A Very Bad Day

Tomorrow is my due date, and seeing as approximately 95% of babies are not born on their due date, I do not expect mine to be. Which means the baby will be late, which is not only normal, but is also, really, fine. Who am I to complain; being home and waiting for the arrival of my firstborn is not a bad problem to have. Except that, right now, I'm feeling more than a little whiny about the whole situation. I've burst into tears approximately 3 times today. Once during Grey's Anatomy, when Meredith had her little paper-bag breathing incident in the closet with McDreamy. The second time during A Baby Story, which for the last few months I have been boycotting, because all it does it make me nervous. However, the plug got me: "A woman is a week late and labor is induced." I was like, Oh, maybe that will make me feel better. It didn't, and the labor part made me nervous, and the baby being born made me cry in that weepy, cliched way overly-hormonal women do. Like last week when I was watching the S&tC ep where Miranda has Brady, I was a damn wreck. Cynical Miranda, looking at her baby for the first time and being affected--gah! (On a side note, Ashley, if my water does end up breaking, I will try really really hard not to ruin anyone's shoes, much less someone's Manolos, heehee. That was so ick.)


The third time I turned on the waterworks was after my dress-up pink flamingo flung itself off the shelf and smashed. An overtly tacky, revenge-type Christmas present from my brother, the flamingo has been in my possession about 2 years now. It has outfits for every holiday, some of them more than hideous, but in the end, it is MY tacky flamingo, and I love it. I made a 2005 calendar inspired by the flamingo, for pete's sake. Scott threw a toy for Bender, and Bender careened into the shelf, and the flamingo flew its first and only (dreadfully unsucessful) flight. I just saw the head, the body, and the bodiless outfit lying sadly in the hallway, and had to leave. Dogs break things, husbands break things, kids break things, and hell if I don't break something every other day. A person can't get too attached. And I'm really not mad. Scott's trying to fix it with two kinds of glue; there's just a few pieces left.

But it was everything else surrounding the flamingo. I'm at the point where all movies suck, there truly is nothing on TV, despite having the help of the DVR, I don't want to read--I don't even want to read Harry Potter, which is a Very Bad Sign. The yarn I bought to learn crocheting with, despite being soft, multi-colored, and very cool, is too crinkly to do anything with. I honestly don't feel like emailing very much, even, because what is there to say other than, nope, still no baby, and yup, going more than a little crazy. I certainly do not want to talk on the phone. I can't write thank-you cards yet for baby gifts, because I had a plan for that, and the plan hinges on the baby actually BEING here. I don't even want to go to Target (another grave sign). And I don't want to sit in the same spot on the living room couch, because the perspective is getting old.

So, after the flamingo incident, I sat down in the chair by the window and discovered that Bill Lumbergh is about to die. He's been fine the entire time I've owned him (yeah, all of two and a half months, but still). He was fine this weekend. His water needed to be cleaned, and I did that today, seemingly without incident, and fed him a little. And now he's either tweaking out and shooting all over the office tank, or he's laying on his side for several long moments at a time. After seeing how many aquatic creatures die over the past few months, I know the signs. I'm no idiot--Bill is going to die. He is. I'm going to have to flush him, and this baby's still not going to come out, and what if I'm as bad a People Mom as I am a Fish Mom. And then my flamingo is forever going to have a hole in his chest. And nothing good will ever be on TV again. And I still can't stop eating cookies.

Wah.

dusty

i'm back from hells kitchen and joshua tree. when conscious i will post about ruining an entire roll of film, and life from the inferno to some place much hotter.

Get it OUT.

@ 25

D said...
"Why was 25 such a good age?"

like in the context of it being an odd-numbered birthday? i had to look up the year - good thing i have albums, bcs i was a complete blank.

let me take you back:
to chicago> It was actually a kick ass year. I went to depeche mode at the staples center (okay and LA), close enough to see dave gahan sweat, saw Weezer 'live at the aragon' along with the Get Up Kids and Ozma, (in chicago)... i was working at Borders, developing an odd assortment of friends and aquaintences, taking people to Dave and Busters, seeing the Cubs play, walking around in the wilderness. Some of my closest new friends hadn't yet betrayed me, a long time friend hadn't as yet had a psychotic break from reality. All was well, except for the $271 ticket (moving violation), i explored the inner workings of the aerospace industry over the summer (w/ bill and gill), went down to the 'river' and took a speedboat ride to edge of california and had the best teryaki bbq salamon EVER. But then there was the maddening pressure to be creative every day, every month... and the desperate need for a community in a place not my home- which mostly failed but at times soared beyond expectation. So in my darkest moments I panicked about my chosen destiny, pondered another way and route, was too clingy and emotionally needy- and @ my best I was becoming an artist who owned their craft and called myself so, producing work i was proud of and exploring a place that seeped into the aesthetic of my soul- like closing my eyes in the face of a beautiful january sun and walking over the bridge into the city blind.

Outage

yesterday i repotted 3 plants, played with dogs, finished 3 paintings, watched amelie, wished i was the gnome, ate some fattening nuggets, didn't work out, dosed advil, watched scrubs and went to bed at 1130.

today i woke up late, made bacon, played with dogs, watered 80 plants, planted 1, righted the feld vines, contemplated the universe, got a call from Hell's Kitchen II to do standin/PA work for $100 a day. Temporarily conflicted, seized, stopped in tracks.

but thank god for the IMDB. i deduced that they got my resume not bcs god is trying to be funny or that they're making a horrible sequal to some movie with angelina jolie but that it's the reality tv show about a guy and some restaurants and some chefs. i think. yes. realitystaff.com. yes. that must be it. so luckily we push joshua tree back to sat. sun. mon. and my world isn't shattered with dashed expectation. he even asked if i could work sat. sun. and i was like er, no. definitely not. even this was too dangeroulsy close to upsetting my fragile world order. but i'm not complaining.

Okay I'm calm(er) again

I went to the doctor just to set my spazzy mind at ease about the whole contractions/are they/aren't they real thing, and (obviously) they sent me home, so I'm now regrouping. I am pleased to say that the bitchy receptionist of last week's blog-lore was not there today, so I instead was checked out by the posse of big-haired ladies instead, and even though they have ginormous hairdos, at least they are pleasant. Also, I've discovered that "contractions" is a magic word at the OB/GYN office. I've never been sent through so quickly. (Sweet.)

Inspired by mendacious, I think I'll create my own to-do list:
1) Find recipe for cubed steak, which will be tonight's dinner, along with rice and some sort of veggie.
2) Quit eating chocolate chip cookies, graduate to yogurt, or grapes, or something remotely healthy. Maybe ice cream (calcium).
3) Look forward to SCRUBS, lament that Gilmore's a repeat. Also, lament that soon the Olympics will be on, which means no new eps of Scrubs, Earl, the Office...sigh. BUT, Survivor starts Feb 2, so this is good.
4) Spruce up the plainer Bender Mania designs with illegal clipart, hope someone purchases products.
5) Stare listlessly.
6) Aspire to drink water, but drink Sprite, caffeine-free diet coke, and Gatorade (in exciting new "Rain" flavor) instead.
7) Watch the latest episode of "Martha," which I have set to DVR on TLC later. Then, ponder the fact that I am not only watching "Martha" but DVRing it as well. Martha Stewart is like, the devil. I've believed this to be true for years. But she's going to be talking about storage containers today, and I just can't help myself.
8) Possibly finish watching one of the several movies I've started and then fell asleep to over the past few weeks: Lost in Translation, Shall we Dance (Japanese version--am I up for subtitles? It's a bit much), Monster-in-Law, Mean Girls, Something's Gotta Give.
9) Watch the latest ep of Guantlet 2, ponder as I do every single week how and why I continue to watch this show, considering that I hate every single person on it. Especially (this season) Beth the Blue Eyeshadowed Cow. And Jody the Skank Ho. And even Idiot Ace. And after today, probably Cara who's Hot but Apparently Freaks Out Just Like all the Other Assholes on this Show, too.
10) Shop online for something I don't have enough money to buy, place item in virtual cart, and close window after approximately 1 hour of pretending I'm going to actually own this item.
11) Pretend contractions don't exist. Unless, of course, they do.

I also Love Odd Numbered Birthdays

good morning: having been reminded of my en/famous TO DO lists I will give you mine for today

1. Paint some small pieces while watching comedies on DVD, currently up: office space, possibly next: amelie.

2. Repot Lime tree and Orange tree into bigger pots. Think about all the other things i have to pot- refuse and read the "Divine Conspiracy" instead.

3. Call Mom and ask her to come home early so we can garden in the aftermath of 20mph wind. Toppled sunflower and vine complex, now feld as well. Hummingbirds: living. Neighbor's roof: quite bare.

4. Continue to think of ways to work in a workout today. It'd have to be a bike ride or going to the 24HF after Scrubs.

5. Contemplate my parents 36th anniversary. Having 1: forgotten and 2: having forgotten, thereby unable to do anything for them at all. I don't know what i wouldve done but given time there might have been something.

6. Get 2006 planner from Office Depot.
7. Buff Nails, possibly trim.
8. Research exposure times for pinhole cameras.
9. Pack for Joshua tree.
10. See if the EDD is ever going to pay me.
11. Drink Water.
12. Stare listlessly.
13. Procrastinate about writing.
14. Think about applying to a. screenwriting course i can't afford for july b. applying for an artist residency in holland i can't afford. c. a vacation for my non-odd numbered birthday that i can't as yet afford.
15. Think of ways 30 is going to better than all the rest. Watch Gilmore Girls instead.

Wilbur, I'm a little confused about laburrrr

Today is Tuesday, and a) I needed confirmation from Bob Townsend, our friendly local newsman, on this ("Good Tuesday Morning to you") and b) this means it will be Day 3 of me sitting around and pondering the question of "true" vs. "false" labor. I've read so many Internet and book articles on the topic that my eyes are bleeding. They all say the same thing, nothing earth-shattering, and in the back of my distorted mind I'm vaguely aware that this behavior is unproductive in virtually every way except to drive me insane-o. Last week I was able to recognize this fact in a more lucid way, and made the Official Decision to do Other Things that were both productive and distracting, and made time pass a lot faster. But I'm done with Sex & the City, so now what do I do. And, since Sunday morning, I've actually been having contractions consistent enough to make everything else look boring. The problem is that the contractions aren't particularly exciting either, so instead of enjoying the excuse to lay around and watch "Made" reruns and girl movies, I can't make a commitment lasting more than 10 minutes. Today the contractions are stronger than yesterday's, which were stronger than the day before. But, what does it all MEAN. I'm waiting for the ones that stop me in my tracks, the ones that actually give me...pause. Bring it on, bitches. That, and an epidural, and we are good to go.

Whose neck do I ring?

It's either Bender or the neighbor, I cannot decide which. (This pic of Bend, by the way is from about 3 years ago. We were both a lot smaller then, and I'm kind of getting a little depressed looking at my beloved Gumby shirt. I wish to wear thee again someday, Gumby shirt!) Anyway, it's previously been established that Bender is a special kind of dork, and one of her dorkiest qualities is her posturing. Literally, she will stand out back by the fence and bark like a wild lady, thrashing her head around Tasmanian-devil style at the neighbors and anyone else who might walk by. She's a lot better about this than she used to be, and when I say better I mean that at least she doesn't do it to everyone, all the time. It's just like, when she's in the mood. But without fail, she will always, always posture to our neighbor to the right, who shall be known henceforth as Cranky Old Guy.

Cranky Old Guy didn't do so much as say "hi" when we moved in next door, and sure, it takes two, but we moved into his neighborhood, so one would think... I mean, I'm the definition of Introvert and not likely to strike up lengthy conversation with anyone, much less strangers, but the nodding and smiling thing--overrated social custom, or just common decency? I vote for decency on this one. I hate playing games, but for god's sake. Don't be fucking rude.

Cranky Old Guy may or may not live alone. I don't think he does, personally, because I've seen pink nightgowns hanging on the clothes line, which he utilizes even on 28-degree mornings. Which is, actually, kind of endearing. My family uses a clothes line, and to be honest, I wish I wasn't such a big fan of the dryer (the warmth, the softness, the wrinkle release...) because it might save us a few bucks every month on our electric bill. Cranky Old Guy also mows the lawn religiously--the yard is overall impeccable. Except, of course, for the occasional spitwad of a wayward tennis ball accidentally tossed into his yard by his Horrible Neighbors, Scott and Penelope. God, they're so LOUD, have you ever met them? And they have this horrible black lab mix, who acts like she has rabies or some other disease, most likely mental. Worst. Neighbors. EVER.

Cranky Old Guy never says anything about the tennis balls, but he also never throws them back, either. Even though they usually land about a foot from the fence (just out of our reach), and tossing them back would be easier than, say, grumbling to oneself and throwing them in the trashcan. The only one he ever does say anything to is, in fact, Bender. Bender Superstar will run up to the fence, growling and doing her Elaine Bennis-like dance routine, and Cranky Old Guy will snap back, "Go away! Leave me alone. Blah blah grumble blah."

I used to be afraid of dogs, and I also didn't like them very much as creatures, for all their messy, drooly exuberance and unpredictability, so I can fully appreciate "shooing" a dog. Even one that's on the other side of the fence with no chance or history of even coming close to leaping over. However, Cranky Old Guy still kind of pisses me off. Because telling Bender to leave him alone isn't the only thing he does. That's only on certain days, let's just say Wednesdays. On other days, like Mondays, he eggs Bender on. He taunts her, and fully encourages the Tasmania. He waves his arms and gets up in her space just as much as she does his, so much as the fence will allow. He says "Get over here! Blah blah grumble blah!" and as soon as I open the door, he stops, and then she stops, and he walks wordlessly away.

Is he just having fun, in his secret Cranky Old Guy way? I can't tell. But for as much as I have to yell at Bender for the way she's acting, because it is so not right, I kind of want to go over there to Impeccable Yard and say a few choice words to Cranky Old Guy, too.

Whip It.

well good morning. i guess we can let the whole corn dog thing go now that we got a corn dog equipment ad- still how no hot dog cart or hot dog on a stick ads. you'd think there'd be more of a market but no. also i stand by the equal distribution of ketchup to mustard. and i have no idea what grey's anatomy has to do with anything, although last night i got caught up in the PBS special of Charles Dickens "Bleak House" which friend Cath and I read a few months back. Quite enjoyable. the series is beautiful if a little too narcissistic- and of course can't do his subplots justice. already we're thru 1 w/ 5 to go and it's moving at a fast clip. i think they're saving all their hours for the tragic ends and spiraling of main characters. mmm. drama.

this morning the wind is still blowing- with um gale force. things are banging and clanging, i should probably take down the wind chimes... and all my plants are occassionally trying their hand at 45 degree angles. most are succeeding. of course the 15ft sunflower decided to laydown completely and think about whether or not it wants to live until spring. and i'm most worried about the hummingbird nest we have in the back, bcs there are two babies in it- and i very much hope they are protected and are not instant cat treats but will live on into perpituity or however long it is that hummingbirds live till. they're so fricking cute.

besides that the day yawns before me as i watch the plant in front of my window swing and twist like an absurd marker to time- never stilling completely.

wow, that was a little to literary for me just now, i think i have to go. and maybe write about how in moments like this my heart siezes and beats: escape, escape, escape. with furtive glances, and fidgety hands that fumble and twitch with every lapsed cause and purpose. and feel assuaged with fuitle guilt at my lack of productivity- out into the sun, to be consumed by the wind.