UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
This is what summer is supposed to be like Aug 05, 2007
And why I haven’t done your web design yet. Because SOME OTHER PEOPLE made me drink this weekend. And somehow there was photographic evidence. With my camera. (Which explains why there are 192 photos in the set. Drunk photography is almost as fantastic as drunk blogging.) Or, maybe, it’s “192 reasons I start the South Beach Diet Monday.” Because? I didn’t hold the camera the whole time. And I’m in some of them. And, well. Until I look like my icon, I should really cut back on the poke cake.
And now you will insert a big long mushy paragraph about how wonderful it is to move to a new home and find people you can enjoy, your kids can grow up together, and they understand your daily ups and downs and never call CPS when you tell them you’d like to drug your child. In fact, they laugh, which is exactly the proper response and why you love them all the more.
And so many more you may just have a hangover from looking through them all.
The sleep deprivation, it is taking over my brain Jun 29, 2007
Only just recently, the weeks of getting 5 or 6 hours of sleep a night in two hour chunks finally caught up with me. Somehow, the following scene was wildly hilarious at the time and when recounting the experience to friends, I realized you really, really, really had to be there.
For posterity, here is Leslie’s brain on sleep deprivation:
Figure B: FLYING BABIES!
So we got desperate and started walking the baby at midnight. Then? We drag the stroller up the three flights to our room and leave him there.
(I may be witty in another three months. Or! Maybe I’ll even be thoughtful! OR! DRUNK! OR! OOOEEYYIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE. I miss sleeping.)
Did I tell you about the time… (It’s a Play-Along Post!) Jun 27, 2007
I know I posted a little about Baby O’s birth story. But what you don’t know is that I left out one very ironic and very ME piece of information. It’s the kind of information that rivals walking around the mall with toilet paper stuck to your shoe or your skirt tucked in to the back of your pantyhose. It’s the kind of information that is only horrific if you DON’T tell people and if you do, well, it’s downright hilarious. It becomes an inside joke. It makes you more real. And people, if there’s one thing I am, it’s real.
So there I am, on the operating table, legs spread-eagle, spinal-tap in place vaguely aware of the nurse putting the cathedar in and my doctor turns to his partner and asks him to step up to the table. “Leslie,” he says, “have you met my associate Dr. Needlepoint?” “Uh, no, I don’t believe I have. Usually I like to romance a man first….” I say as I glance down at my precarious position.
My doctor laughs. Dr. Needlepoint, not so much.
I then recounted this story, loudly, with my three friends during our Mom Night Out. I had already told them this story twice, I believe, but did so for the benefit of the very old stuffy looking man at the table next to us who so obviously was trying to listen in on our conversation. He shortly thereafter moved to the other side of the table.
So? What’s your story? I’m sure you’ve never EVER walked through a pile of dog crap just before a job interview completely unable to wipe the entire sole off and end up having to explain it to a room of very important people because someone actually said something about a dog in the middle of his question, that you can’t even remember at this time but are pretty sure had something to do with your good qualities, namely that you don’t smell like crap on a regular basis. (breathe here) No. That only happens to those other people. People like me.
on social awkwardness May 15, 2007
Yesterday when we met Mr. Flinger at lunch (read: Starbucks coffee), the three of us were sitting drinking our allocated beverages when a group of three men about our age walked in. Mr. Flinger stares at one of the men, leans over to me, and whispers, “He went to our High School. I’m sure of it. He graduated in my class.” I was sure he was lying because just three weeks ago he saw Ross Perot at Safeway and two weeks before that, Wade Boggs at Quiznos. So, apparently, a lot of people get “spotted” when out at lunch time with Mr. Flinger.
I’m just saying.
So we stared a little too long at this man who looked only vaguely familiar when I realized OH MAH GAH! I had a huge crush on him! Like, in college! Like, he was, like, TOTALLY hot Freshman Year! And OH MAH GAH! I instantly, like, turn in to, like, a teenager! Because! He’s! Still! Hot!
Mr. Flinger kicked me, mumbled something about him still having his hair and tended to our child while I recovered by saying, “Um, yea, I think I remember him.. his name is Ben.. I remember him.. a little bit…” I threatened to talk to just ask him if he went to our high school. “Uh, don’t do that,” Mr. Flinger begged, “You’ll make us all weird and crap. I didn’t even know him back then.” I try to make it better by saying, “I knew him! I hung out in the same circle freshman year at college. I had friends that had friends of his. I ate lunch NEAR him. He’ll totally remember me.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have made eye contact. Maybe I shouldn’t have said, “Uh, did you go to [ enter hickville high ]? Graduate around 1992? Then go to [ enter tiny town community college here ]? Because I knew you? Your name is Ben, right?”
:: crickets :: the sound of his friends snorting cofee out their noses :: a blender in the background ::
Uh. Right! Because My name is Mrs. Flinger and this is my husband? We both went there, too! And I knew you in college? (Thinking, I was the super hot chick you never dated? Remember?)
Apparently, he did NOT remember.
“So, you live up here now, hu? Yea. It’s nice out. :: cough :: Ahem :: Shuffle :: Well, it was nice seeing you.”
Oh, holy hell, that was painful. Much more than necessary. At least, that’s what I say to Mr. Flinger in hushed tones after they leave. He, on the other hand, thinks it’s exactly how that would’ve played out.
Maybe I’m an optimist. Maybe I am too social for my own good. Maybe I have no fllter when I’m 36 weeks pregnant and don’t give a flying rats ass what people think anymore. Or, maybe, I was raised in the south where if you make eye contact with someone, it’s OK to say something to them and not run in to a hole in the ground like the moles that are bred up here do.
Again, just sayin’.
But when we got home and my expecting neighbors are walking out the door and I rush to “bump” in to them, only missing them by minutes, Mr. Flinger shakes his head, “You’ll never learn will you….”
If learning to never take a chance at making a friend is the lesson here, no, I guess I won’t. But if learning I’m a social freak who tends to make good situations a bit.. awkward.. then why yes! Thank you! I do know that.
I just do it anyway.
Call God or maybe Bruce Lee; the baby is EATING MY BRAIN May 09, 2007
Hi there! Well, hello! I can’t seem to keep my mind focused on one thing longer than .2 seconds, which is not long enough to write a post, mind you, and thus have attempted to write FOUR THOUSAND posts in the last two days, all of which look something like this:
“You know how when….”
“One day I was…..”
“It was a dark and stormy night….”
Ok, no, that last one was the start of my latest best-selling-novel that never got past seven words long. It was a damn fine read, though, in my head.
I’ve started seven projects, three websites, two loads of laundry and a grocery list, all of which remain unfinished. I believe I washed half the kitchen floor, but the kitchen floor runs in to the dining room floor and runs in to the living room floor and that’s just too much floor to wash at one time. So I took a nap instead.
My daughter is loving the new thrilling life we lead. She seems to communicate better with me on this level. “You want to watch Sesame Street?” “Yes!” Three minutes later we’re both bored and unsure of what we were going to do. “How about we go to the park?” “OK!” Five minutes in to packing the bag I’ll remember an email I need to send, which is just fine because she’s now engrossed in a village of little people and unaware we had plans. Thirty minutes after I download six songs from iTunes, start another website and email two people, none of which was the original email I remembered I need to write, I’ll stand up, stretch, and say, “Should we watch Sesame Street?”
She seems to like this new Mommy.
I, on the other hand, am having a hard time remembering to go to the grocery store or, say, shower once a day, which does nothing for one’s social life. It’s funny, at first, this new dizty version of myself that I’m carting around. It’s almost as if I should go back to that year I was blonde, start wearing makeup, and show more cleavage. Instead, I’m waddling around town with my head up my ass, totally unaware that I’ve knocked down three small children (I can’t see you down there, FYI), stepped in a pile of dog crap and clothes-lined some old lady crossing the street.
I have an OB appointment tomorrow. I may ask to move up the C-section if it’s at all possible. I’m no longer asking for myself. I’m asking for the good of all man-kind. And also my shoes.
Taking love a little too far May 07, 2007
You remember two years ago when I got my DVR for mother’s day? Remember how I dry-humped the box when it showed up? Remember how we never have to resent our first-born child because she prevents us from watching LOST or Grey’s Anatomy?
Last night while we sat on the couch watching the DVR recorded Grey’s, the baby made some convulsive moves and my belly jumped three feet to the left. “LOOK!” I yelled, “Wait, Let me rewind it…” I said as I pointed the DVR remote at my belly shortly before realizing what I was doing.
Pregnant-brain is a dangerous affliction.
From Sane to Totally Losing Your Shit in 12 hours or less: A timeline May 02, 2007
May 1: Officially 34 weeks pregnant.
11:00 AM- Whilst talking to a group of moms, have contraction. “BlahblahBlah.. uugghhhhh… uuhhhhhh… pppffffffff…. BlahBlahBlah.” Perhaps mention that you’ve been noticing more of these braxtin gigs lately. Also, they hurt.
12:00PM- Have lunch outside with Mr. Flinger. Choose a Venti water at Starbucks instead of coffee because uuugghhhhhhh… uhhhhh.. ppffffffffff contracting. Remember that last time around false labor is most usually brought on by dehydration.
1:00 PM- Pee
1:30 PM- Pee
2:00 PM- Keep contracting. Mention to a few people that you feel like the “Pre-Labor Flu” you were so thrilled to feel at week 37 last time around. Mention that labor feels eminent. Mention how you still have to pay bills this month and paint the dining room and set up the cradle and send out thank you notes and…
2:30PM- Run up and down the stairs roughly four million times to get child to nap. Continue “pick child up and throw her in the bed” game for roughly an hour and a half. Alternate Peeing and Contracting.
4:30 PM - Decide child may enjoy jumping off second bunk alone for a while so you can lay down and time contractions because HOLYMOTHERGODFORTHELOVE these bad boys are hurtin’.
5:30PM- Decide you’re too hungry to time contractions anymore. Family heads to Red Robin: The ALL American Pre-Labor Meal.
6:30pm- Eat less than half your burger between running to the bathroom at Red Robin and swearing to god you will knock the block off that big Red Bird if he doesn’t move outta your ... UUGGHHH.. UHHHH. PPFFFTTTTTTT… way…
7:00 PM- go home in tears.
7:20PM- Alternate between contractions and peeing and checking the cooch for an arm or an eyeball or something poking out from there like those Enquirer magazine births.
9:20PM- Call doc. Get same speech Charla got… “blahblahblah.. Braxtin hurts more second time around, blahblahblah.. if doesn’t stop in an hour.. blahblahblahblahblahblahblahhhhhhhhhhh.”
Uugghhhh.. uuhhhh.. pppfffttttttt
11:00 PM- Contractions stop. Sniffles start. Child waked up four times in as many hours. Husband sleeps on the couch downstairs (blissfully unaware of child’s non-sleeping).
3:00 AM May 2nd: Fall Asleep creating “TODO list”
Now: Write up “If I go in to labor early… ” list. Don’t forget to paint the dining room! Because? The baby cares what color those walls are…
Top ten reasons to get pregnant in High School Apr 30, 2007
Granted, I don’t go around telling girls to get knocked up in High School as a regular expression of my brilliance, but I’ve been thinking of this a lot lately. I mean, what’s with all the “finish graduate school” and “get a stable job” and “have years with my husband first” crap? Really? When you compare it to the blissful layout of the following list. (Yes! It’s a LIST! I know I know…)
10. Boys are always horny. No need to beg them to come “DO” you because you’re ovulating. TONIGHT. RIGHT NOW. DAMNIT. PERFORM.
9. Down Syndrome pregnancy risk factor is 1 in 1659.
8. Perky Boob recovery is 1659 to 1.
7. Natural Lubrication. ‘Nuff Said.
6. Young people don’t sleep. Or need sleep. Or care about sleep. Old thirty-year olds turn in to beyotches without sleep. Trust me.
5. You can’t legally drink for a few years anyway. Why waste sobriety on pregnancy later?
4. Nobody cares what your GPA in High School was.
3. Your mother, your boss, and your friends will never ask why you’re not off getting laid.
2. Did I mention the perky boob thing?
1. You will get your body back the day you deliver. You will effortlessly sneeze a child out of your vajaja, turn to your mother and say, “What’s for dinner?”
LB will never read this post. I’m just sayin’....
Exorcism to butt-rock; A shrink would have a hayday with that Apr 27, 2007
I’ve done amazingly well this pregnancy, in terms of not actually going to the ER for random bits of complete nonsense. I can tell, though, as I get closer to the end (Did I hear a PRAISE JEZUZ?!) I find myself becoming a wee bit more worrisome. Or freakish. Either way.
Compared to last go-round, I’ve been amazingly calm. With my first pregnancy I called the doctor no less than 8 times for various “pains.” I freaked out three times with false labor, thought my water broke once, called the hospital because I was SNORING TOO MUCH (I swear to god, it hurts to type that), and twice because she wasn’t moving enough. I also used to rub my belly at night if she was too quiet (which my Aunt later told me was the cause of her colic/screaming all night every night for months, which it wasn’t, but thanks for that anyway). This time around I don’t count the hours until the next doctor appointment, I don’t call the hospital wondering if he’s getting enough oxygen, I don’t call for every twitch or ache or pull. I file a lot of it in the “I’m pregnant and large” category and move along. I never wake him up at night, just in the slightest case my Aunt was right, figuring I’ll let him get used to this “sleeping” thing because I love me some sleep. I send down positive sleep vibes all day long, “You LOVE sleep. You do not LIKE to scream. You LOVE sleeping at night. It’s good!” I’m brain-washing a child in utero. This must be some kind of parenting record.
Still, though, you can imagine the complete shock yesterday on Mr. Flinger’s face when I turned down a four hour non-stress-test at the hospital following a fall in the parking lot. Sure, I’ve been thinking or talking a lot more about the “what-ifs”. I’ve been hearing stories and not letting go of the “oh-my-god that could happen to me”. Yes, I actually thought I may have caused the placenta to rip off the uterus when I made some sweeping hand motion while talking dramatically until I talked myself back to reality hours later. But after I slipped and fell flat on my large ass in the parking lot at the OB yesterday, minutes before I had the professionals poking and listening and evaluating the baby for any signs of stress, even as they said, “I think everything is just fine,” I still wondered that “what if they’re wrong? what if he’s dying a slow horrible death because something ruptured? What if…” because it’s getting so much harder to just. let. things. go.
There are six long weeks left. Long weeks that if I let my un-realistic worrisome side take over will seem even that much longer. Or I can choose to trust that we’ve made it this far. We’ve grown this healthy. We have only six weeks until we meet our little man and hold him and have him for the rest of our lives. If I remind myself there are plenty of things to worry about later, that he’s safe and healthy and growing inside me, maybe the last six weeks won’t feel as long as I think.
Then again, maybe I’ll completely lose my shit over the impending C-section and decide to keep him in. Because oh-my-god you’re going to take my bladder out and set it where?
Poltergeist, exorcism, and that damn ghost kitty Apr 24, 2007
I’ve talked openly about my child’s refusal to nap and its subsequent effect on me. We’ve been battling the “Nap Issue” for some time now. Eons ago, Oma said “perhaps she’s just giving it up?” to which I threw tomatoes at her and booed very loudly. I may have even hissed, I’m not sure. Either way, I know that even if SHE thinks she does not need a nap, *I* know she does. She claims she wants to go play because “my eyes aren’t tired, Mommy!” but I see this:
Sometimes after a struggle, she really will nap. And that? Is a sort of exorcism here.
I haven’t found the solution to prevent my own head from spinning 360 degrees or the flames darting out of my own eyes on days she doesn’t nap. I’ve tried it all. In the end? I don’t know what the magic formula is but you can bet your bottom dollar that I furiously replay whatever happened on a day when she does nap and I’ll try to repeat it to the very detail: “Fell asleep with polka dot dress OVER PJ’s.” Check.
************** Only slightly related *************
Did I tell you that my child has a poltergeist kitty? Oh, what? No? YOUR kid doesn’t have a ghost pet? Oh, well, really, you should get a ghost kitty that scares the crap out of your toddler so she’ll go running and jump on whatever piece of furniture is closest to her claiming, “THE KITTY! THE KITTY! THE KITTY SCRATCH!” I wouldn’t be lying if I said it creeps me out just a wee bit. If you ask her where the kitty is? It’s always in a different place. Sometimes it’s on mommy’s bed, sometimes it’s on LB’s bed, sometimes it’s in the garage. But sometimes it comes after her and makes her jump on the bed/sofa/chair perfectly scaring the holy hell out of me.
I always thought I’d have to scare away a monster. I never pictured a kitty under the bed. Somehow, that seems much, much worse.