I’ve been sleepy since I was 16 years old. The first doctor I saw, during cross country season my Junior Year of High School, dismissed my complaints. “Look,” he leaned forward, his hands resting on this thighs, smelling of soap, “You’re not tired. You can’t be tired. You run 5 miles a day and get straight A’s. You’re not tired.”
But I *WAS* tired.
I continued to be tired and get dismissed for the next 19 years. I slept through college. Literally. I fell asleep regularly on my books in the library, drooling between pages of my Physics book. I went to bed at 9PM every night and fell asleep during movies my roommates and I would rent. I took three hour naps regularly and barely made it through until evening.
After having our daughter, I was attempting sleep following the 24 hours of labor, emergency C-section, medicated debacle. My oxygen monitor kept rining and a nurse would have to run in and reset it. I was frustrated, tired, and not able to sleep after 30 hours of exhaustion. “Has anyone ever talked to you about Sleep Apnea?” one nurse finally asked. “No?”
In fact, nobody would talk to me about it again for years to come. Doctors explored yeast imbalance, gluten intolerance, PCOS, Chronic Fatigue and so on. I’ve taken hormones and pills. I’ve done diet after diet to increase energy.
Still, though, I was sleepy.
At the urging of a very dear friend, I signed up for a sleep study. She’s probably the seventeenth person to tell me to do it, but it stuck. She’s just sort of that influential. Or that good at nagging. Either way.
I went in, got hooked up to a thousand wires and went to sleep. I say “sleep” not in a traditional sense but in a “wow, this is a lot of crap hooked up to me and I CAN’T ROLL OVER WHERE AM I WHY IS THIS UP MY NOSE” sort of way. Apparently it was just enough, though, for them to get a read on my sleeping habits.
The next morning I was standing talking to some random dude checking me out (literal and figurative here) at the grocery store. As he scanned the items in to the cart, he was staring at my boobs. I got annoyed, made light small talk and walked away thinking what a perv he was.
I got in the car, looked in the mirror and found what one may think is a hicky but by some sort of big mouthed gorilla.
It was the remaining redness from the wires the previous night.
Later in the afternoon I headed in to get my final diagnoses. Apnea. I have Sleep Apnea. I stop breathing TWENTY-SIX times an hour. Idealy you stop breathing, oh you know, NEVER. But apparently anything less than 5 times an hour is acceptable.
No wonder I’ve been tired for 20 years. Twenty. Years.
“You’ll be wearing a what to bed?” Mr. Flinger asks when I tell him the diagnoses. “A CPAP machine” I say. He looks at me and I know what he’s thinking, “You mean, like the thing Baby O had hooked up to him when he was in the NICU?” “Ayup” I reply. “Wow.. um.. that’s.. uh.. sexy…”
I realize I’m going to look like something out of some sci-fi movie at night now. “Hey Baby, come on over here and.. wait, hangon.. let me move my mask, oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with that tube… oh hangon, the air is blowing on us, just a sec….” I get that I’m at my mid-thirty sexual peak and I’m royally screwed, not in the good way, of having any normal nights again.
But you know? Maybe I can use that. Something out of a sci-fi movie, eh?
Yea, that works.
Everyone ready for The Big Storm? Arctic Blast 2008! Sheer Hell-frozen-over! RUNNNNNNnnnnNNNN.
According to the news, this is going to be The Biggest Storm Ever In Our .. Lives… Muhahaha.
Until next year, at least.
So everyone in the Pacific Northwest is at Safeway and Fred Meyer getting the essentials. The guy behind us in line had three bags of Cheetos and beer. We had four cases of pop, some red wine, cheese and beer. The lady in front of us? You got it: Beer. (In her defense, she was the only person in line buying batteries, too, so there’s that. We’ll all hunt her down and offer her beer in exchange for voltage later.)
It’s been icy, frozen and brilliantly fun for days. Work has been nearly impossible as children are underfoot with cabin fever and The Need for sledding.
So sledding we did.
Today we braved the wintry weather and headed to The Mall of All Mother Effing Malls. AKA: “Where did all you people that couldn’t get to work come from but were perfectly capable of driving in two feet of snow to THE MALL?”
We had good reason, though. We needed to get the picture, classic 101 Santa picture of 2008. And we did: Behold!
God I love Christmas.
**P.S. Have you registered for Blissdom Yet? WHAT?! OMG. Like you have not? What the hell, people? Did you know I was going to be there? What’s that? Oh, right, you did because I keep telling you every four-point-three days. Yea, well, um, I’m sorta excited. I’m excited to be with these people. And with her. And her. And her. And OMG. I promise I’ll lick you. **
** I do that. ***
** Did I mention I’m just now catching up on blogging? Whew. Sorry. I promise to not write so much later. **
** Buhahahah. I lie. **
**The end ***
I just got my first, er, fifty-first piece of hatemail.
The IP of 18.104.22.168 writes,
“Dear Mrs. Fliger. I’ve known you wanted to be just like Dooce for years but you couldn’t hide it any better? Your web designs suck and your coding is awful and now your stealing ideas from Dooce’s website. Pathetic. Get your own fonts.”
Hang on… Hang on…
:: PPPPFFTTTTT ::
Sorry, I’m laughing… so.. incredibly.. hard.. right… now..
I fart when I laugh. Didn’t you know that? My closest friends know that. I figured I’ve told The Internet that at some point or other.
Or maybe I should show you video evidence?
So thank you, 22.214.171.124, for reminding me to not work so much on those sucky designs that I don’t take the time to share ass-gas with The Internet.
P.S. Your is possessive. You’re is a contraction of YOU and ARE. Please take notes.
P.P.S. I’m Mrs. FLINGER. With an “L”. Please reference the font I’ve “stolen” from Dooce on my header for my name.
P.P.P.S I’m honored you’ve read for years even though you hate me. Please feel free to refresh this page and send it to all your hating Flinger friends. I hope you have a secret Flinger-Hate club. I’ve always wanted to have a club. Refresh Refresh Refresh.
P.P.P.P.S. The video is from our garage sale on Saturday when NOBODY showed up. We started pranking our friend who couldn’t be there (we sent her away, actually because it was so slow) and telling her people were making deals. There are four videos. Each one is funnier than the one before. I will post more if you ask nice and pee in the potty and stop wetting the bed. Also, the part where I fall down on the ground? That’s just after I fart. It’s true.
We’ve hit a portion of time known in our circle as “the three-and-a-half-year-old” stage. ohdearmotherlivinghell. The “terrible twos”? A warm up. The teenage angst? Being foreshadowed. My mental health? On the wire.
Tuesday we had what could only be referred as “a throwback to Rambo” There was yelling, fighting, dramatic throw-downs. This all in the first ten minutes of the day. She literally turned in to a fish out of water gasping for air because, ohgodforbid, her mother asked her to wipe her own bottom. That’s right, Internet, I forced my child to use her own toilet paper. IknowIknow. I see you shaking your head. Trust me. I disappoint many.
The trouble with this behavior is that I don’t so much like it. And the trouble with not liking the behavior is that it’s not much of a stretch to feel like I don’t like the kid all that much just then. And the problem with not liking the kid just right then is the guilt/shame/I’m-a shitty-mom thoughts that come with it. And the trouble with the I’m-a-shitty-mom thoughts is the previous postpartum depression.
Did you follow that?
Yea, it’s a stretch. I do that.
So I started thinking I was going nuts. I’m never going to survive being a mother. A MOTHER. You know those mom types, right? The ones who are gooey and soft and love their kids? The ones who make pb&j and cookies after school? The ones who come running when their child needs them instead of glaring at her from the other room thinking, “getoffthefloorgetoffthefloorgetoffthefloor” and contemplating have her very own matching fit. Not really the definition of MOM.
Which is why I don’t like labels. MOM. PPD. Crazy-lady. Three-year-old. It’s all so… confining. It’s almost self-fulfilling. It’s a lie.
Just because my daughter and I struggle (and struggle, oh! the struggle) does not mean we will forever. Just because I want to lie on the floor in my PJs all day wishing there was ten minutes of silence does not mean tomorrow I won’t get dressed, leave, and enjoy my children in the sun. Just because I can’t bake to save my life and never remember to seperate the darks from the whites when I do laundry (that’s so 1960’s Alabama, people! I like to think beyond color.) and just because I usually pay bills about four days after the late fees are issued, doesn’t mean I don’t care for my children and hurt when they hurt and cry a little not just because I’m annoyed (again) at the fits (again) but that I’m sad life seems so dramatic and hard to my daughter.
I’m afraid if she thinks it’s hard at three, she may look at her life at 32 and wonder what she did wrong. And that’s no way to live.< changing the topic just a wee bit ... or rather coming out of left field a little >
I’ve now enjoyed every one of your comments on the last several posts. For some reason I was not getting them via email. OHTHEHORROR! (Gee, no idea where my drama queen gets it. Shutit. I hear you snicker.) So forgive my lack of bloggy-etiquette and for not replying to you. I came to my site, read your comment, read your other comment, read a few more and by the time I hit the white square for me to reply, I couldn’t remember what I was going to say because they-were-all-good-comments and how-do-I-address-them-all and didn’t-my-daughter-just-fly-off-the-couch-on-her-brother—-again. So really, I blame gmail.
Let’s all wear a tee-shirt that says, “I blame google,” because really, I can’t wear a tee-shirt that says, “I blame my children.”
or can I?
< Even bigger topic change >
I saw this at Target tonight and giggled. I told you I’m a twelve year old boy. But comon, didn’t you immediately think, “Oh, that Justin Timberlake…” hee.
Apparently Super Bowl Sunday is a national holiday. Were you aware? I knew when I took my daughter to Safeway to purchase pizza, wine and potato salad (what everyone eats on an average Sunday) there were, approximately, four small nations of people in the checkout line all buying pizza, beer and potato salad.
That was my first clue.
Then I noticed our neighbors either decided to start selling used cars to suplement our outrageous mortgaged 1200 SF townhomes or else those very same people who were just in line at Safeway were now swarming around our complex like angry bees on crack.
After shoving my children in the gas-inefficient SUV we own outright (and thus can not purchase a hybrid or other similarly trendy green vehicle), we trooped over to our good friends house where I unloaded the baby to the men’s room and the three year old on her friends. I joined the women in the kitchen and helped with preparations.
We have not evolved far, my friends.
The rest of the evening there was vague discussion of men wearing helmets and slamming in to one another. The men sat in the room with the GIGANTIC TV while the women discussed deep and meaningful things like Brad and Angie’s new baby (!), Hawaii trips for cheap (!) and low rise jeans. The men stared at the GIGANTIC TV and tried very hard to tune out the “Cackle Cackle Laugh Laugh BLAHBLAHBLAHH” from the kitchen and “YELLYELLYELL” from the kid’s playroom.
It was the best superbowl sunday yet.
What did you do yesterday? Did you exchange smutty magazines and drink pink slushy drinks with unknown content, too? Or was that just us?
mmmMMMMMm I love me some Smutty Mags.
Thanks to Twitter, I know who won. Some Giant person… or something.
I am wearing a girdle for the first time since child #2. It is not pretty. The mass that used to constitute my ab muscles is now squished to the top of a size-that-fit-prior-to-growing-the-largest-belly-known-to-pregnancy “slimming” girdle.
This means one of two things is bound to occur at the office party we are attending tonight for Mr. Flinger’s work: a) someone will ask when I’m due and b) I will get very crampy gas about the time his boss makes his way over to our table and let a teeny tiny SBD slip out. And blame his boss for it.
Remember what happened on our last date? I’m sure this will top it. Let’s take bets, shall we? Who’s in?
Wowzers, 24 hours goes pretty damn fast. The reality of night feedings is weighing back on me shortly, so my half-written OMG-I-hang-with-the-best-effing-people-in-Seattle will have to wait.
But look! Michelle posted pictures!
And so did I!
I just have no idea what the hell this is. I’m pretty sure it’s Laura dancing. See? Don’t you see her? And her little black dress?
You so so SO wish you did. Trust me.
And also, since you’re here, I’ve been dying to ask y’all.
Eggnog? Or no? Because you’re definitely one or the other. You’re never both.
Friday night we were blessed with a date. A DATE. Yea, I know, what’s that? It’s that thing you do when you leave the house without the kids because someone else has
been roped in to watching your children. It. Was. Awesome.
(Let me back up here a moment so as to ‘splain it all.)
So. You know I’ve been trying to get my pre-baby body back? And you know how I’m only a whopping twenty pounds away from my goal now? That’s like two dimes or two-decades, whichever. Anyway, I’ve been working out and eating well. Eating well means including a lot of snap peas for snacks. It also means wearing some pre-pregnancy clothes that haven’t seen the daylight since 2003. Or 2005, I forget.
Since it’s our first post-baby-O date where we decided to actually go out to dinner AND SEE A MOVIE (this part is really important and thusly is in caps), I thought I’d get all dolled up for the occasion and put on some makeup (gasp!) and a skirt (also, GASP!) I know. That’s how impressed I was hoping to make the bald guy with two kids who showed up to take me out. Like I was getting some (snicker).
Auntie Nicole arrived and LB instantly was entertained. We headed out to have a drink (or four) and then see SuperBad. We sat outside for dinner and drinks and enjoyed our time together like the pent up HighSchoolers we are on the inside. We giggled, drank, ate, and frolicked (the cheapest possible porn, AKA, played footsie). We walked to the theater about 20 minutes early to make sure we’d get a seat.
This is where this poo hit the fan (or shit if you’re in to cussing and all).
While watching the people purchase the twenty dollar buckets of heart-clogging popcorn, I realized I had the gas. GAS. As in SBD (Silent but deadly) gas. People! Those snap peas! They give me enough fuel to burn a tiny jet plane. I could make it to Hawaii solely on the fuel of my own ass. I swear to you. PFFTTTTT. PFFFTTTTT. Mr. Flinger looked at me, leaned in and asked, “uh, is that YOU?” I act completely disgusted, “NO! Oh, seriously? NO! It’s that old guy standing right THERE!” I try to defend my own stank. It doesn’t work. Six years of marriage and fourteen years of friendship trumps my ass. “DUDE! STOP IT!” he hisses. “I cannn’ttttt. It’s those damn snap peas!” pppfffttttt. We start circling the theater so nobody can trace the stink back to us. Circling and circling. Until we reach the original spot and realize, in horror, the stench is still there. “KEEP MOVING!” he whispers feverishly. We do. In fact, we never stop walking until we’re sure the previews have started and my ass has stopped.
We enjoy a show without a single :: ahem :: episode. We laugh (and surprisingly I do not fart here). We giggle. I get near tears with sheer exhaustion mixed with the hilarity which is Superbad. I laugh so hard I cry. I laugh until my stomach surely has a six pack. Until I nearly wet myself.
The show ends and we gather our things to slowly walk back to our car. We realize this is IT. This is the end of our date and we both wish for two more hours of kidless bliss. We’re standing at the door to the theater discussing just this fact when a Canadian man and his two children approach us waiting for their mom to pull over their car. We begin chatting about the benefits of Canadian maternity leave and whatnot. He causally asks, “So when are you due?” There is the sound of the sky falling and the hell opening up to swallow him whole. “Oh, uh, I’m not pregnant. We have a three month old at home…” I mutter under my breath something about how he should never EVER ask a woman that and damn him to eternal red lights and soggy pizza. Damn him, I say. Minutes after he and his kids are safe in the refuge of their car, I turn to Mr. Flinger, “Ok, seriously? WHAT? THE? FUCK?” He laughs a little and points to my boobs. “Dude, is it cold in here?” He changes the subject. “Uh, listen, I’m either going to cry or swear off food for a year. Comeon, what are you talking about?” “Aren’t you wearing a bra?”
Ok, see, I was feeling all “WOOOT!” about my boobies and decided to wear a camisole instead. Because it has a BUILT IN BRA. Apparently, it’s not so bra-ish. Where my usual perky (albeit bra-induced-perk) boobies usually are, there’s the headlights of an SUV. But lower. “OHMAHGAH” I whisper staring at my own tits. “OHMAHGAH.” He puts his arm around me and points me to the door. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s go home. It’s warm there.”
Please sing in your best country-sounding voice. There needs to be twang. Sadly, every time I try to make “twang” in my head it comes out “Bow Chicka Chicka Bow Bow.” So, go for less porn and more TWANG, ok?
Also, I am completely sober. S-O-B-E-R. I’m like a guy on Alcohol, I couldn’t get it going. But once I got sober, the words just started flowing.
:: ahem ::
Oh! Two Buck Chuck I’m in love with you
You’ve got more spunk than a party shoe
You make me dance with grace and rhythm
When I drink you, I’ve got biorythm
You only cost just two ninety-nine
You are the best thing to happen to wine
Your Cab Sav is red and smooth
if I saw you at a party, I’d make a move
Come live with me the rest of my days
Two buck Chuck, on you I can give b-j’s
So the Mister, he loves you, too
Two Buck Chuck, we’re in love with you
Thank you, Thank you.
This song is brought to you by the number two and the letter O (who gives me plenty of time at 1AM to “sit and think about what I’ve done”)
We’ll be here all week, folks.
Internet? Internet? You there still? Ok, so look, I .. um.. have ideas. All these IDEAS just sort of swirling around my brain all, “BLAHBLAHBLAH ooh! I could do THIS! And THIS and, well, we need THIS, too!” and I have plans, big plans, plans for remodeling websites and member areas and podcasts, and new sites, and and and and and…
And then my brain explodes.
Then the baby needs things and the toddler melts down and the sun comes out and melts my ass to the park bench.
That’s the short short version.
I believe there are all kinds of people in life. Those who have the power of “the big picture.” There are detail people, there are the do-ers, the idea-ers, and the planners. There are those who sit and observe whilst contemplating word peace and domination and others who jump in with both feet until they are up to their eyeballs in crap.
Guess which one I am? Which one are you?
So, excuse the mess here, Internet. I’m clearing out the crap. And soon (hopefully soon… SOON) there will be fun ch-ch-changes. And if not, well, I might post a picture of the kids. Because I at least accomplished something last year.
19 guests here now.