The Ritual of Drink

After a cold snap over the weekend that brought frost and flurries to Kentucky, spring, the fickle bitch, has decided to once again grace us with her presence. Yesterday, Michael had an early morning appointment to check into finishing up his degree, and I went with him. There is simply nothing like spring on a college campus, and our alma mater is especially beautiful. It was nice to be doing something outside our normal morning routine. In the struggle to get ready and get to work on time everyday, much of the beginning of the day around me gets lost in routine. But yesterday was a wonderful morning and we got lucky by being in a position to appreciate it.
We stepped into the student center, and instantly the smell of coffee hit me. I have returned to drinking coffee now, but only decaf, which really, that's hardly coffee at all. We had to get to the appointment and so couldn't linger, but I would have given anything to buy a cafe mocha, a real cafe mocha, and sit outside at a table and just enjoy the morning. Alas, it was not to be. We finished Michael's appointment and he dropped me off at work. I sat down at my desk and took the lid off my travel mug of decaf. How disappointing. It wasn't just the absence of caffeine. No, it was more than that. I have to admit that there is just something about purchasing a cup of coffee and having it presented to me, all steamy and yummy smelling and topped with whipped cream, in a paper cup. Most things I think are better done at home-- pizza, grilled hamburgers, cookies-- but I am a sucker for coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid on top. This is not something I'm proud of, but there it is. If I could drive, I'm sure I would go through the Starbucks drive-thru every morning. As it is, I fix coffee at home and we carry our travel mugs to work with us. I don't know what makes coffee different, but I just really prefer it when somebody else makes it for me. I think it's the experience of smelling the coffee shop, or maybe it's a sense of camaraderie with the other caffeine junkies in line.
Asian cultures have long ritualized the art of the beverage, and I can totally understand why. Taking the time to drink something frivolous is one of life's great pleasures. Naturally, in the U.S., we turned that simple ritual into a corporate giant complete with merchandising, accessories, and a drive-thru lane. We are what we are, I suppose.
One of these mornings, I am going to take the time to enjoy a calorie-loaded cup of coffee that somebody else made for me on a sunny spring morning. See, I don't ask for much. It's the simple things.

No Groups Please

This week, Michael and I attended our fifth childbirth class given by the hospital where I will deliver. If I hadn't taken these classes, I'm sure I would always worry that I missed something, but so far I haven't learned anything that I hadn't already found out from books or the internet. I suppose the videos are helpful for the people who can see them, but for me, not so much. during the second half of last' night's class, the fathers left to attend a fatherhood class and the mothers stayed to have what spiraled into a "Seventeen" magazine style discussion of "female stuff," the stuff that women won't talk about in front of the men who got them pregnant. Whatever. I expected this from a set-up that thinks men and women can't discuss things together without fainting or breaking into giggles, so I sat calmly, trying to remember not to roll my eyes. People can see it when you do that, I reminded myself. When the women finished up our portion of the class, we sat around and waited for the men to finish. As usually happens, women began breaking up into groups of twos and threes. Except for me. I sat alone. Probably, I wasn't the only one sitting alone. Some people are just shy, some of the preggies were likely too uncomfortable to chit chat, and then there's me. Me, I simply don't do group stuff. Raised an only child, I guess I never really learned to play well with others. Or maybe as a writer, I'd just really rather be alone in my head, watching what my characters are up to. Whatever the reason, I do not function well in a group. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm a loner, because Michael and I do almost everything together. He's not a group person either. When I was younger, I used to feel the need to constantly challenge my own comfort zones, but now ... now I just don't care that much. Michael doesn't challenge my comfort zones and that works out just perfect for us. Actually, our comfort zones are the same, so we live in them quite happily.
I have been in several formal groups, and I always end up dissatisfied or disillusioned. Take now for instance: I am in a nonprofit group that ostensibly promotes the rights and independence of blind and visually impaired individuals in my community. That's what it's supposed to do. What it really does is promote the agenda of one person for his own self-serving purposes. I find that most groups, even those that begin with good intentions, end up being the fan clubs of people with their own motives. I can't tolerate this, and so often end up bucking the power structure with the end result being that I feel frustrated and beaten down. What can I say, I'm a Democrat and a Cubs fan. Rooting for the underdog against all reason is just what I do.
I want to be involved in community groups. I want to be active. But I can't just show up and follow blindly (pardon the pun) and go along with the machinations of a leader who doesn't have the group's best interest at heart. Seeking a leadership position for myself is the natural answer, but I'm hesitant to commit to something like that at a time when my life will soon be so drastically changed. See, I really take this stuff seriously.
I hope Sprout will understand this about his parents and not be resentful that we aren't eager to show up at class parties or chaperone school trips. Possibly, motherhood will be the ultimate challenge of my comfort zones, but I have to tell you, the thought of being at a playground and chit-chatting with a group of other moms makes me break out in a cold sweat. I have no problem addressing a group of hundreds, but put me in a small-talk, mingle type situation and I totally freeze up. No, my people skills are not the best. I have not joined professional writers organizations, specifically the Romance Writers of America because the major benefit of membership seems to be the networking opportunities available at the annual national convention. Well, that and their regular publication, which is not available in an accessible format-- I checked. I'm still waiting for a call-back on that one. No, I am not holding my breath.
I do wonder sometimes if I might be missing out on things, information or relationships, by keeping mostly to myself, but the older I get, the more I'm coming to accept this about myself. I simply am not a group person. In the end, when it's all said and done, I'd really just rather be at home, reading and knitting.

Was that a trend that just went by?

I am not a trendsetter. I am not even a trend follower. Truth be told, I probably couldn't recognize a trend if one landed on me. I hear people constantly bemoaning the writers strike and complaining about how this is impacting their lives. Except for the news coverage of the strike, I probably would not have even noticed it. My TV viewing habits consist of the Weather Channel, the Food Network, and syndicated re-runs of older TV shows that I watch in the afternoons. As I already mentioned in a previous post, the newest TV show I got interested in was Firefly, which I started watching on DVD after it had already gone off the air. In the pop culture community, I am the village idiot-- This cluelessness is not limited to TV. It pervades every part of my life. My favorite music is the Beatles, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, and U2. Radio stations might as well be broadcasting from Pluto for all the attention I give new music. And yes, unfortunately, my fashion sense is equally behind the times. I long for the 80's days of tight rolled blue jeans. Hey, I'm short; it's a matter of practicality. I maintained that Crocs were the ugliest, most useless shoes ever made until about six months ago. Let me guess, nobody is wearing Crocs now that I'm a convert?
I guess it is a sign of what an adult I have become that this tendency of mine to be out of style bothers me not in the least. I love my life, I love my husband, I love my home, and I love me most days-- so what if I wear Birkenstocks and listen to the Boss? I don't have the time, patience, or money to be trendy. And it just isn't that important to me. I feel sure that when my kid is thirteen, she will be completely mortified by Michael and me, but that's okay. If she can convince others that she was left on the doorstep by gypsies, then I'll applaud her storytelling and powers of persuasion during commercial breaks of "Everybody Loves Raymond."

Slacking

I have not been attending to my blog lately, and Molly is making me look bad because she is blogging everyday. My problem is that there is just so much to do right now, and the only thing I'm up for is napping. I need to be writing. I need to be knitting both holiday gifts and baby stuff. I need to be bargain shopping for Christmas. I need to be planning events and menus. I need to be working on some upgrades to the house, which need to get done fairly soon. And now I need a nap from making this list of all the things I need to do.
Do you ever get so overwhelmed with stuff that you become capable of nothing but sitting trance-like and staring into nothingness? That's me right now, and it is a particularly bad time for me to go all spacey. I know that more than anything, I just need to get into a habit of getting stuff done, but it's that first step that is the hardest. But now that I have sufficiently moaned about my state of slackerdom, then perhaps I can put the slacking behind me. The first step is to admit you have a problem, right?

Thursday Thirteen: Places I'd like to visit.

1. Cornwall-- Specifically the ruins of Tintagel, the Cornish castle that legend has it is where King Arthur was conceived.
2. Ireland-- My family comes from County Tyrone, so I'd like to visit there.
3. Scotland-- Since I'll already be in England and Ireland, why not visit Scotland too? And let's throw in Wales while we're at it.
4. The Languedoc region of France-- Because of its link to Templar history. And from what I've read, it is a truly beautiful part of the world.
5. Turkey
6. The Swiss Alps
7. Iceland-- I have friends who are from there and it sounds fascinating- the history, the landscape, the folklore, just all of it.
8. Swaziland-- I had a friend in college who was a prince in Swaziland. No really, he was. He had a diplomatic immunity plate on his car and everything. He also had two wives and a girlfriend.
9. Chile-- My every reason for wanting to visit Chile has to do with Isabel Allende novels.
10. Northern California-- To see the Redwoods.
11. Nova Scotia-- So I can wear all the warm sweaters I've knitted.
12. Japan-- I love sushi!
13. The Moon-- I couldn't think of another one, so this was as good as any.

The Turning of the Wheel

Happy Halloween! Or Happy Samhain for those followers of the old ways. In Celtic lore, this is the time of year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, allowing spirits to cross into this world and allowing us to get a glimpse into the other world. I realize a lot of people think things like scrying and Tarot are a bunch of mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus, or whatever, and that's fine that they think that. As for me, I do believe this day is one of mystery and magic. On this day last year, I did a Tarot reading to show me the upcoming year. That reading supplied the name for this blog, because in the outcome position of the Celtic cross spread, I drew the Empress card, which wasn't a card I identified much with at that time. A lot of the other cards could be read as baby, mothering, or birth cards. At that time, a baby was the last thing I wanted. My, how things change. I don't know if that Tarot reading was predicting the future or helping me to realize my hidden desire. Either way, there was magic and mystery in that reading because here I am, one year later, pregnant with my first child. Since this night is traditionally a time to honor those who have passed over, I will be honoring my grandmother, who died in 1996. She gave birth to eleven healthy children, so I think this is a good time to reconnect with her.
However you choose to celebrate this day, I wish you all the magic in all the worlds.

Thursday Thirteen: Things you wouldn't know by looking at me

Be sure to check out Molly and Trina's blogs on the same topic.

1. I love all things British: The literature, the accent, the BBC America station, the Beatles, Collin Firth, you name it.
2. Steel Magnolias and Gone with the Wind are two of my favorite movies-- To look at me, you'd never think I was such a sap.
3. I'm a vegetarian
4. My family is extremely rednecc-- The Coors Light, monster truck, piss out the backdoor of the trailer kind of redneck. You could say I'm the white sheep of the family.
5. I love Duran Duran-- dorky, I know. Maybe it's the British thing again.
6. I can recite the alphabet backwards.
7. My husband and I have grandparents named exactly the same thing-- We both have a set of grandparents named Hurbert and Delphie. Don't worry, they're not the same people.
8. My mother wanted to name me Bobbi-- Thank heavens my father refused.
9. I was in marching band all four years of high school-- I played the flute, piccolo, and xylophone. Hey, no bashing the band! My high school was so backward, band members were the cool kids. No kidding.
10. I love animals-- I worry about them obsessively. If a dog barks in the neighborhood, I beg Michael to go check on it. I once pleaded with him to rescue a duck we saw in the parking lot of Lowe's. We had a pool see, so we had the perfect habitat for a duck.
11. I am an only child and I have two sisters-- it's a step/half thing. I am my mother's only child, but my father has a daughter by his second marriage, and his wife has a daughter from her first marriage. Confused yet?
12. I have a tattoo-- It's covered by my clothes, but I'm really proud of it. It's a triple moon symbol, and I got it after my fifth brain surgery. I felt strongly that I wanted to do something permanent to my body that was by my choice, not by necessity. And it's much prettier than the scar on the back of my head. Getting the tattoo was about feeling like I was in control of something. It took courage, and I try to remember that act of courage whenever I feel weak or cowardly or scared.
13. I'm pregnant! You wouldn't know it to look at me yet because I'm only a little pregnant, but I am most certainly pregnant!

The Plumbing Nightmare

A while back, I said I would recount our adventures in plumbing. I have waited so long because it is a truly painful memory. Even now, I have trouble telling the story without feeling my blood pressure rise. don't get me wrong, I know there are some honest, hard-working, knowledgeable plumbers out there. Those weren't the plumbers we hired. The problem began as a leaky bathtub faucet. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. We had to replace the cartridge (whatever that is) which can be a very easy job or a very difficult job. Ours fell into the latter category, which Michael deduced after assessing the situation and researching plumbing fixes on the internet. Believing it beyond his skill to repair, we hired a plumber. Looking back, I could have lived with that leaky faucet for a long time. But there was a drought see, and we didn't want to waste the water. Probably we should have just put a bucket under the faucet and used it to water the plants, but we were well intentioned. No good deed goes unpunished, right?
We have learned a lot from this experience. Primarily what we learned is that all plumbers should be women. Here are my reasons why:
Because a woman would not show up at your house, take a look at the problem, which you already described in detail over the phone, and say she has to go out for a part. No, a woman would have that part with her, most likely in her purse.
A woman would not crawl around under the house and think nothing of coming in and tracking the mud and muck through your entire house. No, a woman would carry a roll of plastic or newspapers just for that purpose.
A woman would not leave the job unfinished only to return not once, but twice-- that's three total visits-- because women know that evenings are important and busy family times.
And a woman, I think, would feel at least some shame in charging you $330 for the pleasure of inconveniencing you beyond all comprehension.
I don't know what they're teaching in plumber school, but I know it isn't best business practices, manners, timeliness, or efficiency. The next time we have a leak, we'll just sell the house.

Thursday Thirteen: Alternate Careers

I've always known I would be a writer. When I was a little girl, I used to lie awake at night making up stories in my head. I still do that. In the second grade, I won an award from the Young Authors contest. The book was called The Lost Angel. I don't remember how the angel came to be lost or if she ever got found, but I do remember that I enjoyed making up the story. Books and stories have always fascinated me. They are right of there with Michael and chocolate in terms of the things that make life good. Still, as much as I love writing, there are other careers that I think would be fun. Here are thirteen of them:

1. Racecar driver-- Obviously this is pure fantasy, but I do think it would be cool. Probably because I never got to drive-- well, not legally-- the idea fascinates me. However, I'm pretty sure they don't let blind women drive racecars. Or stationwagons. Or go-karts. Or pretty much anything with a motor. I did hear about a blind woman who was a Monster Truck driver. You know, the ones that get to drive over rows of cars and stuff? That would be cool too. I guess you don't need eyesight to drive a great big truck over a bunch of much smaller cars.
2. Speechwriter for the President of the United States-- This was actually my goal during college. But Clinton was President then, and I admit to having a teensy bit of Monica envy. Once Bush was elected, the dream died.
3. Bartender-- Really, who wouldn't want to be a bartender? You get to talk to all kinds of people, and by the end of your shift, you'd probably feel a lot better about your own life after listening to the problems of a bunch of drunks. Plus, there's the tequila.
4. Chef-- I like to cook, but more than that, I like the idea of cooking. And even more than that, I like eating.
5. Crofter in the Scottish Highlands-- I think it would be such a quaint existence. Naturally, I'm romanticizing what is probably a tough life, but that's what alternate realities are for.
6. Organic farmer-- This is a dream that Michael and I have, to live on a big expanse of land and raise sheep and goats and grow organic vegetables and spin our own wool and get our electricity from a windmill. It's a wonderful dream, but it'll never happen because as it turns out, we aren't real into hard work. Maybe I'll write about an organic farmer instead.
7. Fashion designer-- So I could make clothes for real-sized women and get to fondle expensive fabrics.
8. Veterinarian-- I love animals. I am a sucker for a sad-eyed puppy dog, and my black Lab knows this and uses it against me.
9. Herbalist-- I'd like to see a return to some of the old ways of doing things and a trend away from a modern pharmacological fix for everything.
10. Minister-- Essentially, you get to tell people how to live and how to be happy. Way cool. The only problem is that I'm not real on board with Christian dogma or practices. Probably, that's a deal breaker.
11. Taster for Hershey's-- because as referenced above, I like to eat, and mostly what I like to eat is chocolate.
12. Archaeologist-- Traveling all over the world and uncovering the mysteries of the past has to be exciting and rewarding. I love history. Michael and I watch the History Channel and History International religiously-- right up until that Egyptologist guy shows up. What's his name? If you've ever watched a show about Egypt or tombs, you've seen him. What a camera whore.
13. Published author-- Not there yet, but I'm working hard and I'm confident.

Thursday Thirteen: The Soundtrack of My Life

Yarf on the cheezy title, I know. Molly is doing her Thursday Thirteen on what's playing on her Ipod. I don't have an Ipod, because I'm just not cool that way. I have a handy dandy gadget called a Book Courier, which is designed for blind people, and can play MP3s, Audible.com books, and has its own internal voice so it can read text files, which-- let me just tell you-- is cooler than the other side of the pillow. Last week, Amazon.com launched its own digital download site. The list that follows are the songs that I either have downloaded or have put on my list to download in the near future, in addition to songs that I've just been listening to or that have been going through my head.

1. Anything by Patsy Cline-- My current WIP is about a country music singer, and Patsy is the gold standard. If heartache had a voice, it would be hers.
2. Songs of Mass Destruction, Annie Lennox's newest effort
3. Magic, by Bruce Springsteen-- because I can never get enough of the Boss. Dancing in the Dark really should be my anthem.
4. Maggie MacInnes-- She's a Scottish artist with a beautifully haunting voice.
5. "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones
6. "Restless" by Alison Krauss and Union Station
7. "Take me out to the Ballgame"-- Because, as I have mentioned at least twice already-- the Cubs are in the play-offs!
8. "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield
9. "Nashville" by the Indigo girls
10. "Wreck of the Day" by Anna Nilak
11. "Hard Luck woman"-- the Garth Brooks version because yes, I admit it, I do love the Garth man.
12. "Waitress" by Tori Amos-- because I really do believe in peace, bitch!
13. "Hedwig's Theme" from the Harry Potter movies, because Michael made it my ringtone.

Thursday Thirteen

I see a lot of other bloggers doing these sorts of lists about themselves, so I thought I'd join the party. If you read this and want to join in too, then go ahead and do your own Thursday Thirteen, and please link back to me, or link to yours in my comments. Oh, and since this isn't for assignment or anything, it might end up being a Thursday Eleven or something, but that just doesn't have the same ring, so we'll stick with a Thursday Thirteen list that may have eleven items. Or ten. Or fifteen.

Thirteen things I love about fall:
The smell of the air-- I love that clean, crisp smell, which is both a smell and a feel at the same time.
Warm socks-- Socks are my most favorite things in the world. I have tons of them. My favorite pair is pink and grey and I love them best because Michael knitted them for me last year. Yes, my husband knits. When I started learning, he joined in too because he is just supercool that way.
Pumpkin bread-- Or pumpkin anything really: Pumpkin muffins, pumpkin soup, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin spice latte, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pudding (Insert Bubba Gump voice here.)
Knitting-- I knit year round, but it just feels all cozy and homey to knit when it's colder.
Hot chocolate
Football games
Halloween, also known as Samhain in the old Celtic tradition.
Walking in a nearby nature park
Major League Baseball play-offs-- The Cubs just might be there this time.
The season's first pot of chili-- Autumn isn't officially here until Michael fixes that first pot of chili. Though we are vegetarian, chili just isn't chili without ground beef, so we break our no-meat rule for chili. Mmmmm, can't wait.
Sleeping with the windows open-- It's hell on my allergies, but I love it.
I have never had surgery during the fall. Every other season, sure. Practically every other month, but never September-December.
Fleece pajamas

Find an original way to insult me, would you?

I had a CT scan of my abdomen on Friday. It's just routine for people with VHL and I don't expect any problems. It's part of my getting healthy in preparation for pregnancy plan. I figure if I'm going to share a body with another person, it's best to make sure everything is in as good a condition as I can get it. So, the radiology tech, Jill, her name was, was very nice and helpful. Michael stayed in with me as long as he could because he knows I'm something of a baby when it comes to these sorts of things, but he couldn't stay in the room once the actual test started.
Once he left, Jill said, "How long have you two been married?"
"Ten years," I answered.
"He seems very nice."
"He's wonderful."
"Did you know you had this disease when you got married?"
"Yes," I said, barely suppressing a groan, knowing where this was going. I have had this conversation with countless people.
"Are you blind because of this disease?"
VHL is very rare, so I understand that people, especially those in the medical field, are interested, so I try to be polite and patient and answer their questions. "Yes."
"Were you blind when you met your husband?"
There it was, the question I knew was coming. "Yes," I said, and I think I gave a resigned sigh.
"Oh! What a sweetheart he is!" Jill gushed.
Okay, I know he's a sweetheart. What I find interesting is that he was previously just "very nice," up until Jill found out I was already blind when he married me. Then, all of a sudden he's "a sweetheart." What went unspoken but that I know she was thinking, was: Isn't it nice of him to have married you and you being blind and all! Yes, yes, I was selling pencils on a street corner, and he took pity on me and married me. Sheesh. I mean really, the things people will say. What would she have said if I'd said I lost my sight after we married? Oh, he's such a sweetheart to have stayed with you? Oh, that poor man? I held my tongue though, and just agreed, yes, Michael is certainly a sweetheart, because it's true, he is a wonderful man. But he's a wonderful man because he's patient, compassionate, hard working, funny, and a million other things—not because he married a blind woman. I'm sure Jill thinks Michael has to dress and feed me in the mornings. he doesn't, of course, and the truth is that we take care of each other about equally. In every relationship, home duties and responsibilities get divided up on the basis of likes, dislikes, strengths and weaknesses. Naturally, I don't do any of the driving for our household. Michael doesn't do the laundry-- not unless itty bitty and pink becomes a fashion trend. he balances the checkbook, and I maintain our family calendar of events. It isn't a 50/50 split, the scales tip in either direction from time to time, but I don't think a good marriage is about equality. It's about doing what you do with love and respect, and sight is not required to love and respect someone.
But I didn't tell any of this to Jill because it was none of her business, and-- more importantly-- because she was about to inject me with x-ray dye.

Big life changes, none of them mine

Two of my friends are in the middle of major life events today. One friend is in labor with her first baby right now-- a particularly blessed event since she tried for two years and had been given a normal infertile diagnosis before finally getting pregnant, and Molly is buying a house. I've never been in labor but I have gone through the home buying process, and I imagine they are just about equally painful. All this joy for my friends is making it hard to sit at my desk and work when what I really want to do is run outside and dance, which given the way I dance would help spread the joy of the day as anyone happening buy would certainly find cause to laugh.

The Perfect Storm

Yesterday got up to 150 degrees here in Kentucky. Well, almost. It's August, so the heat and humidity build throughout the day, getting slowly worse with each intake of muggy air, like slow torture. But it was all worth it around 7 o'clock last night. We heard something BOOM! outside, and Michael went to the door to look out because it sounded like something blew up. It had-- the heat. It had finally reached the boiling point and a wonderful storm blew in. It wasn't a scary, "turn on the radio for tornado warnings" kind of storm. It was just a nice summertime evening storm with wind and rain and enough cloud to ground lightening and loud thunder to be respectable. We listened to it while we ate chocolate fudge brownies that Michael made because I'm premenstrual and he loves me and values his life. He didn't toss them to me like raw meat through a lion's cage, but almost. Then the storm passed, the brownie was gone, and I fell asleep on the couch while Michael watched some boy movie on TV, which is pretty much my idea of a perfect evening.

Baby Shower hell

I went to a baby shower yesterday. as a rule, I don't attend baby showers. I beg off, politely decline, or just plain lie-- whatever is required to get out of them. This one, however, was for a very good friend who tried to get pregnant for two years and was declared infertile by her doctors before she did finally get knocked up. I'm extremely thrilled for her, so I sucked it up and went. It was a typical baby shower. they are all the same, I have learned, which is why I generally avoid them.
Upon entering the home of pregnant friend's mom, I was handed a teensy folded baby diaper and a straight pin and given instructions to pin the diaper to my shirt. People, I am all about accessories, but seriously now. and the thing is, I have yet to attend a baby shower where I was not so decorated. I tried to casually drop the thing in my attempt to pin it on, but some helpful soul spotted my difficulty and rushed right over to my aid. Gee, thanks.
Then we moved on to the games, which I won't bore you with-- partly because I wasn't paying real close attention myself, but I did manage to win a game that involved unrolling a length of toilet paper that most closely matched the circumference of the prego belly of the mother to be. The (A-hem) prize was a lovely little ceramic pig figurine. and gosh darn it all, I forgot and left that gift under my chair when I left. Shoot.
then came the gift opening portion of the afternoon's entertainment, which involved lots of oohing and ahing over things like frilly outfits and breast pumps and the like. and of course, that one woman who knows absolutely everything about all things baby was there. She comes in different disguises, but if you've ever been to a baby shower, you know the woman I'm talking about. She's the one who says things like, "Now those nipples are okay, but you know you really ought to get this other kind because they more closely simulate an actual nipple." and, "Now those pacifiers are the only ones to have. You'll be glad you got those. They are the best for oral motor development. Of course, you know not to let the baby have a pacifier until she's three months old, don't you?"
The United States government should arrange to have this woman sent to developing nations because she is apparently single handedly responsible for our country's low infant mortality rate. without her, no child could possibly reach adulthood. Absolutely not. Unthinkable.
But I went to the baby shower, did my duty as a good friend, and am allowing myself to feel all smug and saintly about it. But seriously, never again.

Excitement is overrated

I haven't blogged in a while. The reason being that the most interesting thing I have done lately is unload the dishwasher, and really, that wasn't all that exciting. Oh wait, now that I think about it, there was some dishwasher drama. Michael hates the way I load the dishwasher, which is a kind of chaos theory to clean dishes, so he usually starts the dishwasher and then I unload it, which is what happened this time. Except that he didn't start it. Or he didn't put in dishwasher detergent. We really aren't sure which one. either way, I was merrily going about unloading the dishwasher-- mugs and glasses first, then bowls, plates, and finally silverware. I was halfway through the plates before I realized we had a problem. We pre-rinse, so I just thought it was one or two plates that hadn't gotten clean, but further investigation showed me the magnitude of the situation.
"What the fuck?" I said, which miraculously tore Michael's attention away from the Sci-Fi channel. "What is the deal here?" I asked, holding up dirty silverware.
he said nothing, but peered inside the dishwasher, now mostly empty, for answers.
"You started the dishwasher, right?"
"I thought I did," he answered, and I knew we had trouble. I thought I did, is Michael's defense mechanism. he thinks that if he says "I thought I did" that somehow a spell of stupidity will be cast over me and I will naturally assume that the problem must lie with whatever inanimate object is in question, in this case-- the dishwasher. Because, he thought he started it, right? I mean, if he thought he did, then he really can't be blamed for any malfunction, right?
It's been a stressful time for us both. I understand that. So I opted to let the matter drop, but I told him there were now dirty dishes stowed where only clean dishes should be, and probably he should deal with that, which he did without argument. If dishwasher mishaps are the only excitement I'm to have just now, I should probably be grateful for my boredom.
I am back at work today. The return to pre-surgery normality is good for me. Plus it keeps me from having the time to think too much. I am a notorious think-too-mucher, and postsurgical thoughts are rarely pleasant. So I'm back at work, easing back into my ho-hum routine.

Spiderwoman I ain't

Today, my secretary was in my office reading me an article she found on the internet about caffeine withdrawal. Thanks Joy, but it might have been more helpful to know that caffeine withdrawal can cause flu-like symptoms before a week ago when I was curled in the fetal position on the couch, but better late than never, right? Hmmm. Now that i think about it, "Better late than never" could be Joy's philosophy about a lot of things, specifically the carrying out of instructions, meeting reminders, deadlines ... you get the picture. But anyway, Joy was reading me this article. and well, I guess I had better throw this in now as it is sort of germane to the story of what happened during Joy's reading of said caffeine withdrawal article-- I am blind. totally. as a bat. Can't see my hand in front of my face. Not just any half-assed legally blind kind of blind, no. I'm the real deal, which should explain why Joy was reading me the article. Sweet girl, Joy. World's worst secretary, but nice.
Okay, so she's reading: yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda-- pause-- gasp of horror ... and nothing. I'm thinking ... some horrible side effect of caffeine withdrawal that doesn't manifest for a week after resumption of caffeine intake? She had an asthma attack? The Swamp Thing just crept up behind me? What? what, damn it, what! And then she says, "Do not move," and runs from my office.
What is the first thing you do when someone says "don't move?" You move, right? "don't look," and of course, you look. People should know this. It is unalterable human behavior at work here. So I push back from my desk, spin around in my chair, and punch fists in the air to fend off Swamp thing. Then Joy runs back in my office, hyperventilating, and tells me that a spider webbed down from the ceiling, horror flick fashion, and landed right on my desk. Okay, seriously, I would rather have had Swamp thing. so I jump up and squeal like a girl while Joy courageously tackles and kills the spider. wonderful woman, that Joy.
Joy disposed of the spider corpse and came back in my office, whereupon we both proceeded to make eebby-jeebby noises and pat down hair and clothes for spiders.
And now it's lunchtime, and I'm all by myself. and it's quiet. If another spider dropped down from the ceiling, there'd be no Joy. No Swamp thing. Nobody here to save me. so I'm wondering, if a spider lands on the desk of a blind woman, is it really there at all?

It Depends on Which End You're Standing at.

The Kentucky heat and humidity arrived just in time for Memorial Day, summer's traditional kick-off. Yesterday, Michael and I went out to get ice cream, which we brought back home and ate in rocking chairs on the front porch. it was a beautiful summertime evening. Yes, it was hot and humid, but it's May, so the heat and humidity are new and they are accompanied by the sounds of baby birds chirping in the bush at the corner of the house. How can it be miserable when there are baby birds, I ask you?
Fast forward to august. In August, I will not be waxing poetic about the heat and humidity. I will not be eating ice cream on the front porch. In August, I will be lying in the living room floor in front of an a.c. vent or standing with my head in the freezer because August is hot and humid and gross. And hot. The ability to appreciate heat and humidity depends entirely on which end of summer you're standing at. This weekend, I'll be at the end that has cookouts with friends, very few mosquitoes, happy-colored frozen drinks, and even a cool breeze or two.
Happy memorial Day to all.