Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Just Keep Swimming, Dammit

I signed the Munchkin up for some parent/child swim classes at our local YMCA and I am proud to say that after just two lessons, the clawmarks on my back from where she clings to me for the entire half hour have almost totally healed.

So far, the only good thing that has come of these lessons is an increase in exercise that my OB would applaud. Even in waist-deep water, carrying around 27 lbs of dead weight, along with trying not to drop the dead weight when it screams and flails, along with shuttling the angry dead weight across the pool saying, "See? Isn't this fun?" is a hell of a workout. Man, I'm tired.

It's not that she hates the water. It's just that, like any wanna-be diva, she wants to do her own thing in the water. Swim lessons are not on her list of approved activities. She would rather sit on the stairs all day and block the poor 80-year old grandmas from getting to their Water Arthritis class.

Sorry, kid but it's not gonna happen.

Today it got so bad that the teacher tried to step in and give me a break. Also I think everyone's ears were bleeding from the screaming and she probably wanted some relief. She came over, held out her arms to the Munchkin and said, "Do you want to play with me?"

"NOOOOO!!" screamed my darling girl. The teacher backed away with her palms in the I-surrender position.

"Thanks for trying," I said miserably.

Next, the teacher took a small plastic bowl, filled it and doused each kid over the head. No kid really likes this part of the class, but can you think of a better way to teach them that they won't die if their heads get wet? I can't. Plus I can't help it, they make the funniest freakin' faces.

When the Munchkin's turn came, she was already upset. Before the teacher could lift the bowl up, the Munchkin grabbed it out of her hands and dumped the water out.

And that's when the painful truth set in. Clearly, I'd given birth to an asshole.

"God, I am so sorry," I said. "Fill it again."

"Are you sure?" she said.

"Oh, yes." I held the Munchkin out at arm's length so that she wouldn't, y'know, kick me in the baby's exit door.

"Get her," I said firmly. "Do it."

Splash! The Munchkin was so surprised that for a few seconds she stopped crying and just looked at me like, "Et tu, Mommy?" And then the I-hate-my-life screaming resumed.

"See?" I said. "Isn't this fun??"

I'm going to be in big trouble when she finally figures out how to flip me off.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

In Which I Wax My Ass Off

Has it really been ten days since my last post? That is a travesty. I have plenty to write about - we just learned that the Munchkin is getting a sister, we're toying with a few baby names, and I am so embarrassingly behind on my thesis that it has become my dirtiest little secret, telling people I'm "working on it" when I'm really, well, not.

I haven't been working on it because my personal life needed a little TLC these last few weeks. I'm not going to write about that though, because blabbing to my cyber-peeps would probably undo the good that came of said TLC. Sorry.

Here's the truth: I got a Brazilian bikini wax last week, and I'm still so proud of myself for doing it that I can't think of anything else to write about. If you don't want to hear it, feel free to hit that little "X" in the upper right hand corner.

I understand. Bye, now.

Oh, you're still reading? Okay then, you asked for it.

I didn't get nervous until I found myself lying on the table with a teeny towel covering my delicate parts, staring up at a tub of blue wax. What the hell am I doing? I thought. I'm pregnant, for crying out loud. Why am I doing this to myself?

I'm sure you can guess the reason. Apparently a lot of menfolk, including the one that fathered my children, like this kind of thing. And that's all I'm gonna say about that, because his sister reads this blog.

Just as I was about to walk my hairy ass out the door, my Designated Waxer flung it open and I found myself staring at the receptionist over her shoulder, everything from my head to my thighs visible to those in the waiting area. I instinctively grabbed my towel to keep in in place. Gah, a little privacy, please?

The Waxer did a double-take as she walked in, apparently noticing my stricken deer-in-the-headlights look. "Hon, your head is supposed to be at the other end of the table," she said.

Oh. Pardon me while I swivel.

I don't know what one is supposed to chat about whilst receiving The Wax Job to End All Wax Jobs, but I started with the only line I could think of.

"It must be tough having to look at other women's...stuff...all day," I said.

"Trust me, it doesn't even faze me at this point," she replied.

From there, the conversation went something like this:

"So, you're pregnant (sounds of a wax strip being smoothed into place)?"

"Yep, I'm due in - (riiiipppppp) - GAH!"

"Oop, you doing okay?"

"Fantastic. Anyway, due in Februrary and for the love of Christ can you give me a 3-count next time?"

"Oh, how wonderful! Hang on ready? One-two-THREE (riiiiipppppp)!"


I will say this about a Brazilian. The stuff you'd think would hurt the most (read: THE OL' BUTT) actually hurts the least. I only wanted to scream obsceneties once during a forty-five minute waxing. And when it was over, I strutted out of there feeling almost as proud of myself as the day I shoved a human out of that same area.

Well, I kinda strutted. Mostly I waddled, because I had leftover wax in strange unspeakable places. But really, if you've never done it, it's worth trying at least once. If nothing else, it'll be fun to watch your BassMaster's significant other's head explode upon seeing the results.

There. Aren't you SO glad you stopped in to read today?

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Can't Wait to Kiss that Nose

And of course, there's this...

Score: Girls 3, Boys 1

Saturday, September 13, 2008

And Apparently I'm Going Deaf, Too

"Munchkin," I said at the food court today as she ran in circles around me. "You need to stay with Mommy. Do you want to hold Mommy's hand?"

"I'll hold your hand," said a male voice behind me.

Ugh, what a jerk, I thought. Here I am trying to wrangle my kid and this a**hole is trying to hit on me. The nerve!

I whipped around and faced a college-ish-aged guy sporting a goatee and a backwards baseball cap.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"I said, 'Are you in line, ma'am?"" he said.


That, uh, makes a lot more sense.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

The "NO" Heard 'Round the World

The other night as I sat toiling away at the computer, I heard the BassMaster say, "No-no, Munchkin..." in a tone that clearly indicated she was about to do something unwise and unallowed. Know how your voice always rises a few notes as you say their name when you take on the "I'm warning you" voice? Yeah, that one.

"Don't you hit Daddy," he said, gentle as ever. I waited through a few seconds of silence, my fingers suspended over the keyboard.

"NOOOO!!" he suddenly bellowed. And I mean, bellowed. This yell came from somewhere deep in his gut, from a combination of you-have-really-pissed-me-off and I-can't-effing-believe-you-just-did-that. I had no idea he could yell that loud. I actually yelped, jumped in my chair and practically screamed "Gah, I'm sorry!!" And I was on a different floor of the house altogether.

The BassMaster hardly ever yells for any reason, let alone out of anger. When it comes to disciplining the Munchkin, I'm the designated yeller. I don't scream obsceneties at her or anything (although the temptation sometimes presents itself, believe me), but I do raise my voice on occassion. Does it work? Oh, who the hell knows. Probably not.

When I came downstairs about ten minutes later, the Munchkin had settled out of her tantrum and the two of them were playing happily on the floor. There I discovered that she had grabbed a hairbrush and raised it over her head, as if to hit Daddy. He said "no, Munchkin." And then she hit him anyway. So it was a well-earned yell.

"You scared the piss out of me when you yelled at her!" I said.

"I scared the piss out of myself," he said.

That made me laugh. And after the Munchkin went to bed, we sort of made a joke out of it, growling "NOOOOO!" at random times, for no reason at all.

From what I hear, the BassMaster's father wasn't much of a yeller either. Neither was mine. And because of that - because they were both so even-tempered most of the time - we knew that when the yelling started? We knew we'd screwed up. And let's face it, we knew we deserved it.

I think the Munchkin will learn that lesson, too. She'll, uh, thank him for it later, right?

Tuesday, September 09, 2008


I've been talking some smack lately, and to my horror, it has caught up with me in the worst possible way.

I don't recall being so edgy and moody during my first pregnancy. I have a feeling that the source of the rampant bitchiness weighs about 28 pounds and is sleeping peacefully next door right now. I love her to death, but she chews on my last nerve like a puppy with a rawhide.

In addition to this blog, I also write on a private blog that I share with my three college roommates (and no, you cannot have the address). We use it to keep in touch, tell funny stories, and to vent in that way that only girlfriends can. They're like my sisters, these girls, and they know everything.

When the B-Master came down with a nasty virus last week that left him sweating, puking and, well, you can imagine what else, I really did feel bad for him. He doesn't get sick often, and even when is sick, he doesn't ask for much. He stayed on the couch while I entertained the Munchkin and brought him Gatorade.

For whatever reason, our child was particularly beastly that day, and by the time bedtime rolled around, I literally wanted to slam my head against the wall. So I turned the Roomie Blog and posted a hormone-fueled rant that went a little something like this:

He laid on the couch in his boxers, slept and watched ESPN all day. ALL. DAY. He's STILL down there. And I'm probably being a total bitch here...[but] If you threw up once at 4:30 AM and haven't had any incidents since then, I'd say that by 10:00 PM? You're cured. You're fine. So get off the effing couch and take out the recycling for God's sake.

I know. Mean and unfair and horrible. The man gets sick, like, twice a year and this is how I react.

Want to know the best part? The B-Master somehow found the blog and read that whole post. Needless to say, he was less than pleased.

"What's with that comment about the recycling?" he said to me tonight.

"Uhhmmmmddkgghflkkjyudffg...." I replied.

"I take out the recycling, like, THREE TIMES A WEEK!" he said, still clearly miffed. And what am I supposed to say? "Oh, you weren't supposed to read that. See, I was talking about you behind your back." Yeah, not helpful.

And he's right. He's absolutely right. He takes out the recycling, he vacuums my car, he lets me spend his money at Target, he always cleans up the kitchen even after he cooks, and he is a better housewife than I will ever be. Oh, I suck.

But wait, it gets better. Or worse, depending on your perspective.

I was feeling particularly, um, shrewish this past weekend, because I had 15 pages of thesis overdue by three days, and all I wanted in the wide world was for the B-Master to take the Munchkin away so that I could have some piece and quiet. I kept hearing the television downstairs, set to the high-pitched voices of Noggin, and I assumed he was being lazy and letting her watch TV instead of getting out and doing something with her.

Whipped into Ultimate Bitch Mode, I posted this status update on my Facebook page:

"Lisa wants a certain other adult in this house to turn off the TV, get off the flippin' couch and PLAY with his child."

Again with the Mean. It's even meaner considering how good he is about playing Mr. Mom on the weekends.

I should have closed my Facebook page before I hopped off the computer. Better yet, I should have just deleted that bitch-tasticly unfair comment. But I did neither, and the B-master also read that little gem.

I'm amazed he's still here, to tell you the truth.

"We were just snuggling on the couch," he said to me tonight. "She never sits still with me."

"Oh..." I replied. I couldn't find any other words. My face felt so hot that my eyeballs were melting out of their sockets. Oh, the guilt.

I've apologized approximately 115 times, and yet I can't help feeling like I might have done some irreparable damage. What bothers me most is this: do I feel guilty because he caught me at moments when I really wasn't feeling "myself?" Or do I feel guilty because he caught me at moments when I was absolutely being myself? I don't want to believe that I'm that kind of person, that I have that brand of cruelty in me. But maybe I do, and I kind of hate that idea.

At any rate, I'm done talking sh*t about this wonderful, patient man I married, hormones or no hormones. For the record, he has every right to just be sick when he's sick, and to lie on the couch and snuggle with his daughter for a few minutes if that's what he wants.

He might say the occassional dumb thing, but he is never flat-out mean to me. He works hard, he puts up with a lot of crap, and he's built a pretty sweet life for our little family. And he's a great daddy. The truth is, most days I think I'm the one undeserving of him.

I know how lucky I am. I'll remember that from now on.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

So Much for Mother Nature's Bitchslap

I wasn't planning to post today, because I was hoping that Tropical Storm Hanna would have left us sans electricity by now.

I love storms and hurricanes, and I should qualify that by adding that I only love them because I've never been in one big enough to inflict serious damage or cause me any major inconvenience. The worst storm I've seen was Hurricane Bob in 1991, which made landfall on Cape Cod sometime near the end of August. I remember my mom setting out a kerosene lamp and candles, and I remember seeing the big "X's" in masking tape on our sliding doors, courtesy of my dad.

But I never sensed any real danger. When the power finally blew, we played Monopoly by candlelight until bedtime. I walked down the hall to my room with a lit candle, pretending I was Laura Ingalls Wilder back in her prairie heyday (I, uh, read the entire Little House on the Prairie series cover-to-cover earlier that summer. I would have given my right arm to churn some butter and sleep on a straw tick mattress).

I think the power came back by the next afternoon.

So when I heard Hanna was heading for Virgina Beach, I started to fantasize about thunder and lightening, the sound of wind screaming around the window casings and dinner by candlelight. I was excited.

Still, I tend to overthink things (shocking, I know), so when the B-Master came home on Thursday, I decided get his opinion.

"So," I said. "Is this storm really going to be as bad as they say?"

"Well, we have plenty of food but I'm going to run out and get some batteries," he said. "Also I'm going to get some gas for my camping stove just in case we need it, and I'm going to put away the patio furniture so it won't blow around."

"Oh," he added. "And I'm not going to work tomorrow. They told us to stay home."

Which, to me, translated to "Armageddon is coming!" Score.

However, instead of a hearty bitch-slap, Mother Nature sort of poked us in the eyeball and then ran away. We had an inch and a half of rain, and a few gusts of wind, one of them strong enough to take down a little tree in our neighbor's yard. But that was all. By four o'clock, the sun came out and the pavement was dry.

So disappointing.

Then again, I suppose it's for the best. I've never been through a hurricane with a toddler, and I'm guessing cabin fever would have taken the fun out of everything. Also, she would totally cheat at Monopoly.

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Bad Mommy Confession #4,253

My child was beastly today, a direct result of a long Labor Day weekend that forced her daily routine straight into the toilet. She'll be better tomorrow. At least, she'd better be, otherwise I'm trading her in for a new model.

She wore the same diaper from 1:00 PM until I put her in the bathtub at 7:30. It was hot today, and I think she drank her weight in watered-down apple juice. Still, I prayed that the cheap Parent's Choice brand (which we now freely purchase since we've figured out that diapers? They're all pretty much the same) wouldn't let us down. I purposely avoided changing it all afternoon because I knew it would prompt a tantrum.

And I just couldn't handle another one.

It never seemed to bother her, but the thing weighed about 40 pounds when I finally took it off.

And it leaked.

Bad mommy. Bad, bad mommy.

Monday, September 01, 2008

You're Still Here?

Earlier this year, I filled out an application to hang with the cool kids on the BlogHer advertising network. I sent it off with a flourish, figuring it would be a matter of hours before they'd check out my blog, find me hysterically funny and witty, and sign me up without a second thought.

Two days later, I received a very nice email from a woman named Joy, who wrote something to this effect:

Dear Lisa,

Thank you for applying to the BlogHer Ad Network. However, our network consists of women who actually write on a daily basis, women who make a concerted effort to maintain their blogs and who do not come up with 1,001 lame excuses for why they shouldn't bother posting today before they settle on the couch with a gallon of cookie dough ice cream.

In case you hadn't noticed, you only posted once last month. You are not yet one of these women. Nice try, though.

Please contact us again when you can post at least twice a week, without wasting our time, and maybe, just maybe, we'll consider giving you another shot. Thanks.

I'm totally exaggerating, of course. She was actually very polite, and I felt somewhat relieved to know that my application had been screened by an actual human and not a piece of computer software. Did Joy inspire me to start posting daily? Oh, yes. Did she also inflame my crippling fear of rejection? Oh, yes.

But, if you'll kindly look to the left of this page, she served as great motivation. And I have the BlogHer bling to prove it. However...

...posting on a daily basis is hard. Harder than I thought it would be.

Sure, I write in this blog as if no one were reading. It keeps the words real and raw and honest. Still, there's a part of me - that annoying, perfectionist, primed-for-therapy part of me - that creates imaginary pressure in the far-flung corners of cyberspace.

If I write something that makes people laugh one day, I feel like I have to be funnier the next day. If I write a more sentimental post, I find myself wondering if the mush factor will make people throw up in their mouths a little. No one wants that, right? Right.

So, after a few months of dedicated posting, I'm starting to fall back on my list of excuses. I'm tired. I'm pregnant. I can't blog because I have to go out and get a Slurpee. I can't sit and write because this chair makes my ass feel funny. Blah, blah, blah, and the list goes on.

Most of the time, my life really isn't that interesting, and if you knew the thoughts that go through my head sometimes...oh, man, it's a mess up there. But I'll keep jotting them down, y'know, whenever I can bear to admit them. The daily posts will probably scale back until I'm done with my thesis, which is what I should be working on right now. But once that sucker is finished? Party at my place, people.

Okay. That's that. Now I really need a Slurpee have to go write something brilliant.