We purchased a garbage can today. [I’m sorry, did you just roll your eyes and mutter, “that is not blog worthy”? You are *obviously* not aware what this garbage can means to me. Or what it took to get it. Or why we went two and a half months without one at all.]
It’s all because of the mister. [And love squabbles are always blog worthy. :: eye roll :: ]*
First there was the $4.99 garbage can I picked up at Target the week we moved in. We chose not to bring up our old garbage can since it was broken and had several tears in the plastic that didn’t seem strong enough to make the 250 mile uhaul trip. Plus? It’s a farking GARBAGE CAN. FYI. At any rate, I chose the most reasonable and cheap garbage can that struck me. Hey! It costs just a little more than a latte! Go me.
Mr. Flinger poopooed it almost immediately. “It doesn’t have a lid. We need one with a lid. Plus it’s too small.” “It fits under the sink where National Garbage Can Law says it must go.” “It’s too small. I don’t like it. Lets (you) take it back and find one together.” MmmmK. Didn’t know the man wanted a say in the garbage receptacle.
Three weeks later we head to Bed Bath and Beyond specifically to find a garbage can. We spend, no kidding, three hours in the store. We debate size. Color. Peddle Popup? Or lid you lift? What about this $109 chrome dilly that you wave your hand in front of and the lid pops open for you? LB pooped twice while at the store and I had to take a seat when I started getting gaggy. Finally we settled on a black, medium size, plastic garbage can with a lid. “Think it will fit under the sink?” he asks. “Sure. Whatever. I need to eat again.”
We bring it home, place it under the sink and WOMP. It doesn’t fit. Naturally. So we set it aside so we can take it back and try again. This time, Mr. Flinger states, We’ll take measurements with us. Duh. Measurements. That’s what we forgot. (Seriously, you think YOU are rolling your eyes? SERIOUSLY. I almost needed surgery to correct my pupils from the constant eye roll.)
Tonight we headed to Linnens and Things because hey! We haven’t tried there yet! We walked the entire store, searched through all Christmas products, candles, gifts that vibrate and massage, curtains, towels and back to Christmas products. We saw only one garbage can, a bathroom chrome one, and almost utterly discouraged went to get in line. Then he saw it: Shining in the way only my dream garbage collector could, the isle of garbage cans and oh! the variety! the glamor! The hope and possibility made us breathless.
After careful searching we found one we liked. A can we can agree on. A can that will sit out, not hide under the sink, but be a part of the family with its shiny chrome and fancy pedal. It will go by the sink and
I will completely lose my mind when the toddler gets in to it for the fiftieth time and feeds onion peel to the baby. But we found it. Our garbage can.
I heart it.
Actually, I’m so ambivalent it’s pathetic, about the actual can itself, but the search? The chase? I am not one to go after those “hard to get” types. Fark that. I just wanted my garbage can and I wanted him now. But the waiting is a little bitter sweet. And now, he is home.
*What may actually be blog worthy is the fact that we ran in to Santa at World Wraps. HALLELUJAH! We saw SANTA! My little heart just can’t take it. Santa AND a garbage can in the same night! :: swoon ::
I should’ve spent the last hour grading papers. I should’ve cleaned the kitchen. I should’ve made something to eat aside from cheese and crackers (again). And I should’ve paid bills.
Instead, I spent time searching for a new illustration for ye ol’ blog, updating some software and writing my first post over here*. That’s right, I have blogger ADD and I can’t blog in one place, I need five.
Or six! Maybe I should start a “things I can eat today without puking” blog! Yes, that would be completely entertaining and I could even boast a pile o’ vomit for the header. OR cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.
Oh, right, sorry, I thought you were all over there. Why are you still here listening to me ramble on?
Must. Not. Re-Design. Website.
Say it with me.
Must. not. Re-Design. Website.
I wonder how long you people will have to tell me “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!” because I think I don’t believe you. I think it’s new news every time I pee on a stick, get an ultrasound, hear the heartbeat. It’s like I don’t remember that I keep puking in between appointments or gaining weight or crying at the Deli counter in Safeway.
Will you still congratulate me at my 20 week ultrasound when I am in complete shock that a whole person is actually in MY BODY and then again when I realize this entire person has to COME OUT OF MY BODY? Thanks. You are the best.
(Seriously, it’s like I haven’t done this before. Mommy-brain is so much worse than I ever knew.)
Perhaps the only other person who suffers from Mommy brain worse than I do is Mr. Flinger. We are already having of the exact same debates we had just over two years ago. “I have seven more months to go,” I complained last night. “No you don’t, you have less than six months. You’re already three months pregnant, right?” “YES, but Mr. Smart Math Man, you’re pregnant for 40 weeks. Divide that by 4 weeks a month and Viola! Ten months of pregnancy! Of course, two of those are ‘free’ so really you gestate for nine and a half months. Which is why I have six and a half more months to go. Dumbass.” (There is often an implied dumbass at the end of my sentences but sometimes I vocally throw it in.) “No, you’re more than a quarter of the way there, twleve weeks. three months. Six more to go.” “Hi. My due date is June 13th. It’s not even December yet.”
Then we launched in to the great “you’re in the thirteenth week” versus “you are twelve weeks pregnant” debate.
This is what happens when we can’t leave the house because of ice and snow. I used to think I wanted to live in Alaska, like in Northern Exposure, and be a Bush Pilot just like Maggie (seriously, I thought that, it’s sad and I know it). Now I’m fairly sure I’d go completely insane and probably forget things worse than math, like how to pee in a toilet or.. gasp.. how to use the Internet.
It’s not as romantic as “Betty Davis Eyes.” Instead, think old people eating food and a tad drips on the side of their mouth but they’re unaware, so they continue to eat. And drip. And never ever use a napkin.
It’s kinda like that.
I noticed last night when trying to read the contents of a spreadable cheese for “pasteurization,” I was holding the container at arm’s length. Actually, I was holding the container and moving my head around while trying to focus on the tiny tiny print. “Damn, this is tiny tiny print,” I muttered. Mr. Flinger giggles and mentions something about Presbyterian Eyes. “You men Presbyopia?” I laughed. “Whichever. It still means you’re getting old and that can’t be good.”
Er, Right. Thanks.
So let’s add bifocals to the list of things I’ll get done after my second child arrives. “Color to hide gray hair. Diet to lose baby fat. Some cream or magic pill for cellulite. Bifocals. Tummy tuck.”
I hate to think what’s going to happen when I hit forty. Perhaps I’ll have Methodist Ass or something by then.
If the bible doesn’t come right out and say, “Thou lovest me even when I was froglike in the waters of amnio,” it should. Maybe in the old testiment right next to the Psalms. Or maybe it actually is in Proverbs. If it’s not we should all pencil it in. ‘Cause really.
After nightsweats and nightmarish visions of sliding to the doctor today, I woke up to find out they were more like premonitions than nightmares. With several inches of snow and a lovely sheet of ice beneath it, we hauled the family in to the hail and ice and braved what would commonly be known as “Interstate Five” if you could see it. It took us thirty five minutes to go three miles. Two accidents, three panic attacks and phone call to the doctor, we passed the worst of the “Convergence Zone” and made it to the doctor. By god, I was going to hear this kid’s heartbeat even if it meant passing out en route when a truck lost control behind us and just about slid us off the road.
Focus, Leslie, Focus. :: shudders ::
As it turns out, everything cleared up two exits down, not a stitch of snow on the ground and we made it to the appointment only 20 minutes late, which I’m proud to say I could accomplish without a blizzard or a toddler, thankyouverymuch.
We ran down the list of mandatory gigs. “Blood Pressure fine,” (shocking since I just about had a heart attack on the way there) “heartbeat fine, weight.. well, let’s say fine for now,” thanks for that. Then she asks if I have any concerns, “You mean aside from the regular ‘I hope this baby is still alive and I’m not puking for nothing?’ No, not really.” So we listen to the heartbeat.
And it was there.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh. She had no trouble finding it right on the front of my belly. She let me listen for a long while since I couldn’t stop smiling and Mr. Flinger was practically giddy. Swoosh swoosh swoosh.
I got dressed, got in the parking lot and fell to pieces. Actually, it wasn’t that romantic. I think it was in Safeway that I really fell to pieces. I think I mummbled something about loving a frog even before it can hop and tadpole-like-webbed-fingers and a tail and slobbered on about eyes moving to the center of its face. Or something. Then I gagged in the juice isle scaring off a little old lady, who probably thought I had avian flu.
Which I don’t. I have a fetus. Who is really in there, all legs and arms and sans tail now. I couldn’t be more proud.
I admit I’m a wee bit preoccupied with things of the uterus, gagging, farts and boobs (mostly mine). You wouldn’t think this would be the prerequisite for the line, “which reminds me of that time…” but it is. Did I ever tell you about that time… (stop me if you heard this)...
One Thanksgiving a long long time ago, perhaps 15 years or so, The Pre-Flinger Family were in Salem (that’s in Oregon.. pronounce OR-GAN) visiting the Ancient Flingers. As it was, the Ancient Flinger’s home was booked full of relatives so the Pre-Flinger Family stayed in a hotel. Oma Flinger was so enjoying her time with Ancient Flingers that Pappa Flinger and I decided to head back to the hotel early with my sister to catch some TV and relax without the old people chatter. (You know how you really care about old people chatter at 16? Or 42 if they’re not your parents?)
So there we are in the hotel, Pappa Flinger, my sister and myself. Now, Pappa Flinger had some bad gas. Like Paint-Peeling gas. Like “OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO PASS OUT” gas. You think pregnancy gas is bad? This is gagging power without high levels of HCG and Estrogen causing your nose to inhale at 500% maximum power. The man could work for the CIA as a natural toxin. He’s proud of this fact.
As I recall, the gas was horrid that night at the hotel. In fact, it was so horrid we opened up the window in between yelling, “Dadddd! GROSS!” The heavy hotel drapes weren’t letting enough of the sub 40’s air in, though, so I took off my bra and tied the drapes with it to allow more air in. That’s right, Internet, I tied my 38 Double D, pre-breast-reduction bra around the curtains to let in air.
About thirty minutes later Oma comes in laughing so loud we heard her coming down the hall. “What’s so funny?” we ask her. Between her gulps and giggles she spits out, “I didn’t have to ask which hotel room was ours. I pulled up, saw the braw around the curtains and knew where to go.”
And that’s the story I thought of today as I fished in the back of my closet for the 38 double D I’m now wearing around my huge pregnant boobs with the farting and the gagging. ‘Cause really, it all comes back to you when you fish out your drapery-tying parachute.
Is it wrong that I woke up this morning to see the lovely white stuff and say, ‘Crap! It better not stick tomorrow. I have to get to the OB!”
The turkey is in the freezer. Turkey day is T minus 20 hours AND THE TURKEY IS IN THE FREEZER.
Also, we have the wrong rolls.
I’ve been retching and farting all day and have done diddly or squat with the house. As in cleaning. Or picking up. Or destinking.
I know you’re horribly sorry you didn’t get an invite but trust me, you will have a lovely holiday with a NON frozen turkey. At a house where people care and hostess. And have wine.
The holidays just aren’t the same without Turkey. Or lots and lost of wine.
(And you thought I wasn’t going to talk about this pregnancy all the time. HA! If I could do anything aside from dry heave over a sink all day, perhaps I’d go out and get some actual material. Instead, you’re stuck with gagging and farts. Welcome to my world.)
The list of reasons why I am NOT a great pregnant lady are growing (much like my bra size, ass, thighs and belly):
Write down, “emotional” but mean “hypersensitive to the point she will cry in public at the sight of a baby because SHE WANTS ONE. Remind her she is pregnant.” This actually happened this weekend at Babies R Us. And World Wraps. AND Borders. That’s right, in one day, I broke down crying not once, but three different times because I saw a cute baby and I wanted to have another one. Oh, sure, the first two times Mr. Flinger, ever so kindly, reminded me that I am, in fact, pregnant. “You think I don’t KNOW THAT?!” I quivered. “I want a FOUR MONTH OLD like THAT ONE, not a fetus, not a newborn and good god, not 10 weeks of gagging and retching.”
Write down “fickle” but mean “can’t decide if she’s going to go out with her friends because she MAY gag and she MAY start dry heaving and she MAY vomit in the car on the way there.” I used to be a last minute planner but now it’s ridiculous. “Want to go out to dinner?” “Oh! Well, not Thai food or anything spicy and not Mexican and not Pizza or Italian. Actually, let’s just keep it to soup and sandwiches but not deli meat. Oh, wait… GAG GAG GAG Huck Huck Huck.. maybe I won’t make it at all. Saying the word Deli Meat made me throw up a little.”
Write down “indigestion” but mean “stomach pain so bad she can barely eat sometimes and bloating so painful the bump is 99% gas.” And let me tell you a secret here. Lean in really really close because I am not going to just blab this to the ENTIRE Internet, just you people. The bloating? The Gas? I absolutely have (HAVE) to fart. Or I’m in so much pain I’ll crumple up my face and cuss under my breath but the real kicker is this: the gas is stinky and it makes me gag. So there’s my conundrum; I have bad bad gas that if I don’t release I will writhe in pain but if I do? I will gag and vomit.
Are we having fun yet?
Last night I went out to dinner with some good friends. We were sitting in the bar ordering diet cokes and water. The bar tender says to me (undecided on what to drink) “We have a black butte on tap and some great red wines…” I wave my hand, “Honey, all that you just said? Sounds lovely. I want it all. But I’m pregnant. So I’ll take a Shirley Temple.”
Oh well, at least I took my indigestive bloated ass out where I could cry with new people and get all wishy washy over the menu. Don’t you want to be my friend?
I have a series of before and after photos I thought I’d share. You may want to sit down and start drinking. It could get ugly.
First, I’ll start with the easy one. Here we have the previous “toy storage solution” since we moved in to the new condo and delegated the toy chest for shoes. (don’t ask) Yes, we delegated the storage bin formerly known as “toy box” to dirty ol’ shoes. It’s how we roll.
(and yes I am just anal enough I’ve considered labeling what bins go to what. I’m sorry, what’s that? Stick up my what?)
And then I have The Haircut. I spent more on a hair cut that I’ve ever spent in my life and you know what? All it means is that I have a very expensive shitty haircut. I walked in with a picture of what I wanted and I walked out looking like a lesbian. Or a soccer mom. (No offense to either group. I’m not hip enough to be a part of either.)
THIS is the picture I show her.
And THIS is what I end up with.
Obviously she has no sense of reality. In one picture I have a cute bob cut with a wedge in back and in the other I am wearing fleece out at a soccer game. Gawd.
And then, finally, the First Belly Shot (dun dun duunnnnnnnn).
I just happen to have a Belly Shot from week 11 pregnancy LB (2004).
And a “before” shot I thought would be my “Look at how fat before I start working out” photo. But instead it turns out it’s now my “Look at how skinny before I start gagging and eating fourteen times a day” photo.
15 guests here now.