, just like the mom at I Will Not Fear Love, Julia. I found this post especially moving because this has been how I have been feeling since J announced her pregnancy.

When DearDR called to tell me Eve was born, I cried. In happiness, to be sure, and also in overwhelming relief. Because I could let go of my fear for my friends.

I haven’t shared this with J because, as Julia notes here, to be aware of what can go wrong – what does go wrong – can make you feel like a freak. Pregnancy and birth are beautiful, joyous, miraculous things, and living with the dread that a baby will die before he or she is born… is … in a way … well, it’s a real bummer, to put it mildly.

But I don’t think it makes us freaks. We just have different frame of reference to what is usual in the case of having a baby – especially a first baby, as Gabriel was for me and Eve is for J. Our frame of reference is painful, devastating and sad, but it’s not wrong.

I have perceptive friends, and although I never told J about my fear for her and her baby (the fear I have for all of my friends and family who have had babies since I lost Gabriel), I am sure she knew that my happiness and joy for her were colored by my loss. She’s no stupid lady. She was there the night Gabriel was finally delivered. Within her own frame of reference, she lost a baby, too.

So Julia, I don’t think we are freaks. I think we have to be careful about what we say about our losses and how we say it. And to whom. But I also think we have to own our tragedies, and count our babies – every one – when talking about our experiences.

For many of us, the mothers of lost children, the sadness and dread and terrible knowledge linger forever. That’s okay – it is, to use another word, appropriate. And for many of us, who are lucky to have successful pregnancies, another truth is: Joy abides.

Eve, J, P: I wish you joy.

I stumbled onto the Great Interview Experiment from Andrea over at Fretting the Small Stuff. Neil at Citizen of the Month has the crazy idea that everyone is a celebrity and deserves to be interviewed. (I’m paraphrasing.) Although I did add myself to the list, I also jumped in to help an abandoned “inteviewee”.

Let me introduce you to Linsey at Uncouth Heathen. Linsey is very, very funny, and I am glad to have discovered her blog. Please read her, and send her love (it is Valentine’s Day, after all). Here is the interview:

RPM: I notice that your blog is less than a year old. Why did you decide to start Uncouth Heathen? What do you want your blog to be or to mean?

UH: I used to write a column for a site called Backwash titled “Common Sense for the Masses”. I wrote about some of the same things I do on my site now (and some older posts at UH grew from my writing over there) as well as some more social issues. Over time, the site went into disrepair and a lot of the people there moved on or put a lot less energy into writing for a dying site. I’d long thought about having a site of my own, and a good friend of mine suggested it several times, so after having a few talks with her, I decided to give it a try. I’d had some little sites dating back to the late 90s (using Geocities) where I learned some basic HTML and design and eventually started a blog using Blogger that didn’t last long. When I learned about WordPress from my friend and how easy it would be to get something up and running, I thought it would be a fun opportunity to get back to doing something I love: writing.

RPM: Your writing seems very naturally funny – you don’t seem to be reaching for the laugh. Is it as easy as you make it look? To what do you attribute your skill?

UH: I should probably attribute it to a lot of years trying to make my family and friends laugh. It’s my best defense mechanism and it’s the only way I feel like I can control a situation. I figure that if I can make people laugh, they’ll be nice to me, nice to one another. Also, if I can find humor in a bad situation, then it just makes it easier to get through. Some days it’s easier to write than others — but I have found that the entries I find the funniest are the ones I didn’t really think too much about, it just came out.

RPM: Do you consider yourself part of the blogging community? If you were stranded on a desert island (does it have to be a desert island?), what five blogs are you taking with you? Why?

UH: I don’t know that I consider myself part of the blogging community yet. I don’t know if that’s because I’m insecure about fitting in, or if there is some bar I’ve set for myself before I can say, yeah, okay, I’m a blogger. Or maybe it’s not that important to me, to be a part of that infamous blogging clique, which is a total lie because I need to fit in so desperately. PLEASE LET ME IN!

I’d take Dooce with me to a desert island. I think she’s incredibly funny and endearing and honest. People write a lot of shit about her making money from her site or always writing about her daughter and her dog, etc. She takes a lot of crap but she is who she is, she writes what is true to her and isn’t that what a blogger does?

I’d also take Bake and Shake because she’s hilarious and she can bake like a motherfucker. I bet I could get a recipe from her for desert island snack-treats using coconut, tree bark and sand and it would taste like a million bucks.

Itty Bitty Kitty Committee is another I’d have to take along with me. They get litters of tiny kittens and raise them until they can be adopted out. If you don’t love those cats, you’re dead inside.

I can’t help but read Pink Is The New Blog. Just saying that makes me feel dirty, because at the same time I hate what celebrity has become. I just can’t seem to tear myself away from the headlines, though. I’m pulling so hard for Britney Spears.

Last is probably going to be Finslippy. She has what I think is the best sense of humor on the Internet with the least amount of hubris.

I’d add Janie’s blog in there to keep up on her life while I’m stranded without her, but she doesn’t update and I can’t spend my solitude with nothing to read.

RPM: Your blog is pretty open. Is there any subject or person totally off limits?

UH: I don’t really write about my family, other than Janie. Not because I don’t want to or have some shit to say. DO I EVER. Really, though, we share a last name that is not at all common. They’re all professionals and it would be awful to have their coworkers, bosses or potential employers question them about what I’m posting on my blog about them. Also, I wouldn’t want to hurt any of them by posting our personal issues on a blog where they don’t have any way to set the record straight or share their side of the story. Maybe I put up little things here or there, but nothing of consequence, nothing that could damage their reputations as upstanding citizens, except maybe that part about my brother calling me a dumb cunt, but that was a restrained accounting of a very large, looming personal conflict. Other than that, I probably wouldn’t write about my job or intimate issues. My job because I’d like to keep it and because I don’t want my views or life to reflect upon the people I work with and the good work we do for the community. Intimacy because I was just brought up with a certain sense of what is and is not okay to discuss. I don’t want to hear about the sex lives of my
friends or family and I certainly don’t want them to read about mine. By intimacy, I also mean things outside of the bedroom — issues that are really emotional or difficult that maybe Janie and I work through as a couple or individuals. Something that’s going to make her cry or make her feel bad or embarrassed if I put it online would be off limits.

RPM: How close to the “real” you is the “blogger” you?

UH: I think it’s very close, in that it’s a snapshot of who I am. I think it’s missing a lot of things about me as a person, it doesn’t necessarily reflect all of my values and beliefs, but it never could. I think that’s where readers often get caught up, assuming that a blog is the person when it’s likely that it’s only a piece of that person. For example, no one would ever guess from my blog that Janie is not permanently attached to my right side.

RPM: How would someone meeting you for the first time describe you (in 15 words or less)?

UH: Quiet, maybe a little shy, thoughtful and incredibly self-conscious. Maybe an asshole, but probably not.

RPM: Janie sounds like a pistol! What first attracted you about her?

UH: What first attracted me was that she is absolutely gorgeous. After years of only seeing one another off and on at parties and a very drunken one night stand several years before we started dating, I got to spend a time with her after helping friends move and we stayed up all night talking. I discovered that, in addition to being beautiful, she is kind, intelligent, incredibly funny, sassy and totally weird. Also, it is impossible to make her cry — she’s as dry as a rock, and believe me, I’ve tried.

RPM: What is your greatest strength? What is your greatest weakness?

UH: My greatest strength is probably my ability to see beyond a situation or a moment and realize there is good somewhere out there. My greatest weakness is donuts, hands down.

RPM: When you and Janie decide to become mothers, have you chosen one of you to be pregnant, or will you adopt? (I loved the post on the people who asked if you would “do it naturally”. HA!)

UH: We talk a lot about this, but in reality it will likely be Janie that would be the birth mother because my ovaries are rotting off as we speak. I definitely have the desire to carry a baby, but it’s a matter of biology and the fact that my body doesn’t seem to care much about what I want. We’ve broached the subject of adoption, but in the end we really wanted to try having one. I suggested we implant one of my eggs and that way the baby would be part of us each in some way, but in vitro is incredibly expensive and I just spent all our fertility money at Target.

RPM: I love that one of your cats is named Ducati. What are the other names? Any desire to own a real Ducati?

UH: We have three cats of which Ducati is the oldest and the least likely to pee on your things or steal your stuffed yarn animals. He was the cat that I brought into the relationship. An old roommate and I got him from the animal shelter when he was about 6 months old. The roommate originally insisted we name him Smeat to which I replied that if he were going to call him Smeat then I was going to call him Mary. This went on for a few weeks, until we settled on Ducati because my roommate wanted one very badly. Later we got another cat that we named Harley. There was talk of getting a third cat to name Vespa, but we had a falling out before that happened and we moved apart. I took Ducati because he’s the best God damn cat ever. The others were Janie’s cats — they are sisters named Carson and Harlow, and they hate Ducati with a passion. We’ve lived together for nearly five years now and not a day goes by without some ugly hissing/scratching/chasing ordeal. It’s a nightmare. I wouldn’t mind owning a Ducati, but it’s probably best that I didn’t. Maybe I’ll settle for a Vespa, but not another cat.

RPM: Do you have any tattoos? Where are they and what are they? (For the record, I have one, on my left arm, of the four elements: earth, air, water and fire.) (Also for the record, I am asking this out of pure curiosity, not out of a preconceived notion that you will have a tattoo or two.)

UH: I do have some tattoos, including a very gay one that I regret absolutely. The first was a sunflower on the back of my left shoulder and it remains my favorite. Then I got a moon with “Tep” (nickname) written underneath it on my upper right arm. After that, I got a blue star on the outside of each ankle. The last was the totally gay one on my lower back that I’m hoping to one day hide with something else.

RPM: What is your favorite thing about Seattle? Do tourists drive you batty, or can you peacefully co-exist with them? (If I did not live in Pittsburgh — er, outside of Pittsburgh, rather – I would live in Seattle.)

UH: Janie and I were just talking about how great it is to leave Seattle for an extended period of time and come back, because it’s really only then that it can truly be appreciated. Last summer I did the Breast Cancer 3-Day and my friend and I did miles upon miles of training walks. We walked all over this city and I grew to love it in a new way — it’s really a beautiful place to be.

Tourists don’t bother me at all. I just don’t get them — I don’t understand why Seattle is a place they’d want to vacation. I think of all the other places they could be instead — California! New York! Hawaii! I’d be happy to help tourists find their way to the Space Needle, but I’m gonna need to know why they think that’s going to be fun, first.

RPM: Who is your next open letter to?

UH: It is going to be to the assistant at my allergist’s office.

RPM: What the most recent book you finished?

UH: Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. We also saw the movie — both are excellent and come with my highest recommendation. I know that doesn’t mean anything to anybody, but I’m saying it anyway.

RPM: What is the most recent music you’ve purchased? CD or download?

UH: I bought the song “Escape” by Enrique Iglesias over the weekend via iTunes. Before that I got Paula Abdul’s Greatest Hits on CD. I feel nothing but shame after telling you that.
[RPM edit: We all have musical weaknesses. Don’t sweat it. I’ll reveal mine in my interview.]

RPM: Is there anything you want someone reading this interview to know about you that hasn’t been covered here or at your blog?

UH: Despite what my brother might tell you, I did not call him an asshole.

Ta-da!

Go on over to Citizen of the Month and you too can play along. The next person who signs up gets to inteview me (I guess).

If no one signs up, I’m interviewing myself, based on the questions I asked Linsey.

You’ve been warned.

I meant to post yesterday, but I was woozy from the cold medicine and, since it was Ash Wednesday, the fasting.

Yeah, I fast on Ash Wednesday. I’m Catholic; it’s Lent. Get over it.

Anyway, I was reading around yesterday, and I have stumbled onto several posts that could have been written by me. Which makes me glad to all be in the same basket as you:

First, over at the weirdgirl, she makes a potty training break-through (well, her son does)… shhh, don’t jinx it. And she wonders who out here yells. (Psst, I do. Sometimes I just blow my top.)

Monkey, too, has turned the corner on the potty training. As a matter of fact, I think I can safely say that she is no longer in training. She is a Big Girl who goes poop and pee on the potty. (Having said that, I am sure we will regress when mommy goes back to work in 10 days.) The problem now? When we are at home, she doesn’t actually tell me when she is going to the bathroom. The problems with that? Well, there is the too-much-toilet-paper-in-the-toilet problem, which is closely related to the what-do-you-actually-do-with-all-that-toilet-paper problem?

I have explained to her that she needs to tell me when she is going to the bathroom so I can help her wipe up and put her pants back on. The last conversation went like this:

Me: You are only 3. You can’t go to bathroom by yourself.
Monkey: No, you can’t go to bathroom by yourself.
Me: I am 37. I do go to bathroom by myself.
Monkey: I am 37, and I go to the bathroom by myself.
Me (silently wondering when Monkey because a parrot, and kind of a sarcastic one at that): No, you are only 3. And if you keep going to bathroom by yourself, you won’t get any more m&m’s.
Monkey: (silence)

Okay she may have gotten the message. Although now I wonder when I stop giving her m&m’s for pooping and peeing in the potty. When she turns 4?

On the potty training note, I want to thank MaryP for the advice she has graciously given. I love this story and her attitude about it. That’s what I wanted my attitude to be. I’m not sure how successful I was, but, ultimately: Monkey is a Big Girl now.

On another note, Chag writes about a tragic haircut. As I was recently reassured by my stylist (who makes house calls, God bless him) all kids cut their own hair at some point.

I am cool with that. What I lose my s&*t over a little bit is Monkey cutting Bun’s hair.

It happened when Monkey was busily doing arts & crafts on her own at the kitchen table, i.e. cutting up a lot of paper and gluing it together. Bun and I were going back and forth between the family room to play and the kitchen to check on Monkey. At one point, I was still in the family room and Bun was checking on Monkey.

Monkey came running into the family room brandishing her safety scissors and a lock of fine hair. Bun followed looking faintly puzzled, one hand to her head.

Me: Is that your hair? (silently, That better be your hair.)
Monkey (proudly): NO!
Me (voice breaking): Did you cut Bun’s hair?
Monkey: Are you crying?

Monkey got a five-minute time out, and lost her scissors priviledge for a week.

Bun will get an envelope with her lock of hair. On the outside of the envelope it says, “Bun’s first haircut, courtesy of Monkey” with the date.

I can tell where the hair is cut. You have to look for it if you’re not me.

And then, there is someone NOT feeling my pain. While I am quite jealous of all the healthiness, I still heart her because she gave me one of these:

So I forgive her.

From Chag at Cynical Dad, I lifted this fun little meme.

For the name of your band, take the title of this page.
The title of your album is the last four words of the last quote on this page. If you’re not happy, cheat and hit the button for more random quotes.
Finally, your album art is the third picture on this page.

If you can, Photoshop the whole mess together (I am barely talented enough to do this), and post it on your site.

I originally tried to do this from Niobe’s page, but my band name was going to be List of Optometry Schools, and even I am not that lame. I let her inspire me differently instead.

I decided to link to the first music video I ever saw. (Can’t embed it. Darn.)

Can you spot the misspelled word?

Edited to add: Here are some other cool album covers around the blog-o-sphere: Niobe’s; the weirdgirl (who is apparently having my week, too… will try roller derby name soon); Sci-Fi Dad; and Ewe.

Because what one finds relaxing these days is different.

For example, only having one child as one runs errands. And I had the quiet one, at that. The Bun one, who is content with her binky and her new Uniqua doll from Barnes & Noble. The one who will walk in circles around me as I exchange clothes at Old Navy. The one who will share my spinach and feta pretzel, and talk to me. I’m not sure I understood, but I think she was saying, “Hey, mommy! It is nice to have you all to myself for a change. That other one is noisy! Always chatting, or screaming in the car when the sun gets in her eyes, or yelling, ‘Look at that!’ while you’re driving.”

It’s nice to only have one child to follow or feed or buy a treat for (thank goodness for gift cards). And also have the one child who will smile at everyone and hug legs of people who don’t belong to her. “Hey,” I know she explained at some point during that lunch, “everybody looks the same from the knees down.”

What makes us relax, what vacation days are like, they are different now.

I think I am also holding onto these things because things may be changing. Some job interviews have gone well. And these contented hours I spend now, will be hours I seek, hours we need to get, hours that will have to be scheduled. And while that kind of change makes me apprehensive, I know that it is a change we need.

(Oh, sorry about the lack o’ recipe this Monday. I haven’t tried anything new in a while, so I wanted to wait until I had a couple stored up to share.)