Tony and I ran out to the bookstore this morning for a coffee break (we get 10% off at the Starbucks inside Barnes & Noble, no doubt because they know we will be lured into buying $30 of books we don't need the minute we walk in the door) and while we were there, we decided to look at the baby books.
Not the pregnancy books, of which I already own more than my share. Not the childbirth books, five of which I just checked out from the library. And not the baby-name books, of which I own one that I've never really used. (I knew from the beginning my child was going to be named Fiberglass Cadillac Aurelius Coutsoftides. What can I say? I'm an NFL fan.) No, we were looking at the "baby's first year" books. The pregnancy and baby journals. The sticky-sweet Peter Rabbit-illustrated books with little lines to fill in and pockets to fill with hospital wristbands and other baby detritus.
As you might have guessed, I'm not a fan. I find this kind of forced remembering to be a bit false and treacly, but it seems to be expected of parents, especially first-timers like Tony and me. After the first one, you seem to get a pass on any journaling or even photography. I know this because I have my baby book. (I was third and last in my family order.) It has two things written in it. My date of birth and the fact that I stood up at seven months. Anything beyond that, I'm on my own.
We also have a hard time finding photos of me either at birth or in the immediate time after. Mom and I are always digging through boxes, looking at photos of my oldest brother and of my other brother. There were 10 years between them, so mom had plenty of time to start photographing again. For me, she had three minutes a month to document anything, because when I was born, Levi was only 18 months old and we had a farm to run. If aliens landed on earth and had only my baby pictures upon which to base their understanding of child development, they would expect all babies to be born and then, 10 minutes later, be walking, talking and breaking a cat's neck with their bare hands. (I have actual photo documentation of this event. I've never been a huge animal person.)
And honestly, I don't care. I've never been the girl who has her camera strapped to her hand at all times. I'm irritated by people who feel the need to see the world through the viewfinder of a camera. I'd rather experience things as they happen rather than take time to pose everyone so that future generations can know by looking at the photos that we were having a great time. Tony and I are kindred spirits in this. We have been known to take our camera on vacation, only to get home and realize we never took it out of the suitcase. There are approximately 12 pictures of our entire three-year relationship, not counting the wedding, where we hired an amazing professional to make us look much better than we do in real life. (If I could, Steph would follow me around every day, making me look amazing.)
(The paradox to this is that I love looking at photography. I feel that a good photographer can speak volumes about what is happening. I'll go to a photography exhibit at a museum any day of the week. Just don't ask me to be the one who takes the pictures, and for Pete's sake, don't slow down my sightseeing by snapping 42 pictures of a building that looks better on a postcard in the gift shop.)
But I understand this is part of the job of parenting. In addition to the awesome stuff like teaching them to read and how to create snakes from Play-Doh, I also have to extensively photograph my children doing these things. And then preserve these photographs in albums or something. (Now all my photos are digital, and in a giant file on whatever computer I used last.)
I find that this is actually the most daunting part of parenting for me. One of us, me or Tony, will have to suck it up and start snapping photos. (And we all know what that means. I'll have to suck it up and Tony will get to live blithely on, photographing nothing.) We even agreed today at the bookstore that we will probably have to get a video camera, heaven help us. The thought of being stuck behind that lens while everyone else gets to have a great time, unencumbered by technology or documentary responsibility makes my stomach hurt. But I also don't want to take the chance that my kids will feel somehow cheated if their mom is the only one who says, "What camera?" at every special event.
So I've come up with a workable solution. My mom is going to have to attend and photograph every special event. We'll consider it payback for my undocumented youth.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
How do you know that?
I've decided people know too much about me. And not the good stuff. The stuff that comes back to mildly embarrass me. (The really embarrassing stuff only my drinking buddies know. And they are too kind to bring it up when we are sober.)
Yesterday afternoon, I received two phone calls in a five minute period that convinced me that I spread the ugly details of my life around a little too freely. (As someone who writes a blog about my life, I suppose I should have realized this sooner.)
The first call came from a friend of ours. He works in the biz, so we've had several phone conversations and met a few times. I wouldn't count him among my BFFs, though, so what he said caught me a little flat footed. After our hellos, he asked me, "Isn't it your nap time?"
Well, yes, it was my nap time, but I was astounded that he'd remembered that I take a nap every day. I told him this over lunch weeks ago and more as a joke than anything. But here it was, an embarrassing detail of my day, right in front of me.
Five minutes later, one of our vendors called. Again, we've talked on the phone many times and met once, but after our hellos, he asked, "Did you get your daily dose of ice cream yet?"
Again, gob-smacked. How do these people remember this stuff about me? I told him, in a meeting more than six weeks ago, that I was eating ice cream pretty much every day. And then I promptly forgot that I ever told him that.
I find these interactions a bit unsettling, but actually kind of charming. Most guys wouldn't even remember that I'm pregnant, let alone that I nap frequently and eat ice cream like it's my job. Tony has days when he doesn't even remember that stuff, and I'm doing it in front of him. He seems surprised every day when I head upstairs for my nap. (He's never surprised when I eat ice cream - that's not a pregnancy thing, just a Lacy thing.)
I understand that these guys are salesmen so it is their job to remember details and forge personal relationships, but really, Tony is the one they have to do that with, not me. So I am flattered when they remember this stuff. I just wish I had the wherewithal to tell them more self-promotional stuff, like that I jog five miles every day or I teach underprivileged children to read in my spare time. No, instead I tell them that I'm lazy and addicted to high-fat foods.
So as a result of these conversations, I've made a new resolution. I will only share the best, most flattering information about myself with everyone around me. No more blogs about my weight or my frizzy hair (which, by the way, Bambi did a marvelous job on yesterday, and I only got a mini-bubble). From now on, you will have to endure lengthy self-promotions about my charitable work and involvement in self-sustaining local agricultural concerns.
Now I just need to find a charity and a local farmer.
Yesterday afternoon, I received two phone calls in a five minute period that convinced me that I spread the ugly details of my life around a little too freely. (As someone who writes a blog about my life, I suppose I should have realized this sooner.)
The first call came from a friend of ours. He works in the biz, so we've had several phone conversations and met a few times. I wouldn't count him among my BFFs, though, so what he said caught me a little flat footed. After our hellos, he asked me, "Isn't it your nap time?"
Well, yes, it was my nap time, but I was astounded that he'd remembered that I take a nap every day. I told him this over lunch weeks ago and more as a joke than anything. But here it was, an embarrassing detail of my day, right in front of me.
Five minutes later, one of our vendors called. Again, we've talked on the phone many times and met once, but after our hellos, he asked, "Did you get your daily dose of ice cream yet?"
Again, gob-smacked. How do these people remember this stuff about me? I told him, in a meeting more than six weeks ago, that I was eating ice cream pretty much every day. And then I promptly forgot that I ever told him that.
I find these interactions a bit unsettling, but actually kind of charming. Most guys wouldn't even remember that I'm pregnant, let alone that I nap frequently and eat ice cream like it's my job. Tony has days when he doesn't even remember that stuff, and I'm doing it in front of him. He seems surprised every day when I head upstairs for my nap. (He's never surprised when I eat ice cream - that's not a pregnancy thing, just a Lacy thing.)
I understand that these guys are salesmen so it is their job to remember details and forge personal relationships, but really, Tony is the one they have to do that with, not me. So I am flattered when they remember this stuff. I just wish I had the wherewithal to tell them more self-promotional stuff, like that I jog five miles every day or I teach underprivileged children to read in my spare time. No, instead I tell them that I'm lazy and addicted to high-fat foods.
So as a result of these conversations, I've made a new resolution. I will only share the best, most flattering information about myself with everyone around me. No more blogs about my weight or my frizzy hair (which, by the way, Bambi did a marvelous job on yesterday, and I only got a mini-bubble). From now on, you will have to endure lengthy self-promotions about my charitable work and involvement in self-sustaining local agricultural concerns.
Now I just need to find a charity and a local farmer.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Will I stop having more fun?
I have a confession to make.
I'm not a blonde.
Well, at least not anymore. For years, I've tiptoed that fine line between blonde and brunette, covering my natural dirty-blonde hair with enough peroxide to kill a horse. I've high-lighted, low-lighted and straight-up dyed my hair regularly for the last 15 years. And I've decided that enough might just be enough.
It started off innocently enough. When I was in high school, I went to the salon for a few highlights. No big deal. In fact, a huge treat for a 15 year old. I totally recommend it. However, once you get started, it is really hard to stop. By the time I was a senior, my hair was approaching platinum blonde.
(A side note, and something that is probably just in my head. I seem to drive hairdressers insane. Every single time I've found a great stylist and we've worked out an arrangement on how I want my hair cut and colored, we get along famously for about three sessions and then her whole life implodes. Unwanted pregnancies, divorces, nervous breakdowns, you name it. And along with her life, my hair takes a turn in the dumper. I cannot tell you the number of times I have sat in stylist's chair, watching hair that previously looked just fine turn into straw-colored, poorly-cut sticks while she sobbed and told me all her problems. I have implemented a three strikes policy to help everyone. Three styles and I'm out. I simply find a new stylist and leave the previous one to her happy, healthy life and my hair intact. I'm on my fourth stylist since moving to Cincinnati, but that's okay with me.)
The problem with hair color, though, is you have to maintain it. I'm lazy when it comes to these things, and terribly cheap. I hate that I have to spend $100 to get my hair cut and colored. And that, in order to look like a normal human who cares about her hair, I have to go at least every two months. (Really, I should go every six weeks, but who has that kind of money or time? Or discipline?) The bottom line is, as I get older, my natural hair color gets darker and I become less motivated to do anything about it. I walk around most of the time embarrassed by my reverse Mohawk but unwilling to shell out the cash to fix it. Which kind of hampers my social life. It's bad enough that none of my clothes fit properly and I have the acne of a 13 year old boy. Add regrowth to that and you might as well sign me up for Meals on Wheels, because I'm never leaving the house.
So in order to facilitate a little more socialization AND save money and time, I've decided to just embrace something closer to my natural color. It can't be that bad. Some of my best friends are brunette and they seem to have a lot more fun than I do. My mom is a even brunette now and it looks great. (And she was platinum blonde her senior year, too. So there.)
I've scheduled an appointment today with Bambi (she of the August bubble-do - she's got one strike down and two to go) and I'm going to tell her to make my hair darker. It won't be easy, and I'm sure it will take an adjustment, but between these crazy dark roots and the fact that the pregnancy has made my hair grow like one of those dolls whose arm you turn (you remember those, right? You could cut their hair and stuff) I just can't keep up with this regrowth anymore. I get one week of decent highlights and two months of wearing hats. And I don't look good in hats.
The really interesting thing will be when the baby is born. Chances are it will have dark hair like Tony, but if it comes out blonde and both of us are brunette, the rumors are really going to start. I'm going to tell everyone my personal trainer is named Sven and let them draw their own conclusions.
I'm not a blonde.
Well, at least not anymore. For years, I've tiptoed that fine line between blonde and brunette, covering my natural dirty-blonde hair with enough peroxide to kill a horse. I've high-lighted, low-lighted and straight-up dyed my hair regularly for the last 15 years. And I've decided that enough might just be enough.
It started off innocently enough. When I was in high school, I went to the salon for a few highlights. No big deal. In fact, a huge treat for a 15 year old. I totally recommend it. However, once you get started, it is really hard to stop. By the time I was a senior, my hair was approaching platinum blonde.
(A side note, and something that is probably just in my head. I seem to drive hairdressers insane. Every single time I've found a great stylist and we've worked out an arrangement on how I want my hair cut and colored, we get along famously for about three sessions and then her whole life implodes. Unwanted pregnancies, divorces, nervous breakdowns, you name it. And along with her life, my hair takes a turn in the dumper. I cannot tell you the number of times I have sat in stylist's chair, watching hair that previously looked just fine turn into straw-colored, poorly-cut sticks while she sobbed and told me all her problems. I have implemented a three strikes policy to help everyone. Three styles and I'm out. I simply find a new stylist and leave the previous one to her happy, healthy life and my hair intact. I'm on my fourth stylist since moving to Cincinnati, but that's okay with me.)
The problem with hair color, though, is you have to maintain it. I'm lazy when it comes to these things, and terribly cheap. I hate that I have to spend $100 to get my hair cut and colored. And that, in order to look like a normal human who cares about her hair, I have to go at least every two months. (Really, I should go every six weeks, but who has that kind of money or time? Or discipline?) The bottom line is, as I get older, my natural hair color gets darker and I become less motivated to do anything about it. I walk around most of the time embarrassed by my reverse Mohawk but unwilling to shell out the cash to fix it. Which kind of hampers my social life. It's bad enough that none of my clothes fit properly and I have the acne of a 13 year old boy. Add regrowth to that and you might as well sign me up for Meals on Wheels, because I'm never leaving the house.
So in order to facilitate a little more socialization AND save money and time, I've decided to just embrace something closer to my natural color. It can't be that bad. Some of my best friends are brunette and they seem to have a lot more fun than I do. My mom is a even brunette now and it looks great. (And she was platinum blonde her senior year, too. So there.)
I've scheduled an appointment today with Bambi (she of the August bubble-do - she's got one strike down and two to go) and I'm going to tell her to make my hair darker. It won't be easy, and I'm sure it will take an adjustment, but between these crazy dark roots and the fact that the pregnancy has made my hair grow like one of those dolls whose arm you turn (you remember those, right? You could cut their hair and stuff) I just can't keep up with this regrowth anymore. I get one week of decent highlights and two months of wearing hats. And I don't look good in hats.
The really interesting thing will be when the baby is born. Chances are it will have dark hair like Tony, but if it comes out blonde and both of us are brunette, the rumors are really going to start. I'm going to tell everyone my personal trainer is named Sven and let them draw their own conclusions.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The great boot blowout of '09
I love shoes. You know it, I know it, there is no sense denying it.
I have a rather large shoe collection (okay, it is ridiculous, but I've had some of those shoes since I was a freshman in high school, so I'm not apologizing) and I will admit that there are days when I go into my closet and see a pair I'd forgotten even owning. It's like Christmas!
And there are times when I have made sacrifices in other areas of my life to buy the perfect shoe. I'll eat grilled cheese for a week if it means I can get the perfect pair of pumps for a special event or purchase those to-die-for boots on sale at DSW. (I am aware that this makes me a cliche, but I balance my overwhelming chick-ness with the knowledge that I can chop firewood and roof a house. So suck it.)
When I was working at a restaurant in early college, I once spent an entire paycheck on the most beautiful pair of black knee-high full-zip Doc Martens boots. I was 19, living with my mom and paying for college with a minuscule paycheck and scholarships, but those boots called to me. They were sublime.
I still own them, but something tragic happened last week. Since I've gotten pregnant, none of my clothes fit. I mean nothing. It's not that I'm showing, it's that I've gone from a 34C to a 36DD in four weeks. For the menfolk, this might sound like a good thing. Heck, for the less-endowed ladies out there, this might seem like a dream come true. But, if you've spent your entire life wearing size medium shirts, this is a living hell. I went shopping with a girlfriend one Saturday and before I could leave the house, I spent two hours trying on every shirt in my closet. I only found one that fit. Barely. I looked like Jayne Mansfield in it, which is not a comfortable look for me. I don't like to look like a pair of boobs strapped to a piece of plywood, covered by a sweater. Not my thing. Not to mention the havoc this has wreaked on my underwear drawer.
The worst thing, though, is that I seem to have put on weight in my calves. After weeks of feeling dowdy and lumpy, I finally found a cute outfit in my closet last week - a mini, the largest sweater I own, tights and my Docs. This worked until, as I was pulling up the zipper on my boots, I BLEW IT OUT. That's right, I blew the zipper on my boots clean out, leading to many tears and recriminations. Perhaps I shouldn't have been using a pair of pliers to pull the zipper up (sometimes I can't take a hint), but it was still the saddest moment of my sartorial life. I know I can get them fixed and I know I will, but I still won't be able to wear them while I'm expecting. Which makes me sadder than all of it. (They are flat-soled. The only other black boots I have are stilettos. You can do the math on that.)
This morning, it happened again. I've broken down and bought some "roomier" clothes, but it seems my calves are out to defeat me. The first pair of boots I put on this morning - sweet, kitten-heeled brown ones - wouldn't zip. I had to resort to four-inch black stiletto boots to get any sort of outfit to work. Which wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I'm grocery shopping today, for Pete's sake.
So it seems I have a few options. I can wrap my calves in saran wrap and hope they sweat into a smaller size, or I can go buy those "plus-size" boots that have room for my newly enormous lower legs.
Keep your fingers crossed for the saran wrap.
I have a rather large shoe collection (okay, it is ridiculous, but I've had some of those shoes since I was a freshman in high school, so I'm not apologizing) and I will admit that there are days when I go into my closet and see a pair I'd forgotten even owning. It's like Christmas!
And there are times when I have made sacrifices in other areas of my life to buy the perfect shoe. I'll eat grilled cheese for a week if it means I can get the perfect pair of pumps for a special event or purchase those to-die-for boots on sale at DSW. (I am aware that this makes me a cliche, but I balance my overwhelming chick-ness with the knowledge that I can chop firewood and roof a house. So suck it.)
When I was working at a restaurant in early college, I once spent an entire paycheck on the most beautiful pair of black knee-high full-zip Doc Martens boots. I was 19, living with my mom and paying for college with a minuscule paycheck and scholarships, but those boots called to me. They were sublime.
I still own them, but something tragic happened last week. Since I've gotten pregnant, none of my clothes fit. I mean nothing. It's not that I'm showing, it's that I've gone from a 34C to a 36DD in four weeks. For the menfolk, this might sound like a good thing. Heck, for the less-endowed ladies out there, this might seem like a dream come true. But, if you've spent your entire life wearing size medium shirts, this is a living hell. I went shopping with a girlfriend one Saturday and before I could leave the house, I spent two hours trying on every shirt in my closet. I only found one that fit. Barely. I looked like Jayne Mansfield in it, which is not a comfortable look for me. I don't like to look like a pair of boobs strapped to a piece of plywood, covered by a sweater. Not my thing. Not to mention the havoc this has wreaked on my underwear drawer.
The worst thing, though, is that I seem to have put on weight in my calves. After weeks of feeling dowdy and lumpy, I finally found a cute outfit in my closet last week - a mini, the largest sweater I own, tights and my Docs. This worked until, as I was pulling up the zipper on my boots, I BLEW IT OUT. That's right, I blew the zipper on my boots clean out, leading to many tears and recriminations. Perhaps I shouldn't have been using a pair of pliers to pull the zipper up (sometimes I can't take a hint), but it was still the saddest moment of my sartorial life. I know I can get them fixed and I know I will, but I still won't be able to wear them while I'm expecting. Which makes me sadder than all of it. (They are flat-soled. The only other black boots I have are stilettos. You can do the math on that.)
This morning, it happened again. I've broken down and bought some "roomier" clothes, but it seems my calves are out to defeat me. The first pair of boots I put on this morning - sweet, kitten-heeled brown ones - wouldn't zip. I had to resort to four-inch black stiletto boots to get any sort of outfit to work. Which wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I'm grocery shopping today, for Pete's sake.
So it seems I have a few options. I can wrap my calves in saran wrap and hope they sweat into a smaller size, or I can go buy those "plus-size" boots that have room for my newly enormous lower legs.
Keep your fingers crossed for the saran wrap.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Five weeks and counting....
I need a break from this whole pregnancy thing.
Just one day or even half a day to run wild, drinking a glass of wine and taking a Tylenol without doing the complex calculus of how badly this is going to screw up the other life I'm now responsible for.
I'm sure every woman who has been pregnant has felt the same way at some time, either in the beginning or more toward the end, when you are as big as a house and have been dealing with not really owning your own body for eight or nine months. The surreal feeling of making all your decisions based on some other life inside you is very strange, indeed. Especially when you've spent your entire adult life with a complete disregard for your own health and well-being.
This week is the perfect example. Tuesday morning, everything was humming along beautifully when I was felled by a migraine. I've been getting migraines for almost 10 years now, and I never know when or why they will hit. I've always envied people who knew exactly what triggered their headaches. (I have a girlfriend who has it down to a science - no mushrooms, cranberries or sharp cheddar cheese. No joke.) I have no idea. It could be the weather patterns in Peru, for all I know.
Tuesday morning, I had oatmeal and a glass of milk, the same breakfast I've had every day for two weeks now. An hour later, I was sent reeling into a dark room, clutching my head and knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. No prescription migraine medication is safe for pregnancy and Tylenol, the one thing I CAN take, doesn't even touch that kind of pain. I might as well swallow a handful of Tic Tacs. So, I slunk off to the TV room and consoled myself with lukewarm water and reruns of Law and Order. (And not even Criminal Intent. The infinitely lamer SVU.)
Tony did a nice job taking care of me, given our limited resources. My lunch choices were baked beans and yogurt (I chose yogurt) and for dinner, he got be Taco Bell. (PS, the new Loaded Nachos are to DIE FOR! Guac, two kinds of cheese and pico de gallo. Super awesome good. But I digress.) I went to bed that night convinced I'd wake up the Wednesday a new woman.
Instead, I woke up in more pain than the day before. Have you ever tried getting up for your pregnancy bladder break at three in the morning when you feel like your head is going to explode? I couldn't even turn on the light in the bathroom, so I was convinced the whole time that snakes were going to come out of the toilet and grab my butt. (I'm not kidding, this is why I have to turn the light on every time I get up during the night. Overwhelming fear of toilet snakes.)
So, I spent yesterday glued to the couch again, watching Top Chef reruns. (At least it was restaurant wars, so that was fun. But it made me hungry.) We had fish sticks for lunch - Tony cooked! I pretended each fish stick was an amuse-bouche.
Today, I'm back to myself, mostly. There is always lingering pain after an episode like that, but I'm well enough to get back to work. But the whole episode drove home for me just how little control I have over my body now and for the next seven months. Or actually, how much more control I have to exercise than usual. I've always been pretty loose and free with the booze, the ibuprofen and the raw foods. No more. I've had to give up over-easy eggs, the good sushi, Advil, beer, unpasteurized cheese, all of that. I'm actually not sure what I've been eating the last month, given those restrictions.
Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled about being pregnant. Tony and I tried for months to get this way, so it is a little disingenuous for me to complain now. But like any blessing, this has some consequences wrapped up in it. Like me not being able to eat a Spicy Tuna Roll or wash down a great medium-rare steak with a beautiful glass of Shiraz.
Oh, great. Now I'm hungry. Way to go, Lacy.
Just one day or even half a day to run wild, drinking a glass of wine and taking a Tylenol without doing the complex calculus of how badly this is going to screw up the other life I'm now responsible for.
I'm sure every woman who has been pregnant has felt the same way at some time, either in the beginning or more toward the end, when you are as big as a house and have been dealing with not really owning your own body for eight or nine months. The surreal feeling of making all your decisions based on some other life inside you is very strange, indeed. Especially when you've spent your entire adult life with a complete disregard for your own health and well-being.
This week is the perfect example. Tuesday morning, everything was humming along beautifully when I was felled by a migraine. I've been getting migraines for almost 10 years now, and I never know when or why they will hit. I've always envied people who knew exactly what triggered their headaches. (I have a girlfriend who has it down to a science - no mushrooms, cranberries or sharp cheddar cheese. No joke.) I have no idea. It could be the weather patterns in Peru, for all I know.
Tuesday morning, I had oatmeal and a glass of milk, the same breakfast I've had every day for two weeks now. An hour later, I was sent reeling into a dark room, clutching my head and knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. No prescription migraine medication is safe for pregnancy and Tylenol, the one thing I CAN take, doesn't even touch that kind of pain. I might as well swallow a handful of Tic Tacs. So, I slunk off to the TV room and consoled myself with lukewarm water and reruns of Law and Order. (And not even Criminal Intent. The infinitely lamer SVU.)
Tony did a nice job taking care of me, given our limited resources. My lunch choices were baked beans and yogurt (I chose yogurt) and for dinner, he got be Taco Bell. (PS, the new Loaded Nachos are to DIE FOR! Guac, two kinds of cheese and pico de gallo. Super awesome good. But I digress.) I went to bed that night convinced I'd wake up the Wednesday a new woman.
Instead, I woke up in more pain than the day before. Have you ever tried getting up for your pregnancy bladder break at three in the morning when you feel like your head is going to explode? I couldn't even turn on the light in the bathroom, so I was convinced the whole time that snakes were going to come out of the toilet and grab my butt. (I'm not kidding, this is why I have to turn the light on every time I get up during the night. Overwhelming fear of toilet snakes.)
So, I spent yesterday glued to the couch again, watching Top Chef reruns. (At least it was restaurant wars, so that was fun. But it made me hungry.) We had fish sticks for lunch - Tony cooked! I pretended each fish stick was an amuse-bouche.
Today, I'm back to myself, mostly. There is always lingering pain after an episode like that, but I'm well enough to get back to work. But the whole episode drove home for me just how little control I have over my body now and for the next seven months. Or actually, how much more control I have to exercise than usual. I've always been pretty loose and free with the booze, the ibuprofen and the raw foods. No more. I've had to give up over-easy eggs, the good sushi, Advil, beer, unpasteurized cheese, all of that. I'm actually not sure what I've been eating the last month, given those restrictions.
Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled about being pregnant. Tony and I tried for months to get this way, so it is a little disingenuous for me to complain now. But like any blessing, this has some consequences wrapped up in it. Like me not being able to eat a Spicy Tuna Roll or wash down a great medium-rare steak with a beautiful glass of Shiraz.
Oh, great. Now I'm hungry. Way to go, Lacy.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Where's Linda Blair when you need her?
I need a young priest and an old priest.
My house is possessed. Or perhaps infested is a better term.
Here's the deal. I hate bugs, creatures, jumpy things, birds, frogs, snakes, mice, vermin and too many other parts of "nature" to mention here.
Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I grew up on a farm and might find this a little odd, but here's my explanation - I got enough of that before I turned 13 that I'd prefer not to deal with it now.
When we lived in the condo, it was fine. The only nature I came into contact with was the occasional bird on the fire escape. Oh, and one cockroach that fell off a chair that had been in a storage unit for months, but Tony squished that and I spent the rest of the night rocking in a corner, mumbling.
But then we got all suburban. We HAD to move to a piece of property on a lake. We HAD to invite nature right up to the back door of the house. What the hell were we thinking?
My first inkling that this new house was going to be a torture chamber for me came early on. The lake is a breeding ground for frogs. LOTS of frogs. I've been terrified of frogs since I was an infant, I believe. They jump, people. Anything that jumps has the element of surprise, and that freaks me out. I constantly envision frogs jumping off the roadway into my face, maybe into my mouth, which is so horrible to contemplate that I'm going to have to close my eyes right now for a moment and visualize Brad Pitt in "Legends of the Fall." HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
Okay, I'm back. But you get my point. Mom and I made the mistake last time she was here of going for a walk after dusk, and there were frogs every 10 inches on the road, the grass and the sidewalk. I FREAKED OUT. I practically made my 62-year-old mother carry me home on her back so I would be protected from the jumping scourge.
Things got worse this fall, though. The terror came inside my house, in the form of spiders. We were invaded a few weeks ago. I was calmly watching a movie in the downstairs media room when I saw a spider the size of my smaller dog marching along the carpet. (That would be eight pounds, for those of you keeping track.) You've never seen a grown woman scale a bean bag chair so fast. For weeks, I've been doing spider patrols every time I go in the basement. I turn on all the lights, flick blankets, shake pillows and stomp and shout.
Tony finally convinced me that he could safely spray the windowsills and empty storage spaces in the basement and our baby wouldn't have tumors and the dogs, who aren't even allowed down there, wouldn't die horribly foamy-mouthed deaths from spider poison. It worked. Now my basement carpet is littered with spider carcasses, but since I can't be sure they are actually dead, I'm not touching them. They might just be trying to sucker me in and bite me. I once saw someone (okay, it was Mom) who got a spider bite on her eyelid and because it was so poisonous, she nearly lost her eye. No joke, the necrosis ate through her eyelid. It was like a horror film. (She's fine now.)
But now, to add insult to injury, they've invaded my attic. The last few nights, Tony and I have awoken to the sound of scrabbling in the ceiling of the master bedroom. Talk about waking up in a cold terror. We've figured out it is just the birds who like to sit on the downspout and have someway made their way into the attic. We don't use the attic for anything and I'm sure as heck not going to now, but it is seriously terrifying. I keep having visions of being trapped in a phone booth, being pecked to death, a la Tippi Hedren. (Google it, kids.) Birds have the ultimate element of surprise. They are silent, flying, pooping deliverers of death. You think Legionnaire's disease wasn't domestic terrorism on the part of the birds?
The only solution, I've decided, is to move into someplace really industrial, like Beijing. I bet they don't have frogs and spiders and invasive birds there. Sure, I might end up with black lung, but that is an enemy I can see and fight. Until then, I'm sleeping in a HAZMAT suit with big earplugs. Oh, and walks are definitely out. I'm only leaving the house in the comfort and safety of my Mini Cooper.
Unless someone knows a priest willing to do an exorcism. I'm open to that option.
My house is possessed. Or perhaps infested is a better term.
Here's the deal. I hate bugs, creatures, jumpy things, birds, frogs, snakes, mice, vermin and too many other parts of "nature" to mention here.
Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I grew up on a farm and might find this a little odd, but here's my explanation - I got enough of that before I turned 13 that I'd prefer not to deal with it now.
When we lived in the condo, it was fine. The only nature I came into contact with was the occasional bird on the fire escape. Oh, and one cockroach that fell off a chair that had been in a storage unit for months, but Tony squished that and I spent the rest of the night rocking in a corner, mumbling.
But then we got all suburban. We HAD to move to a piece of property on a lake. We HAD to invite nature right up to the back door of the house. What the hell were we thinking?
My first inkling that this new house was going to be a torture chamber for me came early on. The lake is a breeding ground for frogs. LOTS of frogs. I've been terrified of frogs since I was an infant, I believe. They jump, people. Anything that jumps has the element of surprise, and that freaks me out. I constantly envision frogs jumping off the roadway into my face, maybe into my mouth, which is so horrible to contemplate that I'm going to have to close my eyes right now for a moment and visualize Brad Pitt in "Legends of the Fall." HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
Okay, I'm back. But you get my point. Mom and I made the mistake last time she was here of going for a walk after dusk, and there were frogs every 10 inches on the road, the grass and the sidewalk. I FREAKED OUT. I practically made my 62-year-old mother carry me home on her back so I would be protected from the jumping scourge.
Things got worse this fall, though. The terror came inside my house, in the form of spiders. We were invaded a few weeks ago. I was calmly watching a movie in the downstairs media room when I saw a spider the size of my smaller dog marching along the carpet. (That would be eight pounds, for those of you keeping track.) You've never seen a grown woman scale a bean bag chair so fast. For weeks, I've been doing spider patrols every time I go in the basement. I turn on all the lights, flick blankets, shake pillows and stomp and shout.
Tony finally convinced me that he could safely spray the windowsills and empty storage spaces in the basement and our baby wouldn't have tumors and the dogs, who aren't even allowed down there, wouldn't die horribly foamy-mouthed deaths from spider poison. It worked. Now my basement carpet is littered with spider carcasses, but since I can't be sure they are actually dead, I'm not touching them. They might just be trying to sucker me in and bite me. I once saw someone (okay, it was Mom) who got a spider bite on her eyelid and because it was so poisonous, she nearly lost her eye. No joke, the necrosis ate through her eyelid. It was like a horror film. (She's fine now.)
But now, to add insult to injury, they've invaded my attic. The last few nights, Tony and I have awoken to the sound of scrabbling in the ceiling of the master bedroom. Talk about waking up in a cold terror. We've figured out it is just the birds who like to sit on the downspout and have someway made their way into the attic. We don't use the attic for anything and I'm sure as heck not going to now, but it is seriously terrifying. I keep having visions of being trapped in a phone booth, being pecked to death, a la Tippi Hedren. (Google it, kids.) Birds have the ultimate element of surprise. They are silent, flying, pooping deliverers of death. You think Legionnaire's disease wasn't domestic terrorism on the part of the birds?
The only solution, I've decided, is to move into someplace really industrial, like Beijing. I bet they don't have frogs and spiders and invasive birds there. Sure, I might end up with black lung, but that is an enemy I can see and fight. Until then, I'm sleeping in a HAZMAT suit with big earplugs. Oh, and walks are definitely out. I'm only leaving the house in the comfort and safety of my Mini Cooper.
Unless someone knows a priest willing to do an exorcism. I'm open to that option.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Where's my shopping cart?
My poor husband. I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago and realized that I look like hell. And that I've looked like hell for a few weeks, with one or two days of passable hair and makeup.
Yeah, I've become that woman who, because she doesn't leave the house very often, wears the same cardigan for days on end (no matter that it's crusted with leftovers from Tuesday's lunch) and hasn't painted her toenails in a month. Sigh.
This all happened pretty suddenly. We started the business three weeks ago and it seems that my grooming time simply vanished. For the first two weeks, it was because I was working out in the morning, then cramming in a quick shower and breakfast before getting in to the office. This week, I've been missing the alarm and waking with a start 20 minutes before I am supposed to be in my office chair, leaving enough time for a quick shower, cup of yogurt and maybe (and this is not guaranteed) to run a brush through my hair. Not glamorous.
I used to be glamorous. When I was a cosmetics maven, every day started with an elaborate beauty ritual involving no fewer than 35 products. I'm not even kidding. I counted. My hair was always perfectly (if a bit stiffly) coiffed. I wore three shades of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, foundation, blush, lipliner, lipstick, lipgloss, pressed powder. I had a five-step skincare ritual. Nowadays, I wash my face and sometimes remember to put on moisturizer. I look like a homeless meth addict. (However, my teeth always look fantastic. I have good teeth genes and brush religiously.) The hormones are making me break out like a teenager and yet I have this perfect circle of dry skin on my forehead. I look like I'm trying to sprout a horn. Which would be typical.
My hair has completely freaked out since I got pregnant. (You women who say your hair was thick and luxuriant while pregnant? I hate you.) It manages to be oily and dry at the same time. It sticks out from one side of my head and lays flat on the other. It also doesn't help that my highlights are six weeks old and I'm afraid the caustic chemicals in the highlight mixture will turn the baby into Wolverine. I have what one friend referred to as a "reverse Mohawk." Super awesome.
Every night before I go to sleep, I look at my frowzy hair and my blotchy skin and make a personal commitment to myself and my marriage that TOMORROW, I will wake up on time, shave my legs, paint my toenails and apply some makeup. It never happens. I roll out of bed, look at my lumpy hair and splotchy skin and realize it is so not worth the effort. The last thing I want to do is spend 45 minutes getting ready in order to be overheated from the blow dryer and have the horn-stump on my head caked in powder and mascara running from my eyes because I cry every twenty seconds.
So, here's my new commitment. In seven months, when the baby is born, I'll make sure it is so stinking cute all the time, no one will even bother to look at the bushy-haired unicorn pushing it around in a stroller.
Yeah, I've become that woman who, because she doesn't leave the house very often, wears the same cardigan for days on end (no matter that it's crusted with leftovers from Tuesday's lunch) and hasn't painted her toenails in a month. Sigh.
This all happened pretty suddenly. We started the business three weeks ago and it seems that my grooming time simply vanished. For the first two weeks, it was because I was working out in the morning, then cramming in a quick shower and breakfast before getting in to the office. This week, I've been missing the alarm and waking with a start 20 minutes before I am supposed to be in my office chair, leaving enough time for a quick shower, cup of yogurt and maybe (and this is not guaranteed) to run a brush through my hair. Not glamorous.
I used to be glamorous. When I was a cosmetics maven, every day started with an elaborate beauty ritual involving no fewer than 35 products. I'm not even kidding. I counted. My hair was always perfectly (if a bit stiffly) coiffed. I wore three shades of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, foundation, blush, lipliner, lipstick, lipgloss, pressed powder. I had a five-step skincare ritual. Nowadays, I wash my face and sometimes remember to put on moisturizer. I look like a homeless meth addict. (However, my teeth always look fantastic. I have good teeth genes and brush religiously.) The hormones are making me break out like a teenager and yet I have this perfect circle of dry skin on my forehead. I look like I'm trying to sprout a horn. Which would be typical.
My hair has completely freaked out since I got pregnant. (You women who say your hair was thick and luxuriant while pregnant? I hate you.) It manages to be oily and dry at the same time. It sticks out from one side of my head and lays flat on the other. It also doesn't help that my highlights are six weeks old and I'm afraid the caustic chemicals in the highlight mixture will turn the baby into Wolverine. I have what one friend referred to as a "reverse Mohawk." Super awesome.
Every night before I go to sleep, I look at my frowzy hair and my blotchy skin and make a personal commitment to myself and my marriage that TOMORROW, I will wake up on time, shave my legs, paint my toenails and apply some makeup. It never happens. I roll out of bed, look at my lumpy hair and splotchy skin and realize it is so not worth the effort. The last thing I want to do is spend 45 minutes getting ready in order to be overheated from the blow dryer and have the horn-stump on my head caked in powder and mascara running from my eyes because I cry every twenty seconds.
So, here's my new commitment. In seven months, when the baby is born, I'll make sure it is so stinking cute all the time, no one will even bother to look at the bushy-haired unicorn pushing it around in a stroller.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Fish Fingers
It will be no surprise to anyone who has been pregnant before or had a pregnant spouse or friend that I am cripplingly tired most days. It is everything I can do to haul my butt out of bed, exercise, and get to the (home) office by eight. (In fact, I made it at 9:30 today, but Sarge kept us up most of the night being sick, so I had a legitimate excuse.) I can usually piece together a few good hours of work before my forehead starts to drift toward the keyboard and I head upstairs for a nap.
With a truncated day and more things on my plate now with the business, I had to pare down some of my household responsibilities. For instance, I no longer carry the laundry upstairs. Instead, it stays neatly folded on the dryer and I get dressed in the laundry room every day. Which will be really exciting for our new neighbors when they move in next month. (There is a window without a curtain in that room that looks directly into their living room. I may need to modify this plan. Or become less modest.)
The second task out the window was cooking. I know, I know. Cooking is my favorite thing to do, food is my favorite thing to consume, I get it. But, when the thought of chopping an onion or sauteing a piece of chicken makes you want to weep with exhaustion, something has to give. So Tony and I broke down, got a membership to Sam's Club, and started eating like toddlers.
No joke. I've eaten more chicken fingers in the past two weeks than I have in my entire adult life. And don't get me started on the eight-pound bag of Ore-Ida crinkle cut fries in the freezer. I could barely lift that baby into the cart at Sam's, but it was calling my name. Ditto the 110-count sack of fish sticks. (Tony calls them fish fingers, which I find unbearably funny and gross at the same time - who wants to eat a fish finger?) Pretty soon, we'll be reduced to eating those ridiculous chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs accompanied by creepy smiley-face mashed potato fries.
Part of the problem is that I'm craving weird foods, like ham sandwiches and chicken fingers. (Perhaps I should qualify that with "weird to me." I understand that ham sandwiches and chicken fingers are part of the backbone of this great nation.) The other part is that I can stagger to the freezer, grab two bags and a cookie sheet, throw some stuff in the oven and have a passable meal 25 minutes later. Add a veggie tray from Sam's and you've got a three-course dining experience.
Additionally, I've gotten incredibly militant about the number of calories I consume in a day. (It doesn't help that Tony follows me around saying he'll divorce me if I'm one of those women who throws caution to the wind and gains 100 pounds while she's pregnant. Every bite of food feels like the end of my marriage.) With prepared food, I know exactly what I'm getting, calorie-wise. I can add up my 160-calorie chicken fingers in my head, throw on another 50 for barbecue sauce and I've got some easy figures to write in the food journal that accompanies me everywhere.
I know, I know, I'm bathing my unborn child in sodium and other bad stuff. Trust me, before I got pregnant, I was on a big organic-food kick. I only ate chemical and preservative-free foods made with baby vegetables and the tears of unicorns. But until I'm past this exhaustion, there is no way I can find recipes, source the food, edit, and prepare that kind of stuff and still get the rest of my day's to-do list accomplished.
So until the second trimester, fish fingers and french fries it is. As long as we keep the house stocked with ketchup and barbecue sauce, it should be smooth sailing.
With a truncated day and more things on my plate now with the business, I had to pare down some of my household responsibilities. For instance, I no longer carry the laundry upstairs. Instead, it stays neatly folded on the dryer and I get dressed in the laundry room every day. Which will be really exciting for our new neighbors when they move in next month. (There is a window without a curtain in that room that looks directly into their living room. I may need to modify this plan. Or become less modest.)
The second task out the window was cooking. I know, I know. Cooking is my favorite thing to do, food is my favorite thing to consume, I get it. But, when the thought of chopping an onion or sauteing a piece of chicken makes you want to weep with exhaustion, something has to give. So Tony and I broke down, got a membership to Sam's Club, and started eating like toddlers.
No joke. I've eaten more chicken fingers in the past two weeks than I have in my entire adult life. And don't get me started on the eight-pound bag of Ore-Ida crinkle cut fries in the freezer. I could barely lift that baby into the cart at Sam's, but it was calling my name. Ditto the 110-count sack of fish sticks. (Tony calls them fish fingers, which I find unbearably funny and gross at the same time - who wants to eat a fish finger?) Pretty soon, we'll be reduced to eating those ridiculous chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs accompanied by creepy smiley-face mashed potato fries.
Part of the problem is that I'm craving weird foods, like ham sandwiches and chicken fingers. (Perhaps I should qualify that with "weird to me." I understand that ham sandwiches and chicken fingers are part of the backbone of this great nation.) The other part is that I can stagger to the freezer, grab two bags and a cookie sheet, throw some stuff in the oven and have a passable meal 25 minutes later. Add a veggie tray from Sam's and you've got a three-course dining experience.
Additionally, I've gotten incredibly militant about the number of calories I consume in a day. (It doesn't help that Tony follows me around saying he'll divorce me if I'm one of those women who throws caution to the wind and gains 100 pounds while she's pregnant. Every bite of food feels like the end of my marriage.) With prepared food, I know exactly what I'm getting, calorie-wise. I can add up my 160-calorie chicken fingers in my head, throw on another 50 for barbecue sauce and I've got some easy figures to write in the food journal that accompanies me everywhere.
I know, I know, I'm bathing my unborn child in sodium and other bad stuff. Trust me, before I got pregnant, I was on a big organic-food kick. I only ate chemical and preservative-free foods made with baby vegetables and the tears of unicorns. But until I'm past this exhaustion, there is no way I can find recipes, source the food, edit, and prepare that kind of stuff and still get the rest of my day's to-do list accomplished.
So until the second trimester, fish fingers and french fries it is. As long as we keep the house stocked with ketchup and barbecue sauce, it should be smooth sailing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
