Friday, December 17, 2010

Just pooping in to say hi.

A brief, Happy Holidays/ Sorry I missed Embarrassing Stories Thursdays special edition ("special" here means extremely short and more of a status update than a blog entry) for you. I offer the Worst Typo I've Made Recently (and then, blissfully, sent the email without noticing): "Oh, hi! I pooped my head into your office this afternoon, but you weren't there." Well, that's lucky for you, I guess.Can you imagine if they were there? Erf.

Thursday, December 9, 2010


One important thing to note: When it comes to Embarrassing Stories Thursdays, I totally take requests. And, lo, in my inbox, one has arrived and I am nothing if not accommodating and so I give you: The FedEx Guy Story.

Once upon a time in a land called Tucson, I was a moderately pregnant and entirely ill-feeling person. The fetus was a new addition to things and our get to know you period was not going well. Moving from any supine situation whenever not completely necessary (example: bathroom) was heavily frowned upon, or at least rewarded with an uptick in nausea. Thus, I spent my days on the couch, not bothering to moan unless my husband were actually home to hear it.

During this time, he was taking a series of courses at the U of A, and he'd watch the lectures online. He'd signed up to receive DVDs of the lectures before he realized he could just log-in and watch them, and three days a week, a new DVD would arrive via FedEx (and go in an unused pile) and the FedEx guy and I would have this conversation.

FedEx Guy: Package for you!
Me: Oh, you really don't need to ring the bell. You can just leave this outside.
FedEx Guy: Nope, sorry! You need to sign for these!
Me: Okay! (I need to remind Andy to figure out how to stop these from coming.) Thanks! Bye!

And repeat one million times. (Okay, I'm exaggerating. (Ninety times.))

And then I got pregnant and proceeded to feel like total crap for approximately 12 weeks. On about week 9, I'm laying on the couch. I'm thinking some combination of "nnnughhhhhhhh" (but obviously not saying it out loud because what's the point? If a tree yells, "You did this to meeeeeeee!" at its husband in the forest and its husband isn't around, does anyone hear it? Does its husband buy it anything? The answer to both those questions is no.) and "I really need to figure out how to clean the ceiling. Ladders? Inspector Gadget? Some combination of the two?"

One important thing to note about the living room: It contained the front door. Another important fact: The door was banked by windows, and we had no curtains on them. Also, if you recall, nnnughhhhhhhh. And: Knock knock knock. I look. FedEx Guy. We lock eyes. I don't move. He knocks again. And I do the only thing I CAN do, really. Which is: Roll off the couch and lay on the floor, hidden from view less than 6 feet from his two feet, and pretend none of that ever happened.

He knocked for a while, and may have called to me a bit, and then there was probably some muttering, but eventually, he left the package (YES! Now, was that so hard? He always left it when I wasn't home, too.) and I scraped myself off the floor and pasted myself back onto the couch, where I stayed for about 4 more weeks.

Hey! This story's not over! The FedEx guy and I go on and on, to the point where I think we qualify for a Celine Dion theme song, if she's still doing those. At the end, I'll go back to the house in Tucson, say "what's up" to the new owners, and drop a replica of the Heart of the Ocean into the kidney-shaped pool in the backyard, and then casually leap over the 8 foot fence. Laterz!

Oh, but let's hop forward to my second trimester, where I'm feeling awesome and competent and like I'm going to get rid of everything and clean everything I don't get rid of or fold to within an inch of its even wanting to be alive! What's this? A box full of random crap that my parents hoisted into my arms as soon as I signed the purchase and sale on my first house? (Like, literally, I put the pen down and was suddenly holding a giant Rubbermaid container?) WELL. I'm eBaying this business. How many My Little Ponies are here? 18, including some baby ones and a small random giraffe that wears a bib? Research reveals that I should sell them as a lot, and My Little Pony freaks have super weirdo specific questions re: the ponies and their feet, so I sit down and GROOM those things. Mini comb, polish, etc. If this were Toy Story they'd be like OMG SEE? She hasn't forgotten us! She's PLAYING with us! Hooray!! but, no. Sorry, toys. It was in pursuit of the almighty dollar, and I shudder to think where you've ended up.

So, once they're all groomed and shiny, I line them up in my well-lit entry room and start photographing them. Own it, ponies. That's right. Who's America's Next Top Model, many years before that show was on? YOU ARE, PONIES. And I've got this huge belly and I'm laying on the floor photographing them and look up and lock eyes with: FedEx Man, who has been watching me photograph and encourage a giant herd of small plastic pastel ponies for who knows how long. Hello, thank you, you can just leave these I need to remind Andy to stop these from coming okay bye!

AND then I have the baby. He is very small and very cute and I have no idea what I'm doing. When he's just a week or so old, I've set up his little bassinet near the couch so he can sleep right by me while I sleep on the couch during the day, and I'm holding him and he's nursing and he passes out. Score! I say to myself. I will put him down and walk away! It will be amazing! So I carry him, still attached, across the room, and as I'm settling him into his bassinet, ruined stomach and half my chest on display along with the baby (I feel like here is a good place to note that you had to come right up to the door to see in, there were plants and all that shielding us from foot traffic), I look up and there he is again. Thinking, no doubt, I wish this lady would get curtains. Don't we all, sir. Don't we all.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

It's good to have goals. (I mistyped that as "foals" first, which I think is good, also. In context.)

My husband travels sometimes, and when he does, I'm a "single mom." You know, the kind of single mom who enjoys the 100% financial support and mental support via telephone but has to put the kids to bed on her own. So basically, it's no big deal at all, with the only snag being that the kids miss him and there isn't a responsible adult to be found in the whole house. (For example, I always stay up until way, way too late doing nothing or, worse, watching a movie that gives me a hangover. Not, say, The Hangover but something more like The Ugly Truth. Ugh.) In general, he saves me from myself and has been doing so for 13ish years. Bless him.

When he's away, the morning he leaves, I always set (hilariously) lofty goals for myself. This week's was something like, "Paint the bathroom! Build the basement shelves! Oh! Finally get rid of that crib! Organize his comic books by color and create an index for them!!! He'll be so excited!" and then becomes "Find top of kitchen table. Don't wash his iPod." So far I've done the second one of list two. Things are going well. I'm on my way to #1, too! He'll be so pleased.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Toot/ Whoop

SO, many years ago, before the earth's crust had cooled (in 2007ish), I got in this post-birth nesting phase (I find it much easier to do these things when the baby is on the outside and can be put down) and started frantically Freecycling and craigslisting everything that wasn't nailed down in the house. In fact, things that were nailed down were occasionally wrenched out of the floor and sold anyway. EVERYTHING MUST GO. I don't even know why. I didn't even binge before I purged.

Anyway, the biggest items to head out the door were a set of coffee and end tables, because my two year old kept launching himself into orbit off them and I was 100% done with dragging them into the bathroom, beyond the gates, and then tripping over them when I went in there. Plus I didn't really love them and I was like, Tables, I will set you free. Via craigslist. And so I did. Good bye, fair tables. Some lady is coming to pick you up this afternoon.

And the doorbell rings, and this very adorable petite proper reserved Japanese (so many adjectives) lady is on my porch, here to view the teak tables. There are some water damage spots, I explain. I don't know if they can be repaired, but I will show them to you. "Oh, I am interested in restoring furniture, I do not mind some damage," she says. Okay! I say, but let me point them out anyway, I insist, and I bend down, clutching my little newborn, with my head at exactly her waist level and about 8 inches away from her. Here, I point, and here, and "Unexpectedly loud fart noise!" her area 8 inches from my head exclaims. "Whoop!" I bust out, totally startled. Then we both turn bright red and I straighten up and I'm stammering and she's BOWING and then I start bowing and then she's all, I'll take the tables! and starts dragging them out to the car and I'm trying to help and she's trying not to make eye contact and I'm all, let me help you! and she's all, no, no, it's fine, throwing money over her shoulder as she gets into the car and peels out of the driveway.

She shows up on Gmail chat sometimes and I always want to be like, "Toot!" or "Whoop!" Ha ha. /mean.