Sunday, December 31, 2006


Smelly girls wax poetic about breastfeeding

Don't worry, we only smell when overwhelmed by the chemical combination of dish soap and wet cat. We also itch, but now, what does that have to do with the nature of breastfeeding?

So, in finding a nearby pediatrician that appreciates holistic medicine and non-vaccinating, we run the risk of 1. finding someone who ignores our midnight pleas to just call us in some penicillin and more importantly, 2. lectures us about breastfeeding. Or the lack thereof. Mel got a referral card from the midwife's office, and with several exhausting and virtually useless well visits ahead of us, we may check it out and get suckered in to the docs that aren't an hour away. However, breastfeeding is always an issue.

I have yet to find someone who thinks a fabulous response to this question is a lengthy analysis of the social construction of the "naturalness" of breastfeeding.

And I SO want to find that doctor.

Because I read all the studies. Today. Not about the health benefits of breastfeeding, but about the family dynamic of lesbian families who do or don't breastfeed. Most do. This perplexes me, but I suppose it all makes sense in the grand historical sccheme of feminist "empowerment" through that radical way of celebrating all things once downtrodden. And enjoying mothering. And embracing it.

I have never, ever, repeat, never, wanted a small child near my boobs. Boobs are fun, not food, as I see it. I'm sure you can go ahead and diagnose a number of culturally constructed psychological problems from which I suffer for my intense desire to never breastfeed, so go ahead. I'm not so interested, having little desire to think about breastfeeding.

Well, lots of lesbians think about it and most try it. According to *the literature*, a few even quit for relationship issues (leaving out the *co*parent, calling the coparent a coparent, reinforcing that biology = mommyhood, reinforcing the naturalness of parenthood and thus behaving antithetically to all my queer impulses...or maybe that's just my take.

And since Mel has 5% more desire to breastfeed than I do (i.e. not so much desire), we're devised some excuses for the doctor that will certainly lecture us about immunities and nutrients and wholly ignore 1. sex 2. bonding with the kid for all parents 3. intense desire to enjoy pills again. Feel free to vote on your favorite:

Mel wants to go on antidepressants (runs the risk of having notes on "family dynamic" in child's records

Mel was sexually abused as a child and therefore cannot breastfeed (which shuts down further questioning, sadly, hard to lie about with a straight face. Yes, we're bad people.

Mel grew up on a hog farm (I made this one up myself) where multiple family members have had serious health problems from exposure to pesticides, therefore we're using organic formula instead

Mel was sexually abused by a hog (what we'll end up saying under duress).


Saturday, December 30, 2006


Still storing babies

4 more days to go.

Friday, December 29, 2006


Oh joy! Stupid people make our lives easier!

Mel's most recent (3rd in a low-risk pregnancy, mind you) sonogram has put us one whole day ahead, so we are rejoicing in the miracle of being allowed to birth in the birthing center as of next Wednesday. That's *really* only 4 full days away, so we don't have to hold out much longer til she's up and out of bed. Phew. However, if she goes into labor in on Monday or Tuesday, I'm locking her in the closet and forcing unassisted childbirth on her.

Is that not feminist?

Then I'm going to lie about the date (Money from the IRS!) and the place (Massachusetts, please, where we're both the mommies that we already are with no court appearance and adoption fees!).

If Florida can foist court-appointed "guardians" onto the fetuses of disabled women, then I can force my birth and delivery preferences on my wife. After all, it's for her own good!

And speaking of frightening politicos selling their version of reproductive choise far and wide, I realized today that the mimdwife's office has tiny plastic fetus dolls with the word "prebporn" tattooed across their spines laying around.

"That's where you get your goods!" said Mel.

Thursday, December 28, 2006


You may have thought that I could sink no lower

but maybe that was the moment that I got the cheapest car seat online (fiesta burrito color) and exchanged it in person for the powder blue model that matches our new twin stroller, lest I be considered a)a Miami fan or B)an uncaring butch who thinks that as long as the kid is *in* a car seat, everything is right with the world. No, no, their aesthetic development is at least as important as their safety, says I. After all, wasn't it bell hooks who said that "poetry is not a luxury"?

But the nadir actually came this morning when Mel sat down and applied for job writing pamphlets for unsuspecting fear-ridden Fox news afficianados about how to protect themselves from terrorist attack. I assume the job has nothing to do with protecting themselves from George Jr., but perhaps I'm being pessimistic and it does involve a certain amount of attention to all critical thinking as a terrorism survival skill, questioning the motives of all fear-mongers and coersive brainwashers. If it does, I apologize.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006


The bath

This was one of the more disturbing moments in my life, and I wasn't even there for it. Mali and Fang got a dish soap bath tonight, so hopefully their days of itching and harboring thousands of icky eggs are over. Please, please, be over.
Mel has had some bloody show and lost parts of her mucus plug, so we're hanging on by a thread. Which technically counts as hanging on. 8 days til term and a non-hospital birth.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006


Resting, resting, bed rest. Sucks. For. Everyone.

More blood. More panicking. No labor. At least we didn't do anything about it this time -- if Bubby's coming out, I'm not about to run off to L&D to stop it. We're showing up in transition at 9 centimeters, which, luckily, we are not right now. At least, I hope not. I suppose it's possible that I wouldn't know, though.

Mel hasn't had any bad contractions following the bloody incident, and is laying down today like the bedresting fool she's supposed to be and wasn't yesterday -- big surprise. Mental note: present opening marathons and bouncing on labor balls = bloody show and impending labor.

9 days to go until we're allowed at the birth center. This whole bllody show/mucus plug thing can supposedly happen for weeks...the mucusy part for several weeks and the bloody part for 2 weeks before "real" labor. If people can make it 2 weeks, we can make it 9 days. Hell, at this point, isn't it really 8 1/2?

The fleas continue. I've only seen 4 total fleas since this hellacious flea infestation began, but whenever the cats get up, they leave a bloody show of their own in their wake -- a peppery confetti of flea poop. Welcome, new baby! What a healthy home!

Oh, and if we DO have a preemie, are we obligated to name it a Cabbage Patch preemie name, like "Jefferson Emerson" or "Angelina Courtney"?

Saturday, December 23, 2006


Killing tiny game

I will sniff them out and obliterate them. Then, one day, 2 years from now, I shall hold my cats while they die because I put poison around their little necks. Then, 50 years from now, I will watch Alice go through chemotherapy because she picked up her binky off the floor and was exposed to the largest dose of DDT that a non-agricultural worker ever sees.

Hopefully, by this time, we will have fled to a gay-happy state where everyone gets health insurance.

I am even more pissed off about moving here today. It's the fleas, I'm sure, and the impending Florida birth. And yet another news story where spiteful neighbors get DCFS to take away some nice gay men's child, or at the very least tie them up in years of expensive litigation and ruin their and their children's sense of financial and emotional security ever again. So here we are. Moved here for the ability to move anywhere, and now we don't have enough money to move again. I feel like a refugee, waiting for some job to save me and the job is absolute shit, something I wouldn't have taken 8 months ago to save my life. It won't give Mel benefits, won't give us what we moved here hoping to get closer to.

Employers in the northeast, just email. Will work for DP benefits. Here's a resume, in case you're seriously looking.

hunting tiny game
ability to do SAT math
ability to weild a wildly useless vocabulary when necessary
Intimate analytical knowledge of every line JK Rowling has ever written
Ability to explain Barthes and Butler to 18-year-olds

Too gosh darned detail oriented and insanely focused on the task at hand until it's done!
Horrible sense of being overwhelmed when thousands of eggs are laid in my workspace

Thank you for your consideration.

Friday, December 22, 2006


Good News, Bad News

The good news is that this lovely 35 week old bubby is just fine and is measuring a few days ahead. Heck, checking on it meant that Mel saw the sun today! Hot damn! Poor thing; she never gets to enjoy the light of day. The lovely Cuban ultrasound tech gave us these reassuring words:

"Is fine. They is just jealous because you'll have this baby then put on your bikini again. They are just jealous; don't you worry. Is perfect. Muy perfecto. I'll be seeing you again very soon because you should have 10 babies. People like you should improve the race."

Oh my. So...Reassuring AND eugenicist. What an outing.

The bad news, and don't think I'm not embarrassed to admit it. Upon returning home, we discovered, irrevocably, beyond a doubt, that we have fleas.

One appeared last weekend. The next day I saw one and Mel saw one. We vacuumed and pretended.

But today Mali's comfort chair was covered in little spiral flea dropping larvae as if someone took a pepper shaker to it. So we put the DDT collars on the cats against our better judgment and decided to curse whatever horror made us the dirty house. There will be boric acid covering every surface in the house before nightfall. Please, please, please send happy death vibes.

Mel has returned to bedrest on her itchy, infested bed. Freshly laundered, of course, but undoubtedly populated with the nests of thousands of tiny beasts waiting to resurface and make our lives hell for another life cycle. I hate Florida.

Thursday, December 21, 2006


Super SAHM

Taking care of a brood on bedrest is a monumental task. I get daily 3:00 p.m. headaches and occassionally keel over entirely, rolling around on the tile floor jsut waiting for the day to be over. We have 14 more days to go until term, so it's another 2 weeks of mayhem and havoc for me.

And this is my daddy moment: *I* am complaining about Mel being on bedrest.

Bubby is successfully staying put, even though Mel has taken it upon herself to shower and make herself a meal every now and again lest the "Yellow Wallpaper"esque insanity of staying on bedrest sets in. Mental health is important, too. We're heading for yet another ultrasound in the morning just to confirm what we already know: the bubby is just fine. But should we have to march into a hospital in the next 14 days, I damn well want to be armed for the battle. And to tell them we do/don't want the labor to be stopped. And if we don't, I want to make up my mind about it tomorrow rather than walk into the hospital having no idea if they'll force us to stop it or not. I'll show up with Mel crowning. It's better than showing up and hoping they give you what you want. Whoopsie, nothing you can do. Too bad, so sad, here's your baby.

Thursday, December 14, 2006


The House of Bedrest and Sloth

I'm a stay at home mom. Me. The one with anxiety and PPD and all kinds of impatient tendencies. And now my charges include Mel, who after one emergency trip to the midwife on Thursday with contractions 3 minutes apart, followed it up with a second emergency trip on Monday with bleeding. The verdict:

She's 2 cm dilated, fully engaged, and 33 weeks pregnant. Therefore, in the great American tradition of worthless prescriptions, on full-time bedrest. This means she grows steadily weaker and more bored while I grow steadily more anxious and impatient.

Alice lounges on the airbed, smacking the television for kicks to keep the atmosphere light.

I make toxic Tang flavored magnesium supplement and chamomile tea and orange juice (for washing down the Valerian tincture) every 4 hours. I do not clean the house. Pregnant women get up to go to the bathroom and fall on the slippery floors. Occasionally, I think about paying the bills or shopping. I also wash baby sheets and clothes in anticipation of a non-breathing, non-temperature regulating, insufficiently immune bubby making its way into the world at any time. At least it would be a tax write-off.

Hopefully my efforts will keep the kid inside another 3 weeks.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006


And may god take the time to bless YOUR blog too!

Instead of, you know, worrying about trifles like AIDS or torture. I got this lovely invitation in the mail today. Though I have NO IDEA why I've been targeted. Perhaps they googled "Oh my God!" and here I am, smack on the spam list of the christian blogger association. At least I can rest easy today knowing that someone is praying for my blog. And if you know a pagan/agnostic/athiest/jewish blog circle, let me know.

Dear blog author:
We recently came across your site,, while searching for fellow christian bloggers.

A small group of us have started a new site called Christian Bloggers. Our prayer and intent is to bring Christians closer together, and make a positive contribution to the Internet community. While many of us have different "theologies", we all share one true saviour.

Would you be interested in joining Christian Bloggers? Please take a few minutes to have a look at what we are trying to do, and if you are interested, there is a sign up page to get the ball rolling. We would greatly appreciate your support in this endeavour.

May God Bless you and your blogging efforts. We look forward to hearing from you.

Monday, December 11, 2006


Ho Ho Ho

I hate my mother. It has taken me relatively little therapy to be able to say so, because I hate her with the pure vengeance befitting a 15-year-old. Always have. Just never outgrew it, I guess. Occasionally, it flares up.

I wish we were estranged, but she continues to haunt me.

Not from the grave: from Scottsdale, Arizona.

She's currently holding many of our possessions hostage since the move because a 2-3 bedroom (1600 square feet!) Penske truck does NOT hold a 700 square feet apartment's worth of furniture. Much was left behind in haste as we piled the car high and drove like maniacs. Well, I did...Mel and the baby flew out of there days before.

Once every 3 months, she priority mails (hurry! hurry!) a box of things we've never seen before in our lives.

So I called a few weeks ago to ask if we needed to buy new Christmas ornaments and stockings. No, no, she assured me, she was waiting until after her Thanksgiving trip to go through everything, so considerate was she being (yeah, right). With me on the phone, she promised, she could figure out what to send.

Mel and I both had an essential list, to be shipped at her leisure (after all, we've known this was coming since August):

1. Menorah for Hanukkah, starting this week
2. Stockings with sentimental value
3. Tree ornaments

Basically we said that we didn't want anything that we could get at Walgreens, just the irreplaceables.

Arrived today in the mail: 2 boxes, one priority shipped for $11, about the size of a shoebox. She had to WASH the stockings, she crooned, since they'd been stored in the shed.

We're terrible people. How dare we store them there.

So the squeaky clean box comes today, white with mold and festooned with 10 stockings that AREN'T OURS, but do in fact seem freshly laundered.

One peach Faded Glory Walmart brand sunhat. Never seen it before in my life.

My Urban Outfitters army bag from college

Two tree toppers

A box of bulbs. Never seen em before, but one bulb has what appears to be cat shit dripping down the side of it

4 red and green tealights ("Hey! I bought those at Target one year!" says Mel with a dawning look of recognition)

Three crushed Christmas crackers (the English pull n' pop type)

A box of ornaments of her choosing, including all the ones with pieces missing, or that were crushed, or dirty, or purchased at Grey Drug (Cunninghams?) when Carter was president.

A plastic bear ornament that says "Melanie" in gold letters. "Is this MINE?" Mel asks. "I've never seen it before in my life."

Three Florida themes sun catchers. No idea.

"Just pretend we lost it in a fire," Mel says to me. "We knew we weren't getting anything we wanted going into this.

Sunday, December 10, 2006


Meltdown II

Well, to add insult to injury, the melting down is likely caused by antihistimine in cold medicine (ie "by mommy").

And I apologize for not recognizing my inherent evil nature by becoming easily frustrated with a small child who does not understand that she is on a bad trip and why, oh why, does it feel so shaky?

Mommy is also responsible for the myriad things that could have gone wrong when, in the midst of meltdown numero dos, I gathered up said child and pregnant wifey in her socks for a stroller walk around the block (crying averted!) and returned to find

1. the front door wide open
2. the cats alone with an open pack of baby yogurt on sitting precariously on the couch (and an open front door)
3. the veggies on the stovetop boiling over
4. The oven happily beeping away ("I'm preheated! Guys? Where'd you go?")
5. A lit candle

It was only later that all that walking caused some bleeding and contractions. But ya know, another pre-term labor scare while searching the neighborhood for one's cats, with an infant on one leg because your wife must go lie down immediately, is nothing. Santa, please bring me the ability to, even at a minimal level, perform the daily functions necessary to survival.

Saturday, December 09, 2006


The Meltdown

First there was the atomic ear splitting wail that nearly closed the mall and summoned security our way, except that we hurtled ourselves through the nearest "employees only" door and broke down on the cement floor access hallway.

Then there was the Nerds incident, featuring 2 bottles of grandma's antidepressants ('in case you need anything, honey") and an Elton John holiday AIDS charity candle.

These were the only 2 minutes of the day that Alice wasn't in the throes of impending doom. But she sure went straight back when we took away the nerds.

Then, just to be funny, we decided to go down the street to the freebie Santa at our Christmas tree lot. Binky or not? Either way, she's on the naughty list.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


No More Taylor Girls

You may think that this is a gorgeous guitar. Because it is. I listed it on eBay today and then cried. When we bought them we made poor Mike of West Music play "Wisteria" 5 times on each and every guitar in the store, to see which one sounded the most resonant. This was rather tedious because you have to alternatively tune the guitar to play it. He did.

Then we picked two guitars. Then we hugged. Then we ran away to Seattle together and lived happily ever after.

Then we got a thank you note to the Taylor girls. I've considered naming CHILDREN "Taylor" or even "Martin" because of my neo-folk tendencies and how happy my Taylors have made me. Or even "Baby Taylor" after the smallest model. Which Alice is getting as soon as I can stand to watch her banging the shit out of such an exquisite work of art. I WAIT for the Taylor newspaper that comes in my mailbox at regular intervals. It's even better than the Subaru newsletter. And that's saying something, since one month the Subaru magazine was all about a guy who built a log cabin by hauling wood out the back of his glass-free 1979 Legacy. I think the whole thing ended with chanting and a contribution to the Sierra Club.

In all fairness, this one was Mel's to sell, and she's been wanting to do it for years. But so help me, if we are living in a cardboard box, no one's prying my Taylor from my cold, dead, hands.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


No Mo Ghetto

Oh, yeah, merry me THAT.
Though I have to tell you, our sickly house isn't out of the woods yet. The horse pill antibiotics I got from Mel's mom ("they're very strong") gave me a yeast infection and forced poor pregnant Mel to Target at all hours. She claims it's good for her, since she "wants to get laid sometime soon," but the truth is that, really, she's just sweet.

Friday, December 01, 2006


Poverty Sux

Not that I can really claim to be poor. I live in the suburbs. It's very suburban here, complete with an Asian neighbor with a daughter named Kaitlyn who brings home ice cream for all the kids in the neighborhood who come running to his big, panelled, suburban new-build door asking for it. And we can afford to live in this safe little bastion (safe except for maybe the feeling of your individuality, sense of self, creaticity, and belief in beauty being constantly ground into dust). We can afford it for a while.

We came to this little slice of suburbia to work for Mel's dad. He works with flood survivors. He makes a lot of money. But not this year. If you couldn't tell, there have been no floods. No hurricanes. I think 5 people in Philly had some water in their basements, but nothing to make it worth his while to do something about it. Or mine. So we're trying to make our 3-month moving buffer last forever. Or long enough for me to get gainful employment doing something that won't cause me to commit suicide. Which I've yet to find yet. We're biding our time, waiting for certificates, degrees, and other goodies to come in. Then we'll apply. Then we'll get hired. Then we'll, eventually, waaay down the line, get PAID.

Until that day, I'm saving every scrap of a penny I can find. At this rate, we'll pay our bills another month and a half. Good thing, because that seems about the soonest I'll see a paycheck, and that's if I'm pretty lucky. We may last 3 more months if I keep schlepping stuff on eBay, but that involves finding stuff to schlep. I guess it's a good record, since we're made it through November, December, and even part of January on Aug/Sept/Oct's budget. We are rich after all, or at least crafty at bilking the state which cannot recognize our marriage. Guess those stupid Bells across the street would rather pay for our health care and free cheese than have self-sufficient Floridians, but I digress. It will bite them in the ass eventually, and I can only hope to be around to laugh mine off when their damn kids lose that weird sit-on space-age motorized scooter because their taxes increase to keep up with the increasing social service programs that at least their white trash republican counterparts insist on keeping around.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh yeah. here's why not spending a damn dime sucks:
String #1 of Christmas lights: The big, old fashioned kind. My favorite. 8 strings for $10 at a garage sale. Result: too hot to touch, can't hang them up for fear of fire. Also heard they are so old and energy guzzling that they cost $40 a month to operate. No renter's insurance means we can't afford the fire.

String #2: Pilfered from brother's garage. 3 strings of colored lights, 1 string of icicles, 1 string of white. I have no problem slathering this bizarre amalgamation on the front of my pagan house (maybe with a solstic sign where the evil Bell family can see it really big... "The midwinter green man is the reason for the season"...) but when I plug it in I get electrocuted.

Ow. Fuck, I scream.

I just want to GO.BUY.NEW lights! Argh!!! In my consumerist dream, they all match, and pose no hazard to woman or beast.

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