| babymamababy |
I say things that sound important at my job all the time:
We've found the mutation that is causing your child's lung disease.
I'll need DNA from every living relative so we can see who else might be a carrier.
I'm sorry. We still don't know why your baby can't breathe on her own.
Those are all important-sounding things. And they are, in fact, important things to the family and to the medical team, and there is a lot of science involved and research and papers and that is the reason I can say those words, and that is the reason people care about them.
But sometimes at my job, without anyone's permission or direction, without any papers in hand or abbreviations or acronyms or any right except a self-imposed one, I say something that feels very, very important to me. It's this:
It's going to be okay. I was raised by a single mom, and I turned out just fine.
Because the thing about working in a NICU is that, in general, the babies I meet fall into a couple of different categories.
1) Genetic mutations/bad luck/fucked for life category: these kids are the 1/4 or 1/8 or 1/300 chance product of Boy Meets Girl but nobody knows about their recessive whatever. There are lots of teaching rounds and case studies on these kids, and they are followed for years and written about in journals because they are born without buttholes or complete brains or they have fused fingers or their guts are on the outside. These babies leave the nicu by feet or by wings, as they say, and I can guarantee you that the more crazy looking they are, the more I love them to bits, stroke their sweet dysmorphic faces and tell their parents that this baby is my boyfriend and we have been flirting ALL DAY and I dressed up for him. Even put on lipstick. And those parents hold hands with each other and laugh because no matter what you know to be true, it is fun to watch someone fawn over your children.
2) Often I meet the children of AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I WILL HAVE A CHILD FROM MY OWN BODY. By this I mean the mother has miscarried 5, 10, 14 times and had all sorts of extensive procedures to carry to term a fetus who would normally not work out in that body. And I love these mamas and these babies like I love all my patients, but it's hard because I think of the time and the money and the pain and the tears that everyone has invested in this tiny body, and I think a) my god, there is a child in a foster home somewhere who would walk on her lips to call you mama but you can't look past your own dna and b) that's an awful lot of responsibility you just put on your baby, you guys. But these babies, because they come from bodies that don't seem to want to carry them, have a more difficult course than their peers at times.
And then we have 3). Babies from 3) are the eensy little premature children of children. Babies having babies, little girls in big girl bodies who are in too far to back out now and they would sit here and attend lactation class but shit, school starts in a bit. And they come off initially as arrogant, cocky, disinterested, angry, and irresponsible. And the staff talks badly about them and shakes their heads and clucks their tongues and mutters under their breath about them. And I ignore that because the work I do is focused on baby lungs, and the lungs of a child born at 25 or 27 or 32 weeks are very interesting to me regardless of the mom's age. So I do my job and I don't say anything.
But then, when it's a still, quiet, sleepy part of the day, I sneak into the rooms of these babies who are holding their babies and crying over them, crying only then because nobody can see and then nobody can realize that-gasp- this child is SCARED. This child is scared just like all these other mommies are scared, but it's okay for THOSE mommies to be scared because THEY didn't DESERVE this.
And I know you think I'm making this up, but I'm not. At least once a day, I hear an angry, usually white, usually middle to upper class woman exclaim "How come MY baby is on a ventilator and that CRACK baby over there is PERFECTLY FINE?" And I don't judge those angry mamas either because they are just so, so, so sad that their hurt has just filled them up and spilled into an ugly, embarrassing, hot mess on the floor. And they can't put it back in or re-bottle it and they're embarrassed and ashamed but still SO SAD. I wouldn't want to be that sad.
But the thing that I think people forget here, and I know I'm rambling, but I think they forget that these little girls who are secretly, softly crying over their tiny premature babies are sad too. They're sad that they have been looking for love their entire lives and when they thought they found it, he left them but not before he took away their childhood and made them a mother, an adult, in one hot minute. And then they think- how wonderful. how special. how peaceful. I will FINALLY have someone who loves me, and only me, and loves me with all their heart. And I will change and my life will change and I will do whatever I need to because this is my BABY and i will PROTECT her because I love her and she's mine.
And they mean it.
But then the baby is born early, or sick, or ugly, or skinny, or he won't grow, or he won't eat, or he has seizures, and because his mama is a child- a child on her OWN, in fact- she can't handle this. She doesn't have the resources yet from which to draw. High school does not prepare you for parenthood. Not very much does, actually, but high school is particularly unhelpful.
And what's worse is that people talk to you differently than they talk to the other moms. They are just a touch condescending, just a smidge dismissive, they don't listen to you as long as they listen to the other moms. (there are doctors and nurses and therapists I work with who do treat these women like real moms and real people, and those caregivers cannot imagine how much I admire them for that.)
They treat you like an adult, which you're not, who has done something wrong, which you haven't. And that would make me cry too.
So when things settle down, I go into these rooms and I sit down next to the mom. I ask her name. I ask her baby's name. I ask how she picked it. I talk about how pretty, how funny, how handsome her baby is. How I've wanted that nose my whole life. How she'll never have to spend a dime on mascara with those lashes. How if my kids don't have hair like that someday, I'm buying them wigs.
I try to make them laugh, and relax a little bit. And then we start talking to each other. We talk about our families, school, what we like to do or read or eat. I talk about my mom and my brother. After a pause, she starts telling me about her mom and her dad and her boyfriend, who was older, who nobody liked but her. And how he promised her the stars and the moon and she gave her whole self to him. And how she won't say she's sorry because she has her baby now but she IS sorry. And sad. And scared. Because she is afraid she's going to do her baby an injustice.
And I say:
I was raised by a single mom, and I turned out just fine.
You can never love too much, and it's impossible to spoil a baby.
If you believe in her, she will believe in herself. I promise promise and I know this is true because my mom never had one drop of self-confidence but she thought I could lasso the moon if I wanted, and even though I'm almost thirty, I'm not convinced that I can't.
You are important and special and valuable because you are this child's whole world. You can do it and you will do it.
Taking care of yourself IS taking care of your child a lot of the time.
I was raised by a single mom, and I turned out just fine, I say.
"yeah." |
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| 'm sry. |
oh my STARS does anyone else feel like winter is this endless cave from which we will NEVER EMERGE AND SOMEONE IS GOING TO EAT SOMEONE ELSE?
ME NEITHER.
Sorry about that. I have the winter crankies.
Here's a story. So somehow, at work, my pager broke. (I don't have a good track record for these things- please see this for evidence) Everyone told me to go down to telecomm and exchange it for a working one. I did. A week later, I get an angry email from the department administrator, cc'ing absolutely everyone in our department including people she must have invented because I have never ever heard of them, publicly chastising me for going over her head and who do I think I am and OBVIOUSLY EQUIPMENT EXCHANGES MUST GO THROUGH HER, and I can't just go around doing whatever I want. Because yes, that is how I get my jollies (or "get my rocks off," as they say on law and order). I like to just exchange broken equipment willy nilly, procedure be damned. Sometimes when I'm feeling SUPER naughty, I unjam the printer myself instead of calling tech support. I am a jerk like that.
wow, lady. excuse me for living. so I had to write back, cc'ing the same listserve of names she took from her madame alexander doll collection at home, saying "Sorry, my bad! I didn't realize what I'd done was wrong and i will never ever ever ever ever do it again."
I thought that that would be enough penance for now. I mean, I restrained myself from writing back "Why do you overreact so, like a crazy person? Were you born with a genetic defect instilling in you a lack of perspective? How upsetting! File for disability and QUIT YELLING AT ME!" And to exercise that much restraint is pretty great, right?
Not enough, as it turns out. She replied back saying that I have to, no joke, carry my pager over to her office, hand it to her, and she will hand it back to me. I guess she has to write down a number or something and I can't just tell her that number because I'm that unreliably lying bitch who exchanged my pager by myself in the first place, so god knows what I'd report as the pager number. Probably, the number would be, like 34, and I'd tell her it was 43 or something because THAT IS SO FUN FOR ME.
So that's what I have to do tomorrow. Walk over to her desk and hand her my pager. And say sorry. over and over. Isn't that dumb?
Anyway, when the kids I used to nanny for would fight with each other, sometimes it would be just too too hard for them to apologize. I remember being that age, and being too angry to say I'm sorry, but still knowing I should apologize so the world could start moving again. So I would let them make "i'm sorry" letters for each other. We would usually deliver them in some fun way- hiding them under a pillow, wrapping them in a box like a present, or flying them down the stairs after they'd been folded into a paper airplane.
i am too mad to actually apologize to this lady for violating a silly rule, so I made her this I'm sorry JPEG. you might have to click to enlarge the image, but the sentiments can't be enlarged any further.
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| My Cooterologist Cured My Head Cold. |
So I've had this head cold for a few days. Nothing major, just your run of the mill sniffles and stuff. The thing is, I NEVER get sick. I have an amazing constitution. It's god's peace offering for making me such a shitshow. I may not be able to walk without falling, but I won't break jack shit on my way down!
In any case, I got sick. Just a cold. Whatever. It didn't mess up my life. I just didn't touch any kids at work, and every time I sneezed I washed my hands which means I have scrubbed my skin off. Leper.
But because I'm never sick, everyone was SO MEAN ABOUT MY TINY ILLNESS. Seriously. All the doctors I work with were like "what is WRONG with you?" "I have a cold." "No, but for REAL. WHAT'S WRONG. WHY ARE YOU CRYING?"
Dr Poop came to pick me up the other day and after I said hi, he goes "Why are you talking like that?" "I have a cold." "ew," he said lovingly.
Anyway, you get the point. This cold was cramping my style a bit, but I wasn't going to let it ruin my life because I am an ADULT with PERSPECTIVE.
I had an appointment to get a bikini wax and I wasn't about to cancel it, so I trucked myself over to the salon after work and promptly took an accidental little nap sitting up in the chair while I waited for my cooterologist, who I will call B.
B gently shook me awake and led me back to the room. "You're sick," she said. "Eh, I have a little cold. No big whoop."
B, who is the only woman on earth over whom I tower, looked at me very gravely and said "Meg, a healthy body begets a healthy mind."
"Well, yeah. I suppose that's true."
"We need to do something about your illness."
"It's not really an ILLNESS. I mean, it's a little congestion, sure, but at this time of year, who doesn't have a little cold, right? And besides, look at where I wo-"
"You'll have to stop talking, please."
"Sorry."
She made me lay back and then she rubbed this blue peppermint oil all over my neck and face and chest and arms. I straight up fell asleep. I woke up when she started the wax, unsurprisingly, and discovered that I could breathe like a champ. INHALE. EXHALE. Like it was NOTHING.
I have been congestion-free ever since. I swear. It was like Vicks but not gross and more effective, i felt. Anyway, my cooterologist is a miracle-worker.
The moral of the story is this: if you can trust someone with your junk, you can trust them with the rest of your body. |
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| Things |
Things You'll Never Hear Me Say
- Can I get some extra mayo on that?
- This coffee is too hot
- No, I'm too tired for scrabble
- Today would be a great day to wear shorts!
- Decaf, please
- I'm pretty sure I've seen enough Johnny Depp for one day
- I don't like taking pain medicine, personally
- I feel at my sexiest right after a good run
- Does anyone feel like a Sex And The City marathon tonight? I know I do.
- I don't have a halloween costume, technically. I'm just going to throw on some cat ears and glitter. You know! Like a kitty lady!
- Oh, Dr Poop. It's so charming when you keep changing the channel every 3 seconds. Totally way better than picking a program and actually sticking with it. That's for squares, am I right?
- Typos don't really bother me
- I love chick lit
- Eh, I don't really care about food
- I canNOT sit here and watch another lifetime movie.
Things I thought you'd never hear me say, yet now I am saying them:
- I love science
- that 9 hour surgery just FLEW by
- I could really go for some yoga right now
- I don't mind studying that much
- There's really no substitute for butter when you're baking
- I have made some of my best friends on the internet
- I'm okay with my curves
- That was a bit too much cheese.
- I'm moving to Ohio to live with my boyfriend.
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| I lost two bets in one week. Geoff, did you know that? |
There's been a lot going on around here, much of it putting me in a really bad mood, but the nice thing about life is that it's rare for ALL your things to be upsetting ALL the time. So I'm going to tell you about the things that have been entertaining to me in the last few weeks.
I got Dr Poop some guest passes to my gym for Christmas, mostly because my gym has an indoor pool with a water slide and a play area, and there are few things Dr Poop likes more than a water slide. I was stunned when he actually wanted to work out at the gym part of my gym with me. So sometimes we'll go work out, go play in the pool, take a shower, and go home and go to sleep. The other day was particularly chilly here, and the pool was heated, so the whole evening was cosy and warm and fun.
When we got back to Dr Poop's house, he surprised me with this little cake thing he'd gotten at a new bakery in town. Neither one of us really loves cake, but he said he'd gone in to the bakery to check it out and then felt compelled to buy something. Anyway. So Dr Poop doesn't have a couch at his house. He has the bacheloriest of bachelor pads. Like, one step up from a college apartment, meaning inherited-from-grandma furniture but a super nice tv. Instead of a couch, he has this big ass recliner which he "assembled" himself so it's kind of loud and wobbly and maybe a bit uneven. Usually we sit in it together, and it's comfortable and whatever but sometimes we're like "GOD, MOVE YOUR EVERYTHING AND QUIT TOUCHING ME." But this particular night, we fit well and were sharing this cake thing, but the way that we were sitting made it so that each of us were eating with our non-dominant hand.
"Hey!" I said. "We're both eating with our non dominant hand!"
"Yeah, I noticed that too," he said.
"You did?"
"Yeah, because we're both eating like idiots."
"I bet i can eat with my non-dominant hand better than you can," I said.
"Bullshit."
We started eating this mediocre cake thing as fast as we could, me with my left hand and him with his right, and this really shitty cake was being consumed dangerously fast, and I thought I was winning and as I turned to him to gloat, I forked myself right in the face. I scraped my lip and got chocolate on my ear and cheek.
I thought perhaps he hadn't seen my little slip, so I pretended it didn't happen. "I win," I said smugly.
I guess, despite my earlier assumption, he actually DID have the gift of sight because he said "I think you're bleeding. And no, you don't."
"This cake sucks."
"Too bad!"
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A few days later, we were sitting in his kitchen and I asked what he was going to do for the rest of the day. You see, my schedule was like this: Go to work, go to class, study, go back to work and check on my samples, go home, do laundry, Quality Time With Roommate, and study a bit more before bed. (It was a weekend)
I'm not whining about that, by the way- it's a totally reasonable day. All at my own pace and lovingly peppered with hot coffee. And it was actually kind of nice. But I just think it's funny because this was his day: Eat a granola bar. Count some change. Maybe watch football later but no pressure.
What? do my laundry, mister.
Anyway, he had this glass milk bottle (probably a half gallon or so? gallon? I don't know. perhaps this is part of the problem.) in which he was storing change. Apparently, the time had come for him to cash it in.
"How much do you think I have in there?"
"Seven dollars." The bottle was only half full.
"No way. There's at least thirty dollars in there."
"HORSESHIT."
"Wanna bet?"
We decided that loser would have to make dinner for winner- any meal of the winner's choosing. Further delineating the bet, we split the difference between his bet and mine, and decided that 18 dollars or less, I was the winner, and 18.01 or more, he was the winner.
"Fine."
"Fine."
"You'd better buy some cookbooks."
"Oh, you mean so that I can pick out my favorite recipes?"
"Yeah, your favorite recipes you want to cook for ME."
"So that I can show you how to cook so you don't mess up my meal? yeah, good plan."
Ladies and gentlemen.
Do you know how much money was in that fucking god forsaken jar of bullshit change that was probably, actually, in real life, DOUBLOONS???
DO YOU KNOW?
107.57
AMERICAN
DOLLARS.
I LOST BY OVER ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS.
I don't understand. I blame some dangling chad business because I absolutely do not understand how there could have been that much money in that stupid bottle.
Whatever. |
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| wherein i'm basically a fireperson. |
So never let it be said I lived an uncharmed (or unchamred, as I typed that at first) life. Because let me tell you about somethings.
First of all, happy post thanksgiving! I hope those of you who were off and celebrating had a good turkey coma going by 3 at the latest, and I hope those of you who had to work or who don't really do thanksgiving had a really awesome thursday. Me, I had to work AND I celebrated. It was great, though. Over to my mom's for what Kelsi calls salad thanksgiving first (dinner at my mom's is meat-and-dairy-and-wheat-and-booze-free...and it's about as awesome as you're thinking), and then I went to my friend's house for a second, or "real," thanksgiving. I had to pop into the hospital for a bit in between, but I can't complain. Much scrabble was played and I have leftovers coming out my ears. So great.
So then Friday I went in to work and spent the rest of the day working on a term paper which is essentially done, and today I ran some errands and then headed into the library. I was thinking, when I awoke, that it was going to be a pretty normal day but OH WAS I EVER MISTAKEN.
I had to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things before I went to the library, and on my way out I stopped to give money to the bellringer guy, and we ended up chatting for a bit. Just then, I noticed that there were 2 firetrucks parked up next to the grocery store. Some firement got out and sauntered, not at all emergency-like, up to the bellringer and me. One of them went inside and the other stayed outside and put some money in the kettle. So the three of us were just chatting about the nice weather and thanksgiving and all that when I realized I had better scoot to the library if I wanted to get a good study table. I excused myself and waved bye and stepped into the parking lot.
this is when I realized that i had absolutely no flipping idea where my car was. none. not an inkling of a hint of a whisper of a memory of where I parked. North? South? East? West? Twixt? Tween? Couldn't tell you.
I walked backwards a bit, and then headed out once more confidently into the sunshine, thinking that if I just let my body go on autopilot it would navigate itself to the car.
this did not work out as well as I had hoped.
I was standing in the parking lot, avoiding the busy lanes, willing myself to remember where my car was when I sensed someone behind me. I whirled around, and there was one of the firemen.
"You don't know where your car is, do you."
"Not a clue."
"Want help looking for it?"
"Oh, no. That's okay. I'll figure it out. It's just over...um. Maybe I parked near the bagel shop...probably not. No, thank you though. I can totally find it."
"Mm-HM," he said, not believing me because he was born sometime other than yesterday.
"Look. There it is!" I murmured unconvincingly, and began to saunter slowly toward a car that was Not Mine. I leaned against it and turned toward him. "found it!"
"Open the trunk then, and put your groceries in."
"Fuck. So it's not my car. You know if you hadn't been here, I probably would have just set off the car alarm and followed the noise. I might still do that."
"Or you could just get in the truck and let me drive you around the parking lot."
"in the FIRE TRUCK????"
"What other truck do you see?"
"but the taxpayers didn't give you guys money to drive me around to find my lost car. that truck is for real fires and things."
"you're a taxpayer, aren't you? besides, it's not like I'll keep driving you around if there's a fire. If there's a fire you'll jump out and we'll drive away."
"so you're not going to get into trouble?"
"Who is going to tell?"
"So I can get in your firetruck."
"Yes. Let's go."
So friends, I got to sit in a firetruck while it steered (slowly) around the parking lot in an effort to locate my volv. When I got in, i had two questions. 1) Where is the dalmation? and 2) Which things up here can I touch? tell me now, or I might accidentally touch a lot of them.
Anyway, turns out firetrucks don't usually have a dalmation, which is a bummer, and I could only touch about three things, which is another bummer, but the good news is that I found my car. And I got to ride in a firetruck.
And now I'm at the library and as much fun as studying is, I can't help but feel my day has already peaked. It's going to be downhill from here, no matter what I do. |
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| a thanksgiving eve |
so my gorgeous friend marie has been pregnant just forEVER, and she was due last friday but we still don't have a baby, and everyone is just desperate for the new little one to make his or her appearance so time.is.CRAWLING. Marie and her husband, Marco, are of the belief that the gender of the baby should remain unknown until delivery, so we've all been throwing pronouns around willy nilly while we wait on pins and needles for this little nugget to arrive. STOP BEING SELFISH, BABY. Just kidding. We're excited to meet you! Especially your crazy aunt meg! I'll teach you all your swears!
Last night the suzer and I were texting because Marie had headed into the hospital, giving us false hope. Oh, and my friends have a last name that resembles a condiment, so for anonimity's sake I'll refer to them here as the Ketchupsons.
You should also know that Marie and Marco name their children traditional welsh names which all look like this: Kywhllyn and Rhyssfyssny and Mgdrwgdnnkpl. They're not pronounced like that, but they certainly will never be pronounced correctly on the first day of school for the rest of these children's lives, I can guarantee you that. "Ummmm...Kayyyyy...um. No, wait. Kyyywhyyy...hold on. Kyyyywhale? Kywhaling? Is your name KyWailing?" "Yeah. It's kywailing. Call me Kim. Whatever. I don't care."
Anyway, back to the post. So the Suzer and I were texting back and forth with baby updates. And the following conversation took place, which I am documenting in case the baby ever wants to know what his or her name COULD have been. He/She should count his/her blessings that Suzer and I were not his/her mom/z.
me: Hey, Marie is in labor and going to the hospital
suzer: i foresee a shit ton of giving thanks references
me: i hope they name the baby blessings mcwishbone
Suzie: Giblet O'Fortune
Me: Turkeyneck von Secret Cigarettes
Suzie: Buckles le Magic poop, duke of stale asshole bread
me: neck wattle. Neck wattle ketchupson.
Suzie: Hegemony Carcass Ketchupson
me: Turkey Lurkey
Suz: And so it was written. Their son is named Turkey lurkey Ketchupson
me: you know there is some weird ass middle name in there too- something entirely bereft of vowels
Suzer: Turkey Llrkgy Ketchupson
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Update! The baby is here! I will not reveal his name so as to protect his wee adorable little identity, but rest assured there are no vowels in it. Nary a one. So we got that part right.
Welcome to the world, baby boy! We are all so glad you are here! Love you, Marie! xoxoxoxooxxo |
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| Uh oh, someone got her all riled up... |
MAMA IS A LITTLE PISSED OFF.
I am at a Panera right now, studying like I do, and I'm going to go ahead and admit that I just had a very real argument in very public place with very strange strangers.
Let me recap, mostly because I'm just so incredibly pissed and need to tell someone. I know I joke a lot about how my life is really a tv show (candid camera) but that's mostly okay with me because at least it isn't boring, but I just had this experience that was redolent of a goddamned after school special and it REALLY TICKED ME OFF.
So. Like I said. I am studying.
And this group of 5 women out to a girlie lunch together sat down at the long table kittycornered (catty corner? what the hell is this phrase? whatever, I don't give a damn) from where I have set up camp. And at first, I thought they were cute. "Oh, cute," I thought. "Old girlfriends out to lunch. Awww. I miss my friends." That kind of thing.
Then they start talking and they're a little loud and annoying and their conversation, which I can't help but overhear, happens to be less than stimulating, but whatever. I'm not at a library. They can talk if they want, right?
Right.
So then, they start fussing about wow, hope their car doesn't get stolen. And they have a person get up every five minutes to check on their ride, and to make sure it is still there, and ultimately one lady just rearranges her chair so she can keep an eye on the car at all times. Out of curiosity I got up and refilled my coffee so I could see how fancy this car was that they were so convinced was going to be taken from the Panera parking lot in broad daylight. There were three minivans parked in a row visible from where the sentinel lady was stationed, and I smiled a bit, realizing that if these ladies were concerned about the potential theft of their minivan then they must be from some small town, here on touristy business. Precious.
And then I hear this.
"Well. Did you hear that they've had to put some extra security guards at blah blah department store? Lots of shoplifting there lately. And you can't tell me it's not related to all the blacks that moved in up there. That neighborhood has gotten real dark."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What. the FUCK. did you just say. IN MY PANERA????
I couldn't help it. I rolled my eyes so hard they almost fell out of my head. One lady, the one I liked the least, happened to see it. She said "Oh, I'm so SORRY. Is our private conversation BORING you?"
"No, not at all," I replied. "It's just that stupid women make me really sad, you know?" And then I smiled and turned back to my work.
They all gasped. And the same woman said "This is NONE of your BUSINESS." And I said "i also wish it wasn't my business but you ladies aren't exactly whispering. And believe it or not, we all preferred your 40 minute conversation about who should have gotten a pickle with their sandwich to your racist bullshit shoplifting theories."
I also should mention at this point that at least 2 of these women were fond of that subtle trick wherein you whisper-scream BLACK sotto vocce (redundant) because, and i don't know if you're familiar with this theory, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it you're still A BIG FAT FUCKING BIGOT, ASSHOLE.
So another lady turns to me and says "I think you should mind your own business when we are talking about our town," or some shit like that. I can't exactly remember but it was along those lines. And I said "I'd be glad to dear, but just for future reference, they're black, not deaf, and you are not fooling anyone." And two of the three black families sitting within earshot of this conversation started to smile.
The ladies gathered up their half eaten cookies and waddled off in a huff, saying something about how they didn't have to take this and "We are not going to let her ruin our tour of the brewery."
I wanted to get up and shout after them "VAN STILL THERE? WOW, IT IS? WHAT A COMPLETE FUCKING SURPRISE!!!" but I managed to restrain myself.
Anyway, when I get upset or confrontational, I don't cry, but I get the shakes pretty badly. So I was sitting in my chair, trembling away and blushing and being angry, and fortunately my friend Bonnie "tits" McGee was online. We chatted for a while and she, in true best-girlfriend fashion, calmed me down and made me see the humor in all of it.
It's embarrassing though, isn't it? That there are enough people who still find that kind of conversation socially acceptable that you can have an entire friend group full of the unenlightened?
I really try to make it a practice to avoid being rude to strangers. I was raised to hold doors, say ma'am and sir, and treat everyone with respect. But if you're bound and determined to be an ugly bigoted motherfucker in a holiday sweater that would render the baby jesus blind with its heinousness then I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
sigh. |
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| it's going to be me someday. |
IMing with my Momz
mom: so yesterday, it was so nice that i was giving the dogs a lot of outside time and everyone was enjoying the 70 degree weather, which aggravated mike so he took off after a squirrel and just popped his chain apart. so i ran into the house to get my car keys to go after him, because sometimes he can be lured by the idea of a car ride, except the minute i got in the door the phone rang and it was your brother telling me he had been a bridesmaid in his friend kelley's wedding so we talked for a minute and by the time i got back out and drove around, i found mike, who was chasing the christian dog walker, who was trying to corral his 3 dogs and was swinging at mike with a newspaper, which had no efffect on mike except to make him want to take the paper, because , as you know, he reads social cues worse than all of god's other creatures on the whole of the earth. so i said i'm really sorry. please pray for my dog-mike get in the car, and home we came. he is fun.
me: who the hell is the christian dog walker?
mom: the guy who lives around the corner and has all those signs ion his yard about the ten commandments and why abortion is a sin-he has 3 dogs-some small breed and he walks them frequently, and gives out advice about all manner of things. How many tablespoons are in a cup?
me: 16
mom: whew. thanks.
later
me: I am putting that story about Mike on my blog.
Mom: why
me: because it is funny and you told it well.
mom: no,meg, i didn't and i didn't even use caps or check for spelling errors! people will think your mom is stuped
oh!!!!! stupid
me: hahahhahahaha
mom: and also a little stooped |
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| That time I took a dip during endocrine physiology. |
The other night, I had a Friend Emergency and ended up being about 15 minutes late to my 3 hour lecture. I was rushing rushing to get to school, happened to find a good parking space, and ran into the lecture hall, flushed and embarrassed and just an all around mess.
Yes? you are saying? Your eyebrows are raised because WHAT THE HELL ELSE IS NEW UP IN HERE?
Ah, well. I will tell you.
About fifteen minutes after I'd arrived, I got a text (don't worry, my phone was on vibrate). It was from my friend Ro who was arriving for HER lecture (a different one than mine). The text said "Your lights are on, little lady!"
Well fuckity fuck fuck fuck stick, I thought. I had already caused a scene coming in late. The thing is, this summer I started taking master's classes in addition to my regular curriculum. They're super enjoyable and challenging and great, but the problem is they are much smaller in size. We're talking between 4 and 12 people for some of them. Maybe. My other classes are much larger, affording me far more anonymity (for a while, at least). So when I'd bustled in to a master's class tonight, everyone looked up, annoyed (understandable) and then made a big sighing deal about turning back around for the rest of the lecture. I blushed, took the nearest available seat, dug around obnoxiously for a pen while whispering "sorry...sorry...sorry" and when I couldn't find one I gave up and vowed to write in blood and diet coke. At this point I was blushing so much I'm sure it was audible.
And now was I going to have to clump (or krump) back out, turn off the lights in my car, and krump back in? Causing at least two and perhaps more disturbances? WILL THE FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS NEVER CEASE???
I decided, perhaps, that it was okay to leave the lights on for another 2h30min. I don't know a lot about cars, but I reasoned that sometimes you drive for more than 2 hours at a time, with the lights on, so it was probably okay? Right? RIGHT?
I texted Dr Poop. "What happens if I leave the lights on in my car for 2+ hours? Nothing, right?"
"Probably just need a jump," was the reply.
Well, I just don't know how to do that. He might as well have replied "You'll just have to sprinkle the car with angel urine and stick a unicorn dollar in the ignition." I am not even sure I own jumper...cables? Sticks? Wands? Let's go with dildos. I don't even own jumper dildos. So sue me. And I know I am sounding really bitter here, but I've recently become pretty angry that I don't know anything about cars. I got ripped off at the repair shop a few weeks ago and it's all because it's the one aspect of consumerism where I just have to say "Here you go!" and hand them a blank check because I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING. It's so upsetting. That's what happens when you don't need to own a car until you're 27. Dammit.
Anyway. Back to the story.
So I did not want to have to jump my car, and the only way I could be sure that I wouldn't have to jump my car was to go back outside, turn off my lights, and come back in to class with all the stealth of a brass band on amphetamines. It was the only solution.
I got up and scooted to the door as fast as my stumpy little legs could carry me. I paused just before exiting, however, because I realized that we were being visited by a late-autumn monsoon. Fucking shitballs.
I own an umbrella. And a raincoat. And Dr Poop's umbrella too- I own that. Know where they were? The car. Know where I was? Not close to the car.
I weighed the options again and decided that the only thing worse than having to jump the car would be having to jump the car in this downpour, and I might just have to get a little damp. So I booked it to the gee dee car, turned off the lights, and ran back to the building. I was absolutely drenched.
I squished to the bathroom and attempted to get my hair to stop dripping water so very actively down my back, but since the paper towels in there are about as absorbent as duck feathers it wasn't an effective exercise plus now I smelled like shitty paper towel.
I opened the door to my classroom and tried to slip unnoticed into my seat, but the combination of a very loud wet squeaking to my shoes and the small class size made that relatively impossible. Everyone's heads whirled around yet again except this time they flat out stared at me as I dripped over to my seat.
I just smiled too big like a crazy person and sat down. A normal nancy might have been like "It's raining out, guys" or just offered a simple "Sorry, Dr Willist." But I'm not nancy. Instead, I chose to go mute and allow the room to believe that I had just had some private playtime in the toilet because really, what other explanation ould there be for someone returning to class THAT soaking wet. Later it occurred to me that there are no windows in that room, and it had stopped raining by the time I left class, so nobody was really the wiser as to the intensity of that monsoon.
On the plus side, I didn't need to use my jumper dildos. |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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