On the first day of blog school they teach you a lesson in blog physics: if you write about avoiding the ER one day, you have exactly 3.2 hours before you will return to it in some form or kid or another. It's punishment for not observing some sort of knocking on wood or passing on a chain email ritual.
And so yesterday, it was Stevie who made a visit to our familiar ER docs with a foot injury that occurred on the beach.
Yes, that is quite a familiar refrain around my house. Stevie limped in with Sean and the insurance card limping behind him, and then had three rocks extracted from his big toe and his considerable wound cleaned, treated and bandaged. It was pretty bad. They gave him some heavy antibiotics too since he cut it on a paddleboat in some gross resort water. Ew.
He's resting it and we're watching it while we continue trip preparations.
And as soon as I finish the laundry I'm sending you all an ancient Irish angel prayer and re-enrolling in blog school.
Showing posts with label Trace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trace. Show all posts
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Blinded by the blinds
Not all of my adventures in domesticity earn accolades. Sure, there's the occasional wine rep that wants me to moonlight as a caterer, (yes, flattery will work on me and I'll buy more wine) but there are many, many, many other domestic failures that keep me humbled.
A few months ago at a party, we locked Jingle in our room so she wouldn't molest the guests as they entered the house. She found this imprisonment rather offensive, and proceeded to eat the wood slat blinds that adorn the french door to our bedroom so she could see the festivities outside. Months later, not only was half of the door exposed, but we still had a dog that defecated plantation shutters.
Being the kind of girl that knows this will only happen again and again, instead of replacing the broken blinds with future broken blinds, I spent a ridiculous sum on custom Roman shades from a popular fabric chain. I don't want to drop any names here, but it rhymes with "Balico Forners."
Anyhoo, after spending that ridiculous sum, ordering when on sale and then selecting from every thread, size, fixture and grommet option ever conceived, I waited three months and finally received my shades.
Ahem.
The only thing resembling "Roman" or "shade" is that they look like someone ripped off their toga after a drunken frat party and tacked them to my bedroom door. They are sloppy, unfinished and completely impractical. And the worst part is they are custom, so not only did I pay handsomely for the not-handsome window treatments, it means I'm stuck with them until I can find a naked gladiator that wants to look like a sofa.
So luckily for the world, I'm done decorating anything but a cupcake for me for a while.
A few months ago at a party, we locked Jingle in our room so she wouldn't molest the guests as they entered the house. She found this imprisonment rather offensive, and proceeded to eat the wood slat blinds that adorn the french door to our bedroom so she could see the festivities outside. Months later, not only was half of the door exposed, but we still had a dog that defecated plantation shutters.
Being the kind of girl that knows this will only happen again and again, instead of replacing the broken blinds with future broken blinds, I spent a ridiculous sum on custom Roman shades from a popular fabric chain. I don't want to drop any names here, but it rhymes with "Balico Forners."
Anyhoo, after spending that ridiculous sum, ordering when on sale and then selecting from every thread, size, fixture and grommet option ever conceived, I waited three months and finally received my shades.
Ahem.
The only thing resembling "Roman" or "shade" is that they look like someone ripped off their toga after a drunken frat party and tacked them to my bedroom door. They are sloppy, unfinished and completely impractical. And the worst part is they are custom, so not only did I pay handsomely for the not-handsome window treatments, it means I'm stuck with them until I can find a naked gladiator that wants to look like a sofa.
So luckily for the world, I'm done decorating anything but a cupcake for me for a while.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The good news and the bad, and bad and good again
The bad news is that my brand new laptop suffered major liquid damage on vacation when after a particularly championship-like WiFi signal pickup, got its own Gatorade shower on the sidelines.
The good news is that after immediately taking it to the ER upon our return, it can, in fact, be saved.
The bad news is that it can be saved for $1240.00.
The other bad news is that clumsiness is not covered under the year-long warranty which I was only 20 days in.
The good news is that I paid for it with American Express (upon Sean's urging) and it turns out that they do have a stupidity clause that will cover most of the repair work.
The other good news is that Apple can save that wet chapter of the novel for an additional $100.
The end resulting news is that after claims filing, two weeks and throwing up in relief that it could have been a lot more bad news than good, I will have my computer and chapter back after only a minimal out-of-pocket cost.
And up for interpretation for good or bad is the news that I didn't have to drown myself in that pool of Gatorade that dripped from my keyboard if the results of this fiasco had gone any differently.
The good news is that after immediately taking it to the ER upon our return, it can, in fact, be saved.
The bad news is that it can be saved for $1240.00.
The other bad news is that clumsiness is not covered under the year-long warranty which I was only 20 days in.
The good news is that I paid for it with American Express (upon Sean's urging) and it turns out that they do have a stupidity clause that will cover most of the repair work.
The other good news is that Apple can save that wet chapter of the novel for an additional $100.
The end resulting news is that after claims filing, two weeks and throwing up in relief that it could have been a lot more bad news than good, I will have my computer and chapter back after only a minimal out-of-pocket cost.
And up for interpretation for good or bad is the news that I didn't have to drown myself in that pool of Gatorade that dripped from my keyboard if the results of this fiasco had gone any differently.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
But I floss everyday
It was the kids' first day back to school, and I celebrated by going to the dentist.
Now you know how much I hate going to the dentist. Hate. It. But I go to be a good example to my children, and to ensure that I will be able to eat peanuts when I'm 90. Today is supposed to be the 6 or 9 month cleaning, and oh yeah, we just want to replace one of your old childhood fillings with a new one. Not that it's broken or otherwise offensive except for the fact that it's silver and was put in during the Carter administration. But it's not bothering anyone since it is in the back of my mouth and he's the only one who can see it.
Anyway, I agree to replace it, because they start their fancy talk about bicuspids and fluoride and I get all confused and agree to needless medical treatments. And that makes me an idiot.
Dr. starts drilling away, and at first, I'm okay with it. This is part of being a grown-up--dealing with oral pain. I can do this. It hurts despite the Novocaine, but I persevere until he brings out the big guns. As in a big, loud, heaving jackhammer. He pulls this thing out and I immediately feel the plates in my head shift. A brain scan at that very moment would have registered a 6.8 on the Richter scale. I must have winced, or had a seizure, because Dr. said, "Oh, is that painful?"
"Not really painful, I'm just a little dizzy because I think my hypothalamus has dislodged."
I thought it was funny, but judging from his non reaction and his joyous return to the riveter, maybe for him not so much. I realize that perhaps 'hypothalamus' might sound curiously like, 'you're an ass' when your mouth is packed with gauze and you have no control over the left side of your face.
Six and a half hours later, he finishes replacing the perfectly fine filling, charges me $260 for the pleasure and I try to realign my eyesight enough to drive home.
At least I got a new toothbrush.
(And oh yeah, you are an ass.)
Now you know how much I hate going to the dentist. Hate. It. But I go to be a good example to my children, and to ensure that I will be able to eat peanuts when I'm 90. Today is supposed to be the 6 or 9 month cleaning, and oh yeah, we just want to replace one of your old childhood fillings with a new one. Not that it's broken or otherwise offensive except for the fact that it's silver and was put in during the Carter administration. But it's not bothering anyone since it is in the back of my mouth and he's the only one who can see it.
Anyway, I agree to replace it, because they start their fancy talk about bicuspids and fluoride and I get all confused and agree to needless medical treatments. And that makes me an idiot.
Dr. starts drilling away, and at first, I'm okay with it. This is part of being a grown-up--dealing with oral pain. I can do this. It hurts despite the Novocaine, but I persevere until he brings out the big guns. As in a big, loud, heaving jackhammer. He pulls this thing out and I immediately feel the plates in my head shift. A brain scan at that very moment would have registered a 6.8 on the Richter scale. I must have winced, or had a seizure, because Dr. said, "Oh, is that painful?"
"Not really painful, I'm just a little dizzy because I think my hypothalamus has dislodged."
I thought it was funny, but judging from his non reaction and his joyous return to the riveter, maybe for him not so much. I realize that perhaps 'hypothalamus' might sound curiously like, 'you're an ass' when your mouth is packed with gauze and you have no control over the left side of your face.
Six and a half hours later, he finishes replacing the perfectly fine filling, charges me $260 for the pleasure and I try to realign my eyesight enough to drive home.
At least I got a new toothbrush.
(And oh yeah, you are an ass.)
Monday, January 05, 2009
It's back to the post-holiday grind. Sigh.
If last month was "the most wonderful time of the year," then early January must be the worst. Because of all of my least favorite domestic chores of the year, today holds my most-despised.
It's time to de-holiday the house.
I hate this day. Un-decorating is so Scroogey. I feel like I'm taking a blow torch to Frosty. Or like I showed Rudolph his new 2009 Progress Energy rates.
It's just not nearly as much fun taking all of this down as it was putting it all up. A few weeks ago, the house smelled of gingerbread and cinnamon. Now it smells like sour eggnog and a fresh bottle of Dexatrim.
Perhaps the worst job of the many is the un-trimming of the tree. All of those ornaments that the kids helped put on the lowest boughs are now on the floor beneath an avalanche of dried needles. The scent of pine no longer hangs in the air as I pull off the half-dark lights from the petrified branches; the only things being released are allergens and cobwebs.
But I suppose like this stale popcorn garland, all good things must come to an end, and packing up the holidays is inevitable. One of the best tips I've picked up along the way was to write out a list of the items you need to restock and tape that list to the outside of one of boxes to avoid multiple last minute scrambles to the store next year before you unpack. Mine reads like a note to my future self:
Hey Gorgeous, nice sweater. You need:
1) 1 more strand of Christmas lights. (The one you had wouldn’t stop blinking so you threw it out before someone had a seizure.)
2) 1 pink Advent candle. (Post this on the Easter box because you’ll never find one in November.)
3) More ornament hooks. You’ve used every single one of the 50 you bought six years ago but keep thinking you have plenty. You are down to using paper clips on all of the glass bulbs.
4) Paper clips.
5) A sense of humor, a kind memory and perspective when you open this box. After weeks of non-stop partying, 38 trips to the attic with all of these bins, and glitter and pine needles in every orifice, you had precious little patience left to roll the light strands properly or separate the candles.
Have an eggnog, put on some Bing Crosby and enjoy it. You’ll understand this un-merry tone when the most wonderful time of the year ends all too quickly.
It's time to de-holiday the house.
I hate this day. Un-decorating is so Scroogey. I feel like I'm taking a blow torch to Frosty. Or like I showed Rudolph his new 2009 Progress Energy rates.
It's just not nearly as much fun taking all of this down as it was putting it all up. A few weeks ago, the house smelled of gingerbread and cinnamon. Now it smells like sour eggnog and a fresh bottle of Dexatrim.
Perhaps the worst job of the many is the un-trimming of the tree. All of those ornaments that the kids helped put on the lowest boughs are now on the floor beneath an avalanche of dried needles. The scent of pine no longer hangs in the air as I pull off the half-dark lights from the petrified branches; the only things being released are allergens and cobwebs.
But I suppose like this stale popcorn garland, all good things must come to an end, and packing up the holidays is inevitable. One of the best tips I've picked up along the way was to write out a list of the items you need to restock and tape that list to the outside of one of boxes to avoid multiple last minute scrambles to the store next year before you unpack. Mine reads like a note to my future self:
Hey Gorgeous, nice sweater. You need:
1) 1 more strand of Christmas lights. (The one you had wouldn’t stop blinking so you threw it out before someone had a seizure.)
2) 1 pink Advent candle. (Post this on the Easter box because you’ll never find one in November.)
3) More ornament hooks. You’ve used every single one of the 50 you bought six years ago but keep thinking you have plenty. You are down to using paper clips on all of the glass bulbs.
4) Paper clips.
5) A sense of humor, a kind memory and perspective when you open this box. After weeks of non-stop partying, 38 trips to the attic with all of these bins, and glitter and pine needles in every orifice, you had precious little patience left to roll the light strands properly or separate the candles.
Have an eggnog, put on some Bing Crosby and enjoy it. You’ll understand this un-merry tone when the most wonderful time of the year ends all too quickly.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I'm up
Today I plan on shaking off this post-holiday lethargy. No, seriously. While Sean has been going to the gym and taking the kids on some wild field trip everyday, I've been unable to move from the couch or bed watching the Food Network. It's a little sad. I need to move my limbs and clean something.
If it is even just my limbs.
If it is even just my limbs.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Processing your order....
So I haven't been doing a whole lot of personal blogging lately because honestly, all I've been doing is writing, cleaning and partying and how many times can you write the words, "I've had so much filet mignon and red wine in the last 2 weeks that I'm posting in au jus ink?"
Yeah, not more than once.
So that's what's new: crazy. (Actually, there's nothing new there after all.) But this is Sean's last week of work and so there are many bittersweet celebrations and we haven't even got to next Saturday yet. And there's that whole Christmas thing to do do for 4 kids+intern which is a plethora of baking, shopping, wrapping, and preening. But you're doing the same thing right now and are only reading this while your last minute Amazon order processes, I get it.
And now mine is completed as well so I'll catch you later.
Yeah, not more than once.
So that's what's new: crazy. (Actually, there's nothing new there after all.) But this is Sean's last week of work and so there are many bittersweet celebrations and we haven't even got to next Saturday yet. And there's that whole Christmas thing to do do for 4 kids+intern which is a plethora of baking, shopping, wrapping, and preening. But you're doing the same thing right now and are only reading this while your last minute Amazon order processes, I get it.
And now mine is completed as well so I'll catch you later.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Where'd I put the chafing dishes?
Now that Thanksgiving has passed, soccer is over (hockey, not quite), shopping has been started and I've pressed the first load of Mr. Rooney's shirts, I can now focus on the next big event--and no, it's not Christmas.
Sean's retirement party is quickly approaching, because only I would plan such a huge event four days before the year's biggest event to ensure that I will be committed to an insane asylum on December 26th. But when do I ever make things easy or pass up an opportunity to party and make mini beef wellingtons for 150?
But looking at the shopping list and sheer number of trips to retail outlets over the next 3 weeks--I may just be making fava bean canapes with a nice bottle of Chianti.
Sean's retirement party is quickly approaching, because only I would plan such a huge event four days before the year's biggest event to ensure that I will be committed to an insane asylum on December 26th. But when do I ever make things easy or pass up an opportunity to party and make mini beef wellingtons for 150?
But looking at the shopping list and sheer number of trips to retail outlets over the next 3 weeks--I may just be making fava bean canapes with a nice bottle of Chianti.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I should really get packing
I’m sitting here ticking off all of the things I need to do tomorrow. I’m taking the kiddos on one of our whirlwind road trips to Atlanta for the weekend because a.) we haven’t done one since August and I don’t want them to get used to having feeling in their legs for 12 hour stretches, b) because my grandparents (their great-grandparents) just spent 3 days trying to buy the correct brand of milk and cereal that although I have told them specifically at least a dozen times this week alone, they will not have purchased the right one, which doesn’t even matter because the kids don’t eat much anyway, but I can’t leave food there out of a guilt reflex so powerful and strong dating back to infancy that I will end up eating 17 bowls of generic Cocoa Pebbles in 2 days, and c) because it’s Thanksgiving and at 38 years old I’m thankful to have grandparents that can, and do, buy the wrong cereal for my children.
So after conferences at 7:30 am, a hair appointment immediately following (want to look closer to 38 than 88), last minute shopping, packing, house-prep, column publication and miscellaneous Traceying; we should be ready to go.
But here’s a couple of pictures and a link to my Thanksgiving column so you don’t miss us too much.
So after conferences at 7:30 am, a hair appointment immediately following (want to look closer to 38 than 88), last minute shopping, packing, house-prep, column publication and miscellaneous Traceying; we should be ready to go.
But here’s a couple of pictures and a link to my Thanksgiving column so you don’t miss us too much.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Nothing after midnight
We're back.
*heaving, satisfied sigh*
Just took off to Orlando for the weekend to watch fireworks from a hotel balcony and hang at a pool other than our own for a couple of days. I love the 4th of July for exactly that reason. It is the quintecenticial non-obligatory holiday. You get to party with whomever you want, not have to buy a single gift, and have huge pieces of grilled meat. What's not to love?
But now we're back and it's laundry day, but that isn't even the worst of it. No, tomorrow I get my remaining 2 wisdom teeth out, so I think I may be out of commission for a couple of days, because at my age, that's what happens.
So I'm preparing for that long day of drug-induced slumber tomorrow with the sobering tasks of taking a day off.
See you Wednesday. Maybe.
*heaving, satisfied sigh*
Just took off to Orlando for the weekend to watch fireworks from a hotel balcony and hang at a pool other than our own for a couple of days. I love the 4th of July for exactly that reason. It is the quintecenticial non-obligatory holiday. You get to party with whomever you want, not have to buy a single gift, and have huge pieces of grilled meat. What's not to love?
But now we're back and it's laundry day, but that isn't even the worst of it. No, tomorrow I get my remaining 2 wisdom teeth out, so I think I may be out of commission for a couple of days, because at my age, that's what happens.
So I'm preparing for that long day of drug-induced slumber tomorrow with the sobering tasks of taking a day off.
See you Wednesday. Maybe.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Alternative titles for this post:
*3 miracles occurred here: 1) I clipped coupons, 2) I remembered to bring the coupons to the grocery store, 3) I then remembered to hand over said coupons to the cashier.
*Look! I just saved enough for 2 teaspoons of gas!
*Cutting coupons is so unDiva-like, I should be cutting limes for my Mojitos instead.
*I remember when you used to be cool.
*Seriously?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Island Eve
It's officially Vacation Eve. And I am completely and utterly unglued.
Besides running around like a crazy woman who needs a vacation (and an eyebrow wax, but that's beside the point)last night was my monthly meeting. Oy. I know I complain of this, which begs the question, why Trace, why do you do it? Well, it's complicated. In a Machivellian sort of way. I feel like I need to pay my dues here so that my other really fun and fulfilling gigs will continue. Because I really, really like writing the other stuff.
So I was hoping this month would be easy--they'd have not a lot to say so I could just write out the article in between laundry loads and trips to the car. Not so much. It was a long, convoluted and particularly contentious 3 hours in which to write about.
So that seriously put a damper in my Olympic training for events like the beer luge, the 100 yard dash across hot sand and how many items I can pack in a Rubbermaid bin. So I am kind of scrambling tonight, but much calmer than I was this morning.
Because when Amy and I went to the grocery store, I decided to get a pedicure at this place Val told me about next door. She literally salivates when she speaks of it, and I'm thinking, I've had pedicures before, really, how good could be?
Oh. My. God. She did things that shouldn't be legal or at least require a luxury tax, a permit and a pact with the devil. There was parafin and salts and then this hot rock thing that was A.MAZ.ING. I didn't understand a word she said, but she spoke the language of love with those rocks, and I think I want to date her seriously. She had me at, "You want deluxe for $28?"
Menwhile, Amy sits next to me and they paint her nails and toes. Pink. WIth flowers. She is mesmorized and has not taken her eyes from her fingers since. It was wonderful.
So I still have an incredible amount to get done tonight, but somehow I do not care as much as I did 6 hours ago.
I cannot wait to squish my newly-beautified toes in that sand tomorrow.
Besides running around like a crazy woman who needs a vacation (and an eyebrow wax, but that's beside the point)last night was my monthly meeting. Oy. I know I complain of this, which begs the question, why Trace, why do you do it? Well, it's complicated. In a Machivellian sort of way. I feel like I need to pay my dues here so that my other really fun and fulfilling gigs will continue. Because I really, really like writing the other stuff.
So I was hoping this month would be easy--they'd have not a lot to say so I could just write out the article in between laundry loads and trips to the car. Not so much. It was a long, convoluted and particularly contentious 3 hours in which to write about.
So that seriously put a damper in my Olympic training for events like the beer luge, the 100 yard dash across hot sand and how many items I can pack in a Rubbermaid bin. So I am kind of scrambling tonight, but much calmer than I was this morning.
Because when Amy and I went to the grocery store, I decided to get a pedicure at this place Val told me about next door. She literally salivates when she speaks of it, and I'm thinking, I've had pedicures before, really, how good could be?
Oh. My. God. She did things that shouldn't be legal or at least require a luxury tax, a permit and a pact with the devil. There was parafin and salts and then this hot rock thing that was A.MAZ.ING. I didn't understand a word she said, but she spoke the language of love with those rocks, and I think I want to date her seriously. She had me at, "You want deluxe for $28?"
Menwhile, Amy sits next to me and they paint her nails and toes. Pink. WIth flowers. She is mesmorized and has not taken her eyes from her fingers since. It was wonderful.
So I still have an incredible amount to get done tonight, but somehow I do not care as much as I did 6 hours ago.
I cannot wait to squish my newly-beautified toes in that sand tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
There are tumbleweeds blowing across my keyboard
If I had the time, I work on my time management skills.
This is the first time I've sat down to my desk in at least 2 weeks. I've cleared a path through the Webkinz trading cards to reach the keyboard, since that's all this computer has been used for lately. To say I'm behind is such a gross understatement, that it is libelous. Seriously. I've forgotten how to write. And spell.
I must now commence on writing about the monthly meeting last night that I vowed not to blog about--1000 words on freaking driveway maintenance options--and I'm already dreading opening that hideous blank Word document to begin.
But the good news is that I have cleared the calendar today of all guests, errands, sacraments, laundry, parties, appointments and medically necessary bodily functions so that I can catch up. I have chained myself to this desk with a dictionary and a pot of coffee. I will not move until every blessed deadline is met.
I hope Jessie doesn't need a diaper change today, and if she does, it will have to be in the middle of the driveway as I do research.
This is the first time I've sat down to my desk in at least 2 weeks. I've cleared a path through the Webkinz trading cards to reach the keyboard, since that's all this computer has been used for lately. To say I'm behind is such a gross understatement, that it is libelous. Seriously. I've forgotten how to write. And spell.
I must now commence on writing about the monthly meeting last night that I vowed not to blog about--1000 words on freaking driveway maintenance options--and I'm already dreading opening that hideous blank Word document to begin.
But the good news is that I have cleared the calendar today of all guests, errands, sacraments, laundry, parties, appointments and medically necessary bodily functions so that I can catch up. I have chained myself to this desk with a dictionary and a pot of coffee. I will not move until every blessed deadline is met.
I hope Jessie doesn't need a diaper change today, and if she does, it will have to be in the middle of the driveway as I do research.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An assortment of nonsense
Please do not read the following as a complaint, by any means. Do not read it as anything other than a musing, a bewilderment, an internal query, an observation, or a pondering. Choose whatever adjective you prefer, but definitely not a complaint.
It has been 2 weeks since the article was published and life has changed. Not that I coveted my former low profile and not that I expect such recognition outside the boundaries of Safety Harbor or just my own street even, but losing a level of anonymity is a little strange.
Let me explain. I expected a few friends to comment. I expected a few unexpected people to comment. That about covers my expectations.
What I did not expect was for my garbage cans to be taken in and out because my neighbors read about my pregnancy rather than notice on their own. I did not expect mere acquaintances to save, laminate, or otherwise display my article in any way shape or form. I did not expect my book to be auctioned off for money much higher than the cover price.
And I certainly did not expect to stare back at my own crooked smile when I walked into the exam room at the OB's office. OH MY GOD HOW PERFECTLY DISCONCERTING WHILE IN THE STIRRUPS. It made trying to distract myself by looking at myself while in that horrific position really rather creepy.
It feels like I'm stalking myself. Maybe I should get a restraining order.
******
Anyway, the doctor's visit was a mixed bag. Besides the self-voyeurism, I just have not been feeling all that well, honestly. I'll spare you the symptoms but it's starting to make me a little pensive. But no matter what the test results today show, I have officially started one aspect of my freelance maternity leave, as last night was the last meeting I will cover for a while. When they started speaking of the March agenda, I gratefully thought, Yahoo! I can honestly not give a shit! And none too soon as last night was the single most uncomfortable experience of my life trying to fit and stay still in those plastic folding chairs while fighting off contractions and hot flashes. At one point during a diatribe on the difference between beige and tan exterior paint, I thought my water was going to break. And the sad part is, I knew that not one bastard in that room would drive me to the hospital. They would fail to pass the motion by a 2/3 majority.
The good news was, if such a thing is conceivable at this point, is total weight gain--20 pounds. Approaching the eighth month and 20 pounds. I feel like I want to eat cake or something to celebrate, but then that might prevent future celebrations. But it is Valentine's Day after all, so perhaps a chocolate covered cherry or seven might be appropriate...
Happy Valentine's Day.
It has been 2 weeks since the article was published and life has changed. Not that I coveted my former low profile and not that I expect such recognition outside the boundaries of Safety Harbor or just my own street even, but losing a level of anonymity is a little strange.
Let me explain. I expected a few friends to comment. I expected a few unexpected people to comment. That about covers my expectations.
What I did not expect was for my garbage cans to be taken in and out because my neighbors read about my pregnancy rather than notice on their own. I did not expect mere acquaintances to save, laminate, or otherwise display my article in any way shape or form. I did not expect my book to be auctioned off for money much higher than the cover price.
And I certainly did not expect to stare back at my own crooked smile when I walked into the exam room at the OB's office. OH MY GOD HOW PERFECTLY DISCONCERTING WHILE IN THE STIRRUPS. It made trying to distract myself by looking at myself while in that horrific position really rather creepy.
It feels like I'm stalking myself. Maybe I should get a restraining order.
******
Anyway, the doctor's visit was a mixed bag. Besides the self-voyeurism, I just have not been feeling all that well, honestly. I'll spare you the symptoms but it's starting to make me a little pensive. But no matter what the test results today show, I have officially started one aspect of my freelance maternity leave, as last night was the last meeting I will cover for a while. When they started speaking of the March agenda, I gratefully thought, Yahoo! I can honestly not give a shit! And none too soon as last night was the single most uncomfortable experience of my life trying to fit and stay still in those plastic folding chairs while fighting off contractions and hot flashes. At one point during a diatribe on the difference between beige and tan exterior paint, I thought my water was going to break. And the sad part is, I knew that not one bastard in that room would drive me to the hospital. They would fail to pass the motion by a 2/3 majority.
The good news was, if such a thing is conceivable at this point, is total weight gain--20 pounds. Approaching the eighth month and 20 pounds. I feel like I want to eat cake or something to celebrate, but then that might prevent future celebrations. But it is Valentine's Day after all, so perhaps a chocolate covered cherry or seven might be appropriate...
Happy Valentine's Day.
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