Know what I love? Babies. Those things are neat. I get babies. I know how they work. I have a secret for putting them to sleep. I find them precious and adorable and all those awesome things. I am one of those women whose voice goes up an octave whenever I speak to an infant, and science reassures me that it's normal and even helps development.
Know what I don't love so much? Eight-year-olds. Can we talk candidly for a second about those guys? Have you ever met an eight-year-old who wasn't kind of a pain? I have seen home videos, and can therefore attest that I was an incredibly obnoxious child. I recall pretty clearly that my siblings were pains as well. All the eight-year-olds I've ever know have been kind of obnoxious at best, and downright douchey at worst. And eight is the very beginning of that terrible ugly-duckling stage, where their teeth get all weird and overgrown, and they outgrow their clothes every ten minutes and insist on wearing the same battered sneakers for a year, and then just when you think it can't be any more annoying, BAM. That once-precious baby is now a teenager. Joke's on you.
Andy and I are starting to talk about a timeline for procreating. I like the idea of producing an heir, because I have a lot of neat stuff that needs to go to someone, so I'm down with that. I also like doing it, so it's a pretty neat deal. And I'm the one who initiated the whole conversation, so it's with some surprise that I note that my brain is going, "Man, babies are awesome! Let's get us one!" but also, "Man, I hope those endorphins you hear about are enough to keep me from punching an eight-year-old who insists on telling the same not-funny knock-knock joke nine times in a row then laughing hysterically, because I feel like that might be justifiable."
Is this normal? I feel like now that we have committed to trying to make this a thing within the next year, I'm starting to think of all the things that suck about parenting. Grubby little hands all up in my stuff. Juice spilled all over the joint. Gaudy plastic toys advertising characters I don't recognize. Pages ripped out of books I've had since I was a kid. Snot. Barf. Sass. Ugh, what if we have a baby and then it grows up to be a fifth-grade bully? What if we have one of those kids you see on Maury where the mom (where are the dads?) is all like, "Maury, I tried everything. She is too WILD." What then?
I think this is that whole afraid-of-change-thing that's totally normal and human and stuff, right? Because babies are great.
Any parents reading this thing? Are these normal fears, or am I going to be the most neurotic parent ever?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Lumberg?
 |
| Generic office worker with creepy article about long hours contributing to dementia via |
My usual hours are from 8 to 4.
This has caused massive brain sluggishness and significantly increased levels of boredom.
It's not that my job is awful. It's just that reading legal documents for ten hours tends to turn my brain to a puddle of mush. And it means that all I want after work is a beer, except that I'm not drinking beer during the week, and to curl up on the couch and watch Bones, except that I get home at the same time as Andy and he (pretends he) hates that show, so I only watch it with him when a new episode is airing. So instead, we'll find another truly bad movie to watch on my sister's dime (so far, Worst Movie I've Ever Seen goes to Crank 2, with Hellboy a reasonably close second) and drink a glass of water or some bullshit.
Oh, and I forgot that all of this was happening this week and scheduled a meter read for this afternoon between 4 and 7. You know those gas and electric companies are really reasonable about stuff like that and make it super easy to change your appointment, right? J/K, they're going to charge me $25 if I don't have it read before my next billing cycle begins. Cool.
The really awesomely great part about putting up with this for a while - and I'm being sincere for once - is that I can leave early on Friday, whenever I've hit my 40 hours for the week. So you had better believe I will be baking something outrageously delicious and also watching like nine episodes of Bones, even though scientific research shows that I get creeped out and jumpy after four.
(No news on the dog situation yet. We're working under the assumption that we'll end up with the girl dog on Wednesday, seeing as how I haven't heard from the lady at the pound yet. Further bulletins as events warrant.)
How do you handle a week that will be a total grind? Help!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Busy day of doing nothing
Today is the best kind of Saturday.
- We got up at a reasonable hour.
- We met up with some friends at the Public Market (Number One in the country!) for some amazing breakfast and discovered that there's a new French pastry place that has the best pain au chocolate I've had since I was actually in France.
- We took a little drive to drop off the smashed car to begin being fixed.
- We hung out some more with awesome friends and made a complicated-but-delicious meringue/almond/chocolate buttercream cake thing. It was amazing but maybe not 100% worth four hours' worth of work.
- We watched some Russell Brand stand-up (verdict: okay) while I made some delicious chai concentrate.
- We're heading to a birthday event in about twenty minutes, then we might duck out early (we really only know the birthday boy and his cousin) to see The Adjustment Bureau.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Because no one told me to shut up about this: A long-ish post about the pound
I think the pound attracts crazy people.
Yesterday when I got there, the clerk at the desk was clearly irritated and clearly had told the woman in front of her the same information a whole lot of times already. There was a Hispanic woman there to surrender a pit bull puppy, maybe 8 months old. Apparently it was her son's dog, but the son moved out and couldn't take the dog to the apartment because it's a pit bull, and the mom told us all that she hadn't signed up to raise no dog. More than once, she told the dog to sit about a dozen times in English, then about seven times in Spanish, then pushed down on its butt until it sort-of sat, then proudly told us all that the dog was bilingual. I was like, Bitch, that dog just ignored you in two languages. She seemed to think the discussion with the clerk was some sort of performance art, and kept mugging for those of us waiting in line.
So the woman wanted to surrender the puppy, but didn't want it to end up being put to sleep if no one adopted it. She wanted the pound to just give it back if no one took him. The clerk explained, wearily, that she had already explained that surrendering the dog means surrendering all rights to the dog. She added that she had already explained the evaluation process and that she couldn't guarantee that the puppy would be a candidate for adoption (it's based on health, temperament, and something else but I forget what) and that IF it were adoptable this woman could be placed on the list to adopt it, but couldn't have them just call her and let her know if no one adopted him. Through all of these patient explanations, the woman continued talking over the clerk and repeating that it was her son's dog, and she didn't want him to be put to sleep, and so on. I got the feeling that this interaction had been going on for a while.
So FINALLY the clerk convinces the woman that if anything is going to happen, it needs to happen now because there are other people waiting. So the woman surrenders the dog - his name is Two-Tone, she had told us about nine times, but she calls him "Toot" - and insists on walking him back to the door to the animal-holding area.
So then the next people in line, also Hispanic, tell her they'll adopt the dog. My Spanish is elementary at best, but I'm certain the woman had said something to the man about being there for a cat, not a dog. The clerk was like, are you shitting me? The clerk has to call to the people in back to bring the dog back out, and the woman just hands the dog over to them. I'm pretty sure that wasn't strictly following the pound's policies about surrender and stuff, but I'm also pretty sure the clerk was mentally weighing the options of following protocol vs. getting this dog and woman out the door, without a reason for the woman to call every day for the next two weeks.
So then we wait while a man asks about becoming a volunteer and starts filling out his application. He interrupts the clerk accepting a surrender of a stray cat so he can ask what the question about "have you ever been convicted of a crime" is asking. The clerk just sort of stares at him for a second, so he continues: "Like, do they mean just convictions? What if you have something, like, pending, or if there was an arrest but no charges were pressed? Or if the charges were dropped?" There's another pause, and the clerk tells him that Animal Services is a department of the City Police Department, so they will do a full background check, so why doesn't he just write down anything he knows they'd find out in a background check.
During all of this, there are constant phone calls, which the clerk takes while still trying to deal with the people at the counter, and volunteers walking in and out with dogs, and prospective adopters wandering through, and constant barking, and stuff. It's a madhouse in there. No wonder the employees all seem so frazzled.
Have you ever adopted from a pound? Have you ever worked or volunteered in one? Are my observations about a higher-than-average level of the crazy correct?
Yesterday when I got there, the clerk at the desk was clearly irritated and clearly had told the woman in front of her the same information a whole lot of times already. There was a Hispanic woman there to surrender a pit bull puppy, maybe 8 months old. Apparently it was her son's dog, but the son moved out and couldn't take the dog to the apartment because it's a pit bull, and the mom told us all that she hadn't signed up to raise no dog. More than once, she told the dog to sit about a dozen times in English, then about seven times in Spanish, then pushed down on its butt until it sort-of sat, then proudly told us all that the dog was bilingual. I was like, Bitch, that dog just ignored you in two languages. She seemed to think the discussion with the clerk was some sort of performance art, and kept mugging for those of us waiting in line.
So the woman wanted to surrender the puppy, but didn't want it to end up being put to sleep if no one adopted it. She wanted the pound to just give it back if no one took him. The clerk explained, wearily, that she had already explained that surrendering the dog means surrendering all rights to the dog. She added that she had already explained the evaluation process and that she couldn't guarantee that the puppy would be a candidate for adoption (it's based on health, temperament, and something else but I forget what) and that IF it were adoptable this woman could be placed on the list to adopt it, but couldn't have them just call her and let her know if no one adopted him. Through all of these patient explanations, the woman continued talking over the clerk and repeating that it was her son's dog, and she didn't want him to be put to sleep, and so on. I got the feeling that this interaction had been going on for a while.
So FINALLY the clerk convinces the woman that if anything is going to happen, it needs to happen now because there are other people waiting. So the woman surrenders the dog - his name is Two-Tone, she had told us about nine times, but she calls him "Toot" - and insists on walking him back to the door to the animal-holding area.
So then the next people in line, also Hispanic, tell her they'll adopt the dog. My Spanish is elementary at best, but I'm certain the woman had said something to the man about being there for a cat, not a dog. The clerk was like, are you shitting me? The clerk has to call to the people in back to bring the dog back out, and the woman just hands the dog over to them. I'm pretty sure that wasn't strictly following the pound's policies about surrender and stuff, but I'm also pretty sure the clerk was mentally weighing the options of following protocol vs. getting this dog and woman out the door, without a reason for the woman to call every day for the next two weeks.
So then we wait while a man asks about becoming a volunteer and starts filling out his application. He interrupts the clerk accepting a surrender of a stray cat so he can ask what the question about "have you ever been convicted of a crime" is asking. The clerk just sort of stares at him for a second, so he continues: "Like, do they mean just convictions? What if you have something, like, pending, or if there was an arrest but no charges were pressed? Or if the charges were dropped?" There's another pause, and the clerk tells him that Animal Services is a department of the City Police Department, so they will do a full background check, so why doesn't he just write down anything he knows they'd find out in a background check.
During all of this, there are constant phone calls, which the clerk takes while still trying to deal with the people at the counter, and volunteers walking in and out with dogs, and prospective adopters wandering through, and constant barking, and stuff. It's a madhouse in there. No wonder the employees all seem so frazzled.
Have you ever adopted from a pound? Have you ever worked or volunteered in one? Are my observations about a higher-than-average level of the crazy correct?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Are you sick of dog posts yet?
This whole dog situation is taking over my life. As a non-dog-lover in general, this is quite disconcerting. I am starting to feel more sympathetic to those people who show you pictures of their pets like they're kids or something. A little. Not much, really, but it's better than the eye-rolling that I did before, right? [For the record, we do not consider ourselves the dog's "mommy and daddy". When we produce a human child, we will be that human child's mommy and daddy. We're the dog's owners. When I tell Rooster to go get something from Andy, I use Andy's name. I cringe when people at the pound refer to me as his mommy. I'm totally okay with my stance on this, and I know haters gonna hate. You can call yourself whatever you want when it comes to your pet, as long as you don't try to apply your standards to me and don't expect me to apply mine to you. Rant over.] [Almost: can we please ban the phrase "fur kids" from ever, ever being uttered again?]
We'll find out this afternoon if Button is ours*, but I don't know if we'd get to take him home even if he is ours, because he's getting neutered today, so they might keep him overnight.
Dog-related texts I've sent today:
1. Important question: If we get the girl dog, can we name her Pancakes?
2. Did I send you a picture of Button after they shaved half of him?
3. He looks like a deranged lion.
4. I forgot to grab the extra leash, so it looks like if he's ours I'll be putting him in the shopping cart at PetSmart like a baby until I get one.
5. Please tell them she's part robot killer, to explain the crazy eyes.
6. We still need a crate and bed and food dish for whichever one we get.
This is probably more dog-related texts than I've sent since we got Rooster three years ago.
*Update: The first person on the list was there. On time. But when she heard that I wanted Button, she wavered. She apparently is the person who found him, wandering in a snowstorm, and got attached, so she signed up for him despite living in an apartment and not being sure if she's ready for another dog (she had to put her very old dog down last year). SO she got my name and number and will let us know if she thinks Button should come live with us. By Wednesday. It's a good thing I'm so good at being patient and stuff, right?
Honest, if you're sick of dog posts, just tell me. One comment confirming that this shit is boring to people who aren't me will mean I'll just let y'all know whenever we end up with one, and leave out the rest. Really.
We'll find out this afternoon if Button is ours*, but I don't know if we'd get to take him home even if he is ours, because he's getting neutered today, so they might keep him overnight.
Dog-related texts I've sent today:
1. Important question: If we get the girl dog, can we name her Pancakes?
2. Did I send you a picture of Button after they shaved half of him?
3. He looks like a deranged lion.
4. I forgot to grab the extra leash, so it looks like if he's ours I'll be putting him in the shopping cart at PetSmart like a baby until I get one.
5. Please tell them she's part robot killer, to explain the crazy eyes.
6. We still need a crate and bed and food dish for whichever one we get.
This is probably more dog-related texts than I've sent since we got Rooster three years ago.
*Update: The first person on the list was there. On time. But when she heard that I wanted Button, she wavered. She apparently is the person who found him, wandering in a snowstorm, and got attached, so she signed up for him despite living in an apartment and not being sure if she's ready for another dog (she had to put her very old dog down last year). SO she got my name and number and will let us know if she thinks Button should come live with us. By Wednesday. It's a good thing I'm so good at being patient and stuff, right?
Honest, if you're sick of dog posts, just tell me. One comment confirming that this shit is boring to people who aren't me will mean I'll just let y'all know whenever we end up with one, and leave out the rest. Really.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
On March
Can we all agree that March is kind of a crappy month, at least in the Northeast?
March can't decide if it's winter or spring, so it gives us the worst of both. Today the windchill here is 15°. In the next two weeks the temperature will vacillate between just-above and just-below freezing, with plenty of precipitation. That means lots of ice. And slush. And drizzly, sleety rain.
Ugh.
Instead of thinking of that, let's use March to start getting ready for spring to arrive in earnest! It's too cold to do much gardening beyond the planning stages up here until mid-April at the very earliest, but the planning is the only part I'm good at, really. I am sort of absent-minded, so watering is not something that I do regularly. But I can plot out a bad-ass, bountiful container garden!
We aren't planning any tropical vacations any time soon, but that doesn't mean it's not a great idea to be on the lookout for some great new springtime wardrobe additions. Jill's spring break packing list is a great place to start! (How perfect is that teal bathing suit?)
And to help get us all into the springtime spirit, how about a little springtime spirits? (WORST PUN EVER. SORRY.) I don't drink vodka (overindulged a little too heartily in my younger days) but if we replaced the vanilla vodka in this with a dark rum, it would be my new favorite, I think.
How do you deal with the March doldrums? Do you kill every plant you come into contact with, like I do?
March can't decide if it's winter or spring, so it gives us the worst of both. Today the windchill here is 15°. In the next two weeks the temperature will vacillate between just-above and just-below freezing, with plenty of precipitation. That means lots of ice. And slush. And drizzly, sleety rain.
Ugh.
Instead of thinking of that, let's use March to start getting ready for spring to arrive in earnest! It's too cold to do much gardening beyond the planning stages up here until mid-April at the very earliest, but the planning is the only part I'm good at, really. I am sort of absent-minded, so watering is not something that I do regularly. But I can plot out a bad-ass, bountiful container garden!
We aren't planning any tropical vacations any time soon, but that doesn't mean it's not a great idea to be on the lookout for some great new springtime wardrobe additions. Jill's spring break packing list is a great place to start! (How perfect is that teal bathing suit?)
And to help get us all into the springtime spirit, how about a little springtime spirits? (WORST PUN EVER. SORRY.) I don't drink vodka (overindulged a little too heartily in my younger days) but if we replaced the vanilla vodka in this with a dark rum, it would be my new favorite, I think.
How do you deal with the March doldrums? Do you kill every plant you come into contact with, like I do?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
On dreams.
 |
| Picasso's The Dream via |
When I was in high school and had mono, my fever-fueled dreams were even more bizarre than normal. I had one where I somehow owned all of Europe, and because it was mine I could rearrange it as I see fit. I used this power (mostly) for good, by splitting up the fighty countries and such. The weirdest part was that the countries were all laid out on a board, like one of those wooden puzzles toddlers play with, but that I could move the pieces around however I wanted and they still always fit. All the puzzle pieces were an interesting shade of purple. It made discerning the borders kind of difficult, though.
Over the summer I was starting to think in earnest about my next tattoo. I have most of the components figured out, but I have a gap where there's still one missing piece. In a dream, I was thinking about the tattoo, and I suddenly realized that the missing item was a Meyer lemon! Of course! It all fit! It was such a relief to have the whole thing figured out. The thing is, I'm not even sure I've ever seen a Meyer lemon in real life, or if I'd recognize one if I was looking right at it. They hold no significance to me whatsoever, and I'm certainly not including one in my tattoo.
Two nights ago, I dreamed that Charlie Sheen and I were working together to teach reformed prostitutes to crochet and embroider (but not knit, which I actually know how to do) so they could support themselves. Apparently this was some distance in the future, because Charlie, who has been making some interesting choices lately, seemed sober, cheerful, and well rested. He really seemed to have gotten his shit together. He was in charge of the crocheting, and I was busy teaching the hookers how to do really fancy crewelwork, which I've never done a single stitch of and would probably suck at. The former prostitutes were really nice, and seemed to really be happy to have a new way to make money. Of course, once I woke up, I remembered that it's almost impossible to support oneself these days with handiwork, and that hooking is actually a pretty good rate of pay for the hours worked, and that Charlie Sheen is a degenerate woman-beating drug addict whose show I refuse to watch on principle.
I think it's interesting to look at dream dictionaries to see what the various elements supposedly represent. Lemons, for example, according to the first link, suggest something being inferior. Except that I was super-excited in the dream to hit upon the idea. (There was no entry for Meyer lemon or Charlie Sheen, for some reason.) My point here is, dream dictionaries are bullshit, but funny sometimes, like fortune cookies.
Do you remember your dreams? Do you assign meaning to the things you dream about? Anyone want to psychoanalyze me based on the four dreams described here?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)