Table 144

The other crabs pull them down...

2007-01-31T13:25:00.000-08:00

Over the summer, I taught a film about some impoverished families living in Mississippi. And I always taught what I read on the forum section of the IMDB (Internet movie database). When discussing the "Cinderella" of the film, a girl who desperately desired to get out, many viewers asked about her. Where was she? What was she doing?

Unsurprisingly, she was living about a mile away and had a couple kids. She was 18 and hadn't finished high school. Someone actually posted, "One crab tries to get out of the bucket and the rest pull him back down."

Victim blaming tendencies notwithstanding, the sense that the other crabs were responsible for Cinderella's predictable ending saddens me to no end.

Florida is reminding me of the crab story.

It's been weird here.

A silly choice to move, a gamble. Not paid off, and we're moving on. Northeasterners send job offers. With DP benefits or insured companies (as opposed to self-insured companies) in marriage or civil union states. Then send the hundred bucks or whatever it costs already married folks to get civil-unioned. By the way, how must THOSE test cases be coming, I mean, you can't deny gay couples the benefits of marriage, but aren't there a ton of gay married couples living there that don't want to get remarried or get whatever state peice of paper they're giving out these days?

I enjoy the swamp, but I get the creeping suspicion that no one understands a word I say. And not in an unedcated, "my oh my does she have a full set of hair" kind of way. Though I admit I'm fascinated by the local ambulance chasing lawyers' tv commercials..."we was in trouble. if it weren't for Axe Gary we was going to lose everything!"

It's more than that...though on some level grammar issues do hinder most conversations that I have, making me double take what a lot of people are saying. It's something more...some sort of Southern "problem that has no name." I say something. It misfires. Someone looks back at me with deer/headlights innocence. And usually responds with some remedial advice, a subtle suggestion that *I* am the moron in the room. The constant assertion that I'm the one with a problem is disconcerting, but especially scary when I think about what Mel must have felt like leaving her and showing up in the frou frou suburb of Chicago as a teenager where no doubt her way of dealing with people was taken as a sign of severe mental deficiency, much as I'm starting to see it in most people from around here.

Mel tells me that everyone in the medical industry and the school board and what not are just used to people having no idea what's going on. Therefore calls to confirm fax numbers often turn into, "Did you press the 'send' button?"

Discussions of meta-issues are personalized and the big picture missed: "At my work affirmative action means we get these people who can't do their jobs. Why do you vote for something with quotas and want me to not hire the best man for the job?" (a misunderstanding of the program as well as an attempt to gear the argument toward something that only they know anything about...like I give a crap about their company's problems).

I don't know to what extent this issue is regional, or classed. It's both, yet...not. How does it work?

Crying and whining young children for sale.

2007-01-30T19:22:00.000-08:00

How do you handle the almost-two temper tantrums when your kid cries for 20 seconds before she works herself into such a tizzy that she barfs? Cuz I am NOT standing firm, then cleaning puke while they both cry and scream and barf some more while I ignore them and haul out the foaming carpet cleaner.

I have used foaming carpet cleaner twice today. And at least 10 times this week.

My daughter ate cookies for dinner.

No, I am a *good* parent ~ she ate organic wheat and oat cluster molasses grahams for dinner! Dammit! And really, what's the harm in that every couple weeks? Oreos, not THAT would have been a travesty of discipline. And health.

Advice about viscous asses

2007-01-25T14:33:00.000-08:00

Do not diaper cream your baby's butt when it's so red they scream, get up, and hide in a corner of the couch. Because, see, the stuff is so viscous, it will leave two white, giant butt cheek prints on the dark brown couch.

Do not take someone else's composition class at *%&$^# city college. Someone may post to the discussion board that they are so good at sending emails that they "send email with great viscosity."

"Oh, they did not," Mel said.

Not surprisingly

2007-01-24T18:39:00.000-08:00

You Are the Very Gay Velma!

She might not even realize it...
But Velma is all about Daphne... not Fred!

What Gay Childhood Icon Are You?

MIA

2007-01-24T12:55:00.000-08:00

Argh...you probably should be worried about me. I am SO NOT a tay-at-home mom. I'm baking the children in gingerbread as we speak.
Mel's gone to work at a fish joint.
I've done this to my family. It'sa good thing they're all about to be dessert.

Pity: Party of Four Please

2007-01-16T14:14:00.000-08:00

Mel told me to put a paypal address on this entry so that we could all run far, far away. But I'm not that pathetic yet. Needless to say there is one overriding point to this blog: moving here was a bad, bad idea. I could be working at a happy Barnes and Noble in Massachusetts, and the who;e fam would be delightfully covered by my health insurance. Which we'd have. Our neighbors would be gay and democrat. They would not drive Ford F-150's and protest for their right to carry concealed uzis.

We've made bad moves in the past.

All of them, in fact.

We just keep moving places because it's a good opportunity. Not a good place. Mostly, it's a scary place: Iowa, Arizona, now Florida. But we figure this next move will finally be the one that gives us the autonomy to move on.

Now, life is speeding by and each move puts us farther and farther away. Now we don't even have the money to run, I have no legal rights to Soren, and the next job prospect that I take, I'll be doing what I left Arizona to never do again: pay for the family plan and cover 2 of my family members. And make a subsistence living in the place with the lowest cost of living around. Yippee. I LOVE working the same job for 2/3 the money. It makes me feel soooooo appreciated. Not to mention making me the consumate a team player with a sunshiny attitude. Downward and downward we go.

The pediatrician's office this morning was b-a-d. It started the downslide, though, to tell you the truth, the sliding started about 5 days postpartum with Alice too. The fear, the sense that one must GET OUT NOW. The office is...um...ghetto. And Mel now officially confirms my initial assessment of the "girls" that work there: they are, in fact, "girls." And Mel adds that they are girls with gang tattoos. They tell you to "put her there" to weigh and measure your child and don't tell you the results. They order tests to be done without your consent. Occassionally they get threatening when you have the audacity to decline tests. It's a battle. You may win, but you'll fight. Everyone in the front office (no well child/sick child entrances) is discussing their medicaid plans even while they ignore their treatment at the hands of the girls. The check-out people have now officially stared at us both like we were complete idiots. On a bright note, Mel liked the doctor too, but said that she was rushed.

It's funny, because the last time that I was there, a faggot told me that I was very brave for telling the counter girl that I was on medicaid (er, Alice was) since I was admitting that I was on public assistance. But in truth, the class distinction is a bit backward. I realized this time around that the class pendulum has swung the other way, and has little to do with money or the desire of Floridians to pay for gays' kids' healthcare lest their parent be allowed to cover them at work. It has to do with the assloads of cultural capital dripping out my butt every time I walk in there, and my ability to maneuver the system in a way that none of those other people in the waiting room could. Because they leave there not knowing how much their children weigh, or what tests were run on them while they were held down and screaming.

If they too decide that the treatment sucks, they will get the same thing at the next place they visit, since they will show up having no idea what their kids weigh. And looking ignorant. And on and on it goes. But it's true that Soren will not be treated like that again. Because we have something that they don't. That sucks too. But not for Soren.

I miss Dr. Carter. We did not appreciate her. If you're in Scottsdale, PLEASE take your kids to Jodi. Because Jodi is wonderful. Granted, you will have your own class shit in which to stew, since your youngin' will play nintendo in the waiting room and cavort among at least half a dozen Petunia Picklebottom bags and Peg car seats in toffee/coffee latte pattern fabric.

Enjoy it while you can. This momrning a man actually had a seizure in our pediatrician's office and they DIDN'T SEND A DOCTOR OUT!

Oh, and while the doctor's office sped my spiral, lots of other groovy stuff is happening to us in this goovy place:
1. Soren will have an ultrasound on Monday to confirm that her butt dimple does not go through to her spine. Oh goody. I am so elated at the possibility that we'll all get to deal with that. That would just make my year. I did this to her. I made us completely unable to care for her, took her to a place where I can't find her help or care. Then spent all our savings pissing around for 6 months doing nothing to get her out. WHY didn't I get us out?
2. The nephew boy is going through another episode of I'm-an-asshole-watch-me-fuck-up. This time it involved some mysterious anti-seizure pills. Except we're all too numb/familiar with this scenario to do anything, and yet again, there will be no consequences. He'll be doing the same thing next week. To let him reap the consequences?

The Tar Pit

2007-01-15T12:16:00.000-08:00

So there are these faggotsthat are ostensibly our "friends." They mean well. But when good-meaning people try to cure your cold, watch out. They may bring you Buckey's.

Seems innocent enough; the stuff is Canadian. Canadians enjoy the highest quality of life on earth. Fine. But this stuff is rancid, and can only be purchased in grimy grocery stores in the ghetto. It's hoodoo medicine, perhaps made by drunken grannies in someone's basement speaking to one another in Gullah or broken Haitian French. It should be called Mama Lola's Cold Swill and it shuld probably be banned in most countries where absynthe is also off-limits.

So I've been drunk for 2 days, foaming at the mouth from this Buckley's, and yes, my cough is noticably suppressed. But "Canadian balsam" and "pine needle oil" seems better suited to furniture polish than anything meant to be ingested, no?

No voice, tiny baby

2007-01-13T12:36:00.000-08:00

It's hard to do more than merely watch Alice as she destroys the baby's various accoutrements when you have the kiddie crud.

It started off with a tiny little white spot on my tonsil during the labor. I ignored it, in spite of its raw little stabbings demanding attention. But I'm a trooper, having had 10,000 sore throats in the last year. Yes, that's an official count. It's getting to the point that I'd consider having my tonsils out, 1950's style. We're talking 10-year-old burining, non-swallowing, knock-down drag-out tiki death viruses here. Flat on back viruses. And one stomach flu, the likes of which I haven't seen since Jr. High. Who knew you could get the kiddie crud when your kiddie doesn't go to daycare. And when your kiddie doesn't get the crud. Your kiddie just stresses you out and you go out into the world sucking on various latex nipples after they've fallen on the floor in Big Lots and *you* get the kiddie crud. Repeatedly. The last time, I got some black-market antibiotics from my mother-in-law's pharmacy to kick the crud out of me after 2 solid weeks of whimpering madness. I hate the kiddie crud, but it's become a routine part of my life.

No comments about my inability to weigh more than 100 lbs., please. I am currently eating chocolate cake, and for the rest of the peanut gallery, I'm chasing it with an orange and some tea. Everyone satisfied?

Well, the blister disappeared, leaving me to battle the aftermath with 3 hours sleep since Tuesday night...oh Tuesday night, I shall remember you for the next 2 months...and here I am.

No voice.

This is a long blog entry because you are my only human contact! People come in and snicker, "Can we make her do that all the time? Hardy har har," and wander back out. Damn them all. Damn the kiddie crud.

It's a...

2007-01-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

GIRL. Her name is Soren and she's 7 lbs. No, we don't know where Mel kept that. In her chest cavity?
22 hours after arriving at the birth center, our waterbaby was finally born. No, I'm not sure how someone can be 5 cm dilated and still have a 22 hour labor. Poor Mel. She deserves presents. A big peanut butter fluffernutter sandwich at the top of the list. There's probably a lot of birth shit that I could say here, or else birth shit from Alice's birth that bears thoughtful analysis. But my ability to thoughtfully analyze anything is officially on holiday. For like 10 months.

You're probably looking at 4 months of mush-mouthy summary of plot points from "the View." Just be forewarned.

I'm so bruised, and I didn't even *have* her. But I'm not able to talk about that, because Mel would beat my ass for complaining about a few bruises and pulled muscles. Her mom brought over the Rockstars, and we're going to be chugging along on extra vitamin and caffeine goodness for quite some time.

Funny, because after I had Alice all I wanted in the world was to smoke pot and cigarettes. And smell vinyl. Ahhhhh...

Blogging for baby

2007-01-09T17:53:00.000-08:00

Five cm means half way there, right?
Mel's making me write a paper for A's college class about my birth story as an incidence of bias. The professor already wrote back saying that the thesis needed to be stronger, and HOW was that an incidence of bias?
Of course, I could be misinterpreting his meaning, since he didn't write in complete sentences or use standard written English grammar.
But maybe it was just me who read the portion of the textbook (co-written by 5 fabulously brilliant, I'm sure, professors from Redeemer College. No really, I'm sure their research I status is coming through any day now. Along with their designation as a Hispanic Serving Institution. Hahaha.
So anyway, Mel told me that I wasn't getting anything out of doing this class other than adding to my workload (exceptionally high for the unemployed, what with 5 hours of daily flea decontamination and bouts of regret and self-hatred around the Florida decision...our own, as well as the 2000 election, you know). So she said I had to use it for therapy.
I hope that works, since I'm not sure Mr. Masters of Math is so aware of the fact that thousands of scholars have already bludgeoned across the point that all U.S. normative hospital birth is an instance of gender bias. What a nut. I can't believe that anyone would ask that question, so let's hope it's not the beginning of a Hermione-esque urge on my part to hound him as a know-it-all for the next 15 weeks.
Of course, it would be theraputically satisfying to make him earn his $1500 a semester as an online instructor, now, wouldn't it?

More activism today

2007-01-05T13:36:00.000-08:00

Fine, I'll breastfeed forever if someone arreststhis woman who may be responsible for most of the birth deaths in the United States. Which, by the way, does NOT have a low infant or maternal mortality rate. Unless you think that being roughly 40th globally for each is something to write home about. You know, killing more than double the number of moms and kids each year than our Japanese or Dutch counterparts.

She seems to make it her business to post wildly misleading and unresearched information criticizing homebirth advocates for hurting women. Methinks she protestesth too much, Dr. Shmocker.

MD's go to school with, what, 100 other people in their classes? That's got to be an incredible acceptance rate, doesn't it? They can't all be the smartest pencil in the case.

Someday I will learn Swedish and live a healthy and safe life.

*Dream*

Formula Feeding Feminist Activist

2007-01-05T12:58:00.000-08:00

But who am I? I mean, my kid is currently spending her naptime awake in a dark room, alone, smacking the door repeatedly as if to say, "Let me out, woman!"

But I'm mainly prompted to start a FF campaign because googling "formula feeding is best" calls up myriad uneducated cat-calls about WIC mothers, not to mention MSW studies about black women on food stamps and their belief that formula is a ritzy, healthy, middle-class aspiration conveniently funded by the state. Not to mention the hissy fits about people believing that they are affording their children "on their own," meaning without state assistance. Except, you know, a capitalist and racist structure that got you your job in the first place and one that actually gives your family benefits. But sure, you've done it all on your own, sweetie.
So we create the obstacle, then we stigmatize it. I've known all this before. But maybe I'm just bothered by the lack of studies about why breatfeeding is "best" or the lack of the very definition of "best" amidst the stigma that FF'ers are "worse." That does psychologically affect parents whether or not they know it (I'm not saying it makes FF'ers "feel bad," I'm saying it structures their lives and situates them in the debate and in the grand scheme of US motherhood without their permission).

For the BF'ing googlers, "best" seems to include the 100 hits of women saying how "terrible" they felt as mothers and women for being unsuccessful breastfeeders and the admonitions that being good enough simply requires one's own fortitude -- the weak and the poor. They just don't care about their kids enough, I hear. They're "selfish." But of course, this woman had clearly never lived with a parent who was unhappy to be parenting. Cuz that's a loved feeling, but at least they got some boobie. Sheesh. A bottle, now that would have been the culprit in their future health and welfare problems.

Perhaps I'm most annoyed that the BF movement doesn't seem to have any brilliant spokespeople.

Should I stop this door banging?

Expressive Language "Delays"

2007-01-04T13:23:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the quotes. I do want this post to be find-able, but I can't bring myself to jump on the diagnosis bandwagon. I could go around diagnosing everything and everyone in my house as failing to meet normative goals for health and happiness, and I maintain that we're hardly riddled with pathology for the diagnosing. We do continue to be riddled with fleas, though.

Some info for parents whose tykes express no interest in speaking, but appear otherwise bizarrely normal in their own freaky little ways, just like mine:

1. The MacArthur Communicative Development Inventory (to tell which percentile your little freaky talker falls into, at least according to those (I'm sure) wildly expert test-maker statisticians (how reliable) costs $99. I'm sure that adds to its widespread dissemination and therefore its accuracy.

Meanwhile, you can expect your low income baby or non-white toddler to score much lower than her/his upper class white counterparts. Don't even order the test, just pick a nice white score and drop 10 percentage points. Proof that white rich people ARE smarter and better? It must be (scoff). Use it as a reason to continue to vote to obliterate poor people into dust if you will, since clearly this means they should not reproduce, since they and their offspring are just too stupid to ever get ahead. This must be why they're poor.

2. Teaching parents to teach "target" words to their kids...ta da~! Teaches target words to their kids. I admit, I'm blown away.

I'm floored by the (sarcastic) intellectualism of the studies in language "pathology" that are currently out there. Let us all praise speech/language pathologists for intervening early. And thank god I just spent one of my last days on the full-text study databases (sniff) reading these things. And while we're at it, thank goodness we're not living in the 1800's when late talkers just never bothered learning language. Oh wait, that never happened.

The Nature of Culture

2007-01-03T15:52:00.000-08:00

An academic post: how do I explain breastfeeding as socially constructed as natural? Well, that part seems easy. We live in a culture that tells us what is natural and what is unnatural. Formula is unnatural. Even when comprised of 100% of ingredients that are found in nature. But it's like I've always wondered, "what ISN'T found in nature?" Who and what is deemed more natural and glorified? And why? There are still questions about health, and too many feelings on "both sides" to express. But why are there 2 sides? Why is it EITHER healthier or LESS healthy? How in the heck are we going to study the pro's of inmunities and what they do to bodies 70 years down the line? How are we going to quantify the fewer ear infections of breastfed babies, especially when much of the problem may or may not be the antibiotics given to FF babies, not the infections? Why aren't we afraid to talk about what we don't know, can't know, and can't study? Because that terrifies me.

Did 70's lesbians advocate for breastfeeding so heavily because they were so closely aligned with radical feminism, philosophically bent on celebrating all those things "feminine" and therefore all those things deemed "inferior"? And is my resistance to the cult of breastfeeding today derived from my late 80's queer impulse against the gendered and sexes naturalness of what is somehow deemed inherently female? After all, there are breastfeeding men, it's true. Then why do women feel more womanly through breastfeeding? Why not more...goatlike? After all, goats breastfeed. It's a very goaty thing to do. Some women do it, yet it's an innately womanly thing to do and not a goaty thing to do, though some goats breastfeed too.

Simplistic answer: the social construction of natural womanhood. Lesbian feminism. And me over here in this corner with ACT-UP trying to relive the queer glory days of breaking down any and all sex/gender/sexual system through mall kiss-ins and posters on NYC busses. And throwing down our bodies in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Damn, I would have made a great androgynous 80's queer. WHY oh WHY was I stuck in Mr. Foley's 5th grade classroom instead? Getting laughed at for my glittery gelled hair. What a loss.

The question of the day: why didn't lesbian feminism shift to more queer ground when radical (straight) feminism seemed to?

Cleared for takeoff

2007-01-02T19:14:00.000-08:00

We are "allowed" to have a baby now. I must go have sex.

Smelly girls wax poetic about breastfeeding

2006-12-31T19:49:00.000-08:00

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 motherhood....in 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).

??

Still storing babies

2006-12-30T15:10:00.000-08:00

4 more days to go.

Oh joy! Stupid people make our lives easier!

2006-12-29T18:16:00.000-08:00

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.

You may have thought that I could sink no lower

2006-12-28T11:38:00.000-08:00

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.

The bath

2006-12-27T18:58:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-12-26T11:41:00.000-08:00

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"?

Killing tiny game

2006-12-23T16:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Skills:
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

Weaknesses:
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.

Good News, Bad News

2006-12-22T14:21:00.000-08:00

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.
Ew.
Ew.
Ew.

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.

Super SAHM

2006-12-21T12:25:00.000-08:00

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.

The House of Bedrest and Sloth

2006-12-14T14:23:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-12-12T06:00:00.000-08:00

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, table144.blogspot.com, 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.

Ho Ho Ho

2006-12-11T14:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Meltdown II

2006-12-10T18:36:00.000-08:00

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.

The Meltdown

2006-12-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

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.

No More Taylor Girls

2006-12-06T19:06:00.000-08:00

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.

No Mo Ghetto

2006-12-05T19:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Poverty Sux

2006-12-01T16:43:00.000-08:00

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.

My afterprom party

2006-11-30T16:45:00.000-08:00

This is Mel's assignment for my blogging. And I guess what happens when you're waiting to be allowed to seek employment and just killing time all day, wiling away the hours express mailing dissertations on 20-24 lb. Acid free paper. After all, Mel says, "I'd be interested in hearing about that. From a purely anthropological perspective."

My afterprom party was a lock-in. No one else had these past the age of 12, or so I'm told. But not in my town. We spent all night at Memorial Hall and our parents did skits and sang spoof songs. We all went, though I have no idea why. All 100 of us. Who had been in school together since kindergarten. A silent, lifelong culmination of quiet coercion. We'd all been led to believe that this was normal, obligatory, and not the complete torture that it turned out to be. There was pizza and pop.

Why? We'd all already had sex, done drugs, and gotten drunk in the hour between the prom itself and the after party. After vomiting and getting off in the valley, we all felt so much better and many of us could even stomach listening to our parents sing "Will you still need us, will you still feed us, class of 94" in straw boater hats and hobo suspenders.

32 Weeks

2006-11-29T19:02:00.000-08:00

This pregnancy is a lot breezier than the last. What with all the talk of illegal midwives with arrest records, driving to Massachusetts for the birth, and the whole joblessness thing, time flies. I do wonder if I can make it through the newborn stage, however. Are hormones actually related to postpartum, or just in that medicalized research way? I know they've done some research about adoptive moms getting it, and I've never been one to advocate for the biological foundations of anything...but I'm actually hoping that biology has something to do with the sheer over-whelmingness and anxiety of motherhood so t ht I can completely forego it this time around. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Cross fingers.

The Family Michael

2006-11-28T18:34:00.000-08:00

Are certainly different from my family of origin. I realized it after a raucous game of charades in which my 7-year-old nephew acted out "John making out with his girlfriend."

A few hours before, I'd answered an email from my cousin whose parents see his pet turtle as a hallmark of mental illness: a dorm dweller, it CLEARLY signals he's lost all respect for authority.

Alice will grow up a Michael.

Gray Market Antibiotics

2006-11-26T16:43:00.000-08:00

So after some horse pills of unknown potency, I emerged from the craftmatic adjustable deathbed yesterday in time for several mall temper tanrums (Alice's cousins, not mine).
After crying fits in Children's Place, Old Navy, and the Disney Store, I'd forgotten that my daughter exists. She, however, continued existing and had consumed three sippy cups of juice as a coping mechanism. Soon after, she had managed to pee through her pants and all over her stroller (which still needs to be washed from Charlie's pee, because hey, it jsut wipes right off!). So she's soaked. We get in the subway dirtiest mall bathroom I've ever seen and Mel says, "I'll stand her on the counter and maybe we can change her without touching anything." This is made possible by grandma's stroke of Old Navy genius and a new pair of $3.97 baby yoga pants.
Unfortunately, my upright daughter was undresssed and...no diaper. The diaper machine costs $1. In change. Which I don't have. A nice lady offers us her size 2 diaper for my size 4 child. Ok, I say gladly. Emergency averted. As we wrap her up like a chubby sausage with legs oozing out the sides of this itty bitty Sesame Street (sooo juvenile) diaper, in strolls a child about Alice's age who has just vomited all over herself, her shirt, her pants, her diaper, her stroller, and frankly, the ghetto bathroom walls and floor.
A lesson in "things could be worse" was had by all.

Haiku

2006-11-24T10:39:00.000-08:00

My head the balloon
I take cough syrup all day
It tastes like black death

My Sister's Boobs

2006-11-22T16:39:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving at Mel's house: a wrestling match, a jumping down the stairs contest, multiple jokes about violently slapping someone in the face. Nobody mentions Aunt Lisa's new boobs. It is gauche. But we do mention her new Rolling Stones neck tattoo.

The Thanksgiving that Mel endured at my grandparents' house: I am forced to wear a paper Pilgrim hat and read a prayer about beans. Little Jacob is reprimanded for wanting dessert when he has not finished his dinner. He wanders away drunkly, having been dosed up with Benadryl since the family was keeping a stray cat, to which he is allergic, all day. Damn those sick children asking for food!

Butch in House

2006-11-20T10:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday went great. Having spent the morning gazing at our navels and breaking things, our friends ripped in like a blizzard and started fixing them for us. The official conclusion: we are half retarded and shouldn't be living alone. With each other. Without help. Here's the booty:

1. Alice's bed now in cute bedroom cut out where she cannot propel herself off it in the middle of the night anymore.
2. Tethered dresser moved, centered, and re-anchored to wall.
3. Appropriate dosage of cold medicine given to stuffy child (we would've gotten this right on our own, before you go calling CPS).
4. Door which fell on my head...reinstalled in 2 seconds.
5. Squeeky bedroom door...oiled.
6. Router which was annoyingly refusing to have anything to do with a Mac...installed.
7. Bedroom cable...installed.
8. Cable tv menu...now a delightful lavender color.

Who knew you could make it purple?!

Heart Attack, Crib, heart attack, crib

2006-11-17T17:28:00.000-08:00

The crib has been officially disassembled and reassembled ten feet from its original position in the new nursery. Alice has traded it for a spinny pod chair and a boatload of books, which will hopefully keep her from pushing her sorting rings one by one under the door every morning and then shreiking in pain that she has no toys and wants breakfast N-O-W and oh, god, where are her mommies?

She took it rather well.

I, on the other hand, did not. First off, the infamous Mikells put this thing together after the move with a Mikellesque combination of drilled-til-it-hurts screws and knotted bumper ties. Which took an hour and a half, FOUR screwdrivers, and a moment of scary chest pain to take apart. Putting the whole mess together again in the nursery made me cry twice.

"That's how many times we cried last time," Mel said, as if to say, "What's the problem? That's par for the course."

Oh, and reassembllng not only involved the Philips and regular screwdrivers, electric screwdriver, and drill, but a hammer and a glue gun. Because I split the wood in 2 places. And some sandpaper to make the splintered wood as babyproofed as possible.

Not a moment left to lament Alice's babyhood wiped out forever and all her special stuff, including womb sounds teddy, getting evicted from her bedroom and given away.

Sniff.

No one's dead and no one's going to grad school...

2006-11-16T10:14:00.000-08:00

Mel's gone to the old people food trough with her mom, a good way to cap off their superwalmart (I don't capitalize it for much the same reason as not capitalizing god) trek. They went in search of a bargain priced string of candy canes to pave our neighbors' pathway. Because Alice LOVED their Halloween light-up ghosts. Too much. And decapitated one. Sorry, Lora.

A morning out must mean that Alice isn't screaming or dying. So we'll continue to tweedle our thumbs and wait for Florida healthcare. And assume my bad-ass big kid immune system can foist this bug. There's nothing white in my throat today, in case you cared.

So in the spirit of providing helpful guidance to those who are as floored by the horror of my post-doctoral dissertation submission process as I am, here are Jessica's been-there-killed-that rules of grad school:
1. Activism without critique IS worthwhile.
2. Law school lets in like 50 people per year. So does med school. There will be 50 people in your classes. And they make more money when they're done. What's the problem? Who gives a crap if you don't like law?
3. Consider made-fun-of "professional" options besides law and med school. Yes, you will get bullied with your Ed.D. at academic gatherings, but it's only because everyone else is so embittered. And you will have some smart colleagues. Guess what? I don't. But they're meaner.

Please don't have tonsillitis

2006-11-15T06:48:00.000-08:00

Because we are Americans and have no health insurance. We can't even afford the walk-in. I DO NOT want to take the baby to the free clinic which will give us 10 more bugs we can't fight. And a day of sitting there, whithering away.
Please send foreign aid. We are so ashamed of what we've done to you. Teach us your values and we'll gladly exchange our hate-mongering/suck-it-up or die of tonsillitis ways in favor of your smooth, populace-friendly social programs.

It's "Fierce."

2006-11-14T19:27:00.000-08:00

That is, the perfume that Mel sprayed on the dissertations. Just like they spray on Abercrombie clothes at the mall...or one weird way to tell if you bought a knock-off made in China on the internet. Hopefully this will make the whole neverending submission process just a little funnier. No, I didn't change anything but the titles and I inserted at random intervals phrases explaining how I did what you told me to do without actually ever getting around to *doing* it, but i've freshened up the reading experience.

I am no longer paid to think, and I refuse to do so. It has caused nothing but personal anguish. I will not do it.

I wish I'd have behaved 5 years ago like Alice behaved tonight when faced with the possibility of staying up late and playing all night long: nope, I'm done. Watch me scream until I get my way and everyone leaves me the crap alone. Self assertion is beautiful.

The Language in my sleep

2006-11-13T17:32:00.000-08:00

My 12-year-old nephew has been falling asleep with the t.v. on. His whole family does it. Whatever.

But now, he's been waking up in the middle of the night and people are typing computer language on his monitor. To one another. Back and forth.

No wonder the kid has nightmares about t.v. snow. That would scare me enough to toss the thing out the window and become Amish.

I'm too stupid to tell you why I'm so stupid

2006-11-13T17:18:00.000-08:00

I forgot to uphold my end of the blog-all-month bargain, but in case you didn't think my heart was in it in the first place, here are 2 entries. First: the long-horrendously awaited diss is leaving my house tomorrow forever and this nightmare will be over. It's absolutely cost me my life, and I'll be glad to see the back of it. This time, I won't do it again. They passed the whole thing last May, but then told me to sign up for another semester rather than turn in the final version 2 weeks later.

I told them to shove it up their asses, and they gave me a fellowship for this aforementioned semester. So they continue to call me a "doctor" while simultaneously telling me how bad I suck. It's taken copious amounts of mood-altering substances in order to be bothered by it again, and Mel has done most of the work. It's now in terrible shape, with multiple statements that I was told to include that paint my informants/friends like total assholes and makes some grandiose statement about the world that makes me look...well...stupid.

But perhaps I'm just TOO STUPID to get it. And yes, I refrained from the incredible desire to, instead of adding "why I should be a feminist scholar with unique contributions," include a paragraph on why I'm not a feminist scholar thanks to you people sucking every penny out of my savings as well as my future earning potential, and therefore I'm NOT a feminist scholar; I'm a powerseller.

The whole hoopla hasn't helped the pdd/anxiety AT ALL, let me just tell you.

So off it goes for good, Mel having translated all the revisions desired by the group of people I'll just refer to as "committee," but who in a few weeks will be referred to as "bothered daily by religious crusaders who were sent anonymously to their homes to convert them with glossy magazines about a heaven that resembles a farm."

All about my mother

2006-11-13T06:55:00.000-08:00

I hate her. More than is probably healthy for anyone past adolesccence. And I don't want to hear about grandpa's "thing." Ever. Again.

The accident

2006-11-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

No worries. She bit her lip, but 3 minutes and a turn on the swings later and all was good. Damn shoes! Those rubber soles are too sticky.

2006-11-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

My wife is watching "the best day ever"" -- a 24-hour Spongebob marathon. My daughter is getting hyped up on cartoons at bedtime, and all I hear is the repetitive mantra "mamamamamamamamamama mom mom" issuing from the family room, where they both lay like lumps, taking in the hijinks at the Krusty Krab.

I think they're eating Ben & Jerry's black and tan ice cream. Cuz becoming fat alcoholics would add to the mystique of their daily little routines.

Arizona is not fair at heart

2006-11-09T17:25:00.000-08:00

But at least they voted that way. How weird of them. It must be the critical mass of former Cook county residents fleeing Chicago winters that have begun to infiltrate the electoral scene. I have no other guess -- Arizonans don't do anything gay friendly. Unless you count shooting us in the back, so as to avoid that inconvenient moment of terror right before they kill you.

Mel's dad congratulated us on the election, and maybe I'm a paranoid, generalized anxiety-ridden adrenaline whore, but I still go to bed scared. I still dream that I could emigrate to a nation with 100% different values. Where they say in cute accents, and drawling anti-death penalty international U.N. tirades, "That nazi cowboy should be killed like Sadaam." Why wasn't I born Swedish, goddamit?

Oh yeah, maybe because of the ludfisk.

New undies

2006-11-08T19:09:00.000-08:00

Well, this makes up for the vomit in the bed. It's new underwear.

After this excitement (hold your breath, why don't you), I sat home and tried on underwear while Mel went to have a teacher's meeting with a girl who's in the 1rst percentile of both English and math students in the local 3rd grade, in the 40th worst state for education, in the 38th worst country for it. If I were any further along in my own math abilities, I guess I could tell you that the girl is already 10 years behind where Mel's prep school exes were by age 16 months. (Should Alice be learning to tell time?)

I don't normally trash 7-year-olds, and I guess somewhere in the world she could grow up to not be the devil if her mom would stop using her step-siblings as evil step-servants and stop treating said 7-year-old like an heiress when they're a family of 6 living in grandma's trailer...but I digress. Some people like having their kids have nice clothes. And they are not entirely evil. Maybe I am. But this poor child reminds me of Dudley Dursley. With fewer business prospects.

Mel will be teaching her to read a calendar on Wednesdays and Fridays from now on. Well, at least she'll be ready to read her Kash 'n' Kary schedule and possibly even make change by the end of the semester.

Good morning, mommy. There's vomit in my bed. And in my hair.

2006-11-07T16:38:00.000-08:00

And that's really all you need to know about today. Oh, except maybe you'd be interested to hear about the undigested, whole raisins contained therein. Or Alice's newly dyed pink sheets because I wasahed them with the red comforter. In my defense, it had been washed before and should not have done that!

While piddling around the house while it threatened rain all day, we noticed that FatBoy, the neighbor, was home at 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday playing with a remote controlled dinosaur tank ball (that's really the best I can do for you...use your imagination) in the street. Poor neighbor mommy Michelle. She really is raising three boys, not two. She didn't even care that Alice was a smelly, sickly mess. She still looked over at us longingly from her driveway, as if to say, "Oh, I wish I were a lesbian and got to live in that house of girls next door. They dress so cute."

I'd like you to meet my girlfriend's girlfriend

2006-11-06T16:45:00.000-08:00

I'd like you to meet "Giada." She's the long, thin pillow in the middle that Mel refers to as her "girlfriend." When your wife is pregnant, she snuggles Giada at night and not you. It's rather sad, especially when you wake up to her crooning softly in her sleep about parmesiano origiano. To counter this sad estrangement, I've decided that Rachel Ray is MY new girlfriend. And when Rachel takes on Giada at Iron Chef on November 12 I'm confident my girl will take home the trophy. Especially because she's paired with the *real* chef.

I hate you, Giada.

The fact that Mel has put up websites telling me to immediately change my post to read "Parmigiano Reggiano" or else "you won't get any friends" reflects the deep divide in our household that this obsession with Giada's breasts has caused. But I'm not changing it. So there.

The Daily Count

2006-11-05T19:05:00.000-08:00

1 xanax
1 4 -foot bag of cotton candy
1 enormous slide involving mats
2 Sweet tea refills
12 eBay listings while listening to...
Pottercast #18, the one with Christmas parody songs about You-Know-Who
0 pictures because there are *at least*
3 days until the new, non-blurry camera arrives
28 weeks pregnant
1 psuedo-dirty Swiss Miss backrub (with braids)
1 large piece of chocolate cake

and

one more fight over baby names with my mother. Agnes? No.

2006-11-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

Mel just looked at my blog and said, "That's not a post. It better be real good tomorrow." Knowing I'll have nothing to say tomorrow if the *real* pressure's on like that, I've decided to give you, yes, that's right, a little something extra today. So here it is: the new family room art.

Now, before you tell me that I'm either brilliant or stupid, it's a pastiche. In other words, it's a copy. With no irony, no Weird Al commentary on the original involved at all. A copy. The thing is, I like to do art, but I like the rote brushstrokes of the whole thing. It's zen and it makes me less nervous about the world. What I don't like is the part where you're supposed to think for yourself. It's far too difficult. I've done enough thinking and I'm taking a break for a few years. So I stole this from a real artist and copied like an asshole. I'm not sure that I'm breaking any sort of copyright law, but don't tell on me if I am. Now you've seen my family room. Better?

Uh, I'll still do porn if you think it'll pay. Cuz "famous blogger" is a bit of a pipe dream. Especially if I never leave the house.

Pissed

2006-11-04T19:28:00.000-08:00

How does a stay at home mom make money?? Webcam? Porn site? What do you think?

Heil Master planned community! Uber alles!

2006-11-03T15:48:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding like those ~~A Baby Story~~ assimilationist lesbian moms, I'd like to say in my defense that I DO believe that I parent differently because I am gay. I am not "just like you" and I don't want to be. Now, that said, I get the feeling that fitting in around our neighborhood is a freakish requirement, along with mocktail parties, red wagons, and block parties featuring covered dishes.

And I was reading a blog that Mel left up for me -- some lesbian moms -- whose 2 1/2 year old recently said, "Mommy, all the kids have a mommy and a daddy except for me." TWO AND A HALF! This means one of two things: I must become the assimilationist asshole, or I must move in the next year, before my daughter gets a completely skewed vision of the reality of the world involving two married parents, their biological kids, and a pug as 100% of the world. Because it IS 100% of our neighborhood. Not somewhere we hoped to raise our child, but safe and fun, with nice neighbors and plenty of kid friendly events. Cars go slowly here because little kids are always in the street. We like it. I like it. You may beat me with a wet rag later for admitting such a thing.

I always thought we'd have to leave by school-age, but now I think we may have to leave as soon as our lease is up in August. I don't want Alice thinking there is no such thing as single moms, gay dads, or extended families. one the plus side, our block does feature one interracial couple. Their son is Ashton. Aiden lives on the other side of us, and Caitlyn and Kevin live in between. Shit, we gotta get out. Or name the next child "Agememnon."

I will NOT be a suburban straight in all but name. I will not be June Cleaver. I will not start vaccuming in heels and pearls. And finally, I will NEVER buy a Bugaboo stroller!

Auctioneer, my new career

2006-11-02T16:20:00.000-08:00

Sellout, you may say. Why am I hocking uninspired Canadian baby crib shoes with all kinds of offensive gender iconography when there are 4 Tibetian ethnic groups sewing brilliant little toesie warmers and who are in need of some serious exposure? Because they sell better. Maybe the bible guys at Walmart are right and I AM going straight to hell.

Need more evidence? Mel is stalking Elmo Tracker to scam innocent parents out of Elmo dolls and sell them at auction for twice the retail price. In our defense, we maintain that this is a PARENT inspired capitalist fad driven in no way by actual children who seriously want that doll. No kid is seriously asking for 10th-anniversary Elmo for Christmas. If they are, well, perhaps their parents should be made a bit poorer and kept a little real.

We moved here to do this flood thingamajig and lo and behold...you saw the hurricane seasaon. No lives lost, no floods to be seen. So we're kicking around the house all day. Eventually our savings will run out (we're not heiresses) so we putz around here all day buying up discount Robeez and selling them on eBay for a profit. If I could do this full time, I'd be a happy kid, since I wouldn't technically need to leave bed all day. but the truth is, I'll probably be doing it until we get back from our out-of-state birth, then taking a job as a high school teacher or something for the spring semester until hurricane season starts anew.

Or until my father-in-law snags a sewing machine at a garage sale and I become the world's premiere auction cotton diaper maker.

Come to think of it, that would be good karma for the wrath I'm inflicting upon the world right now by taking advantage of vulnerable parents at Christmas time. But hey, we gotta eat. We got a baby on the way!

Secret Alice Man

2006-11-01T11:34:00.000-08:00

Today Alice committed her first larceny. She swiped a Yankee candle from the candle store and was only discovered 15 minutes later chomping on a brand new "Carribean Fruit" tealight in her stroller in the parking lot. No, we didn't go back in.

RU Saved?

2006-10-31T11:21:00.000-08:00

I'm never leaving the house again. It just stresses me out. This morning two terrible things happened:

1. Target failed to stock 99 cent Halloween pumpkin candy buckets. Why do they insist on 4.99 bags? $7.99 witchy basket crafty buckets that are just getting thrown out in 2 hours and really don't hold much candy anyway? Parlez vous annoying, Target. To top it all off, these frou-frou items were still FULL PRICE! Well, at least this little beauty was on clearance!

2. Because of the Target fiasco, I had to drive down to Ghetto Walmart in search of said Pumpkin bucket as well as tissue and brown paper for eBaying (Target had both at double the price). Well, outside Ghetto Walmart are two black panther missionaries with dum-dums asking for money for their new "Jesus has Risen" church. They blockaded both the entrance and exit. I snuck out the garden section to avoid punching them in the face and being charged with a felony, and scuttled to my car. On the way I saw their bumper sticker:

"Proud Parent of a Child Who's Been Saved by the Almighty"

Run home! Run home!

Happy Samhein

2006-10-30T15:25:00.000-08:00

To celebrate, Alice enjoys eating raw gourds and poking in the intricate, lovingly carved owl face that it took her mommy an hour to create. But it turns out all festivities have gone dark, because I accidentally left the color-change pumpkin light changing colors all night and it's burnt out this morning. Good thing, since the owl's entire face molded inward and now looks like a shriveled up old lady without her dentures.

Just another awy that eBay makes you smarter: I found out that others celebrate in different ways, like
pagan mystery auctions. Who knew? And who knew 18 people would bid on all those pagan goodies. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a pagan goodie bag. Alter bells? A Brand New Goddess Offering plate? Anyone?

The fact that these folks exist makes me breathe a little easier. It may even make me refrain from shouting at the 17 Capt. Jack Sparrows on our suburban block, "What a queer costume! Want to borrow some black eyeliner so you can be more like Johnny?"

Fetusino the Younger Prevails Against the Naysayers

2006-10-27T08:15:00.000-07:00

And turns out to be measuring perfectly. To the day. The robust Cuban ultrasound tech lady said this:

"Oh, they're just used to dealing with all these fat ladies. You know 70% of Americans are overweight. They think you don't eat enough if you're not overweight."

So hoo-ray. It's just US who end up stressed. Here's Fetusino the Younger, in all his/her glory...Note the infamous Mikell jowls beginning to burgeon even before birth.

I think Namaste is a Kind of Dinosaur

2006-10-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

I don't know how not to have a heart attack...

So today everyone in the family, after being up until 4:00 a.m. bailing the boy out of jail, each coped in their own unique way. 1. Cooking. An excellent dinner was had by all. 2. Cleaning: our bathroom is sparkly. 3. Working. I have scoured eBay Germany for products to sell far and wide. I'm still working on it, but I'll keep you posted. For the next couple weeks I'll just have to buy Gymboree and razor blades in bulk then sell them off piece by piece. Until the dream *kinderschule* product comes along.

And to top it all off, the midwife's office didn't call at all yesterday to schedule this emergency ultrasound. Guess it's not so much of an emergency. Mel called this morning to inquire, and wasw told sorry, there were births to attend, and she'd be on top of it by lunch.

At 12:50, she called and said that she was no longer sending us to Buglefort's Radiology or whatever the heck we were getting shuffled off to, but that she'd called in their own special sonographer to come in especially for us. Tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. to examine the incredible shrinking baby, now 5 weeks behind. Oh goodie. A special person just for us. Bubby is blase about the whole affair, acting quite normally. I am wondering if there's a black market for blood pressure pills. Do you know? All of the week's medical emergencies have primed me for the worst, I suppose.

Finding out the sex no longer seems a reasonable request.

Advice from Strangers Appreciated

2006-10-25T16:10:00.000-07:00

So I get this email from my mom that she went to the emergency clinic due to an overzealous Joan Baez clapping accident and the resulting throbbing hand that it produced. They discovered that her blood pressure was 200/100 and ordered an ambulance for her to go off to the hospital where they asked her if she was short of breath or having chest pains. "What about my hand?" she asked. I guess they ignored it, much to her dismay and another sleepless night sent home on nothing but blood pressure pills.

And I am not worried about her (still too much shit to really deal with in the mommy department) but I do pop my own xanax and worry about my own forthcoming heart attack, since I am just as wound up as her at a much younger age. Tomorrow I'm going to Walmart to check my blood pressure, which is always super low, but it's only a matter of time with my constant stress levels, isn't it? Did I mention that FOUR members of my family have had surgery this week? Aunt (uterine abruption), Cousin (arm broken in 2 places), other Aunt (gall bladder full of gangrene), and Grandpa (circumcision...but I'm not supposed to spill the beans about that one...shhhh). Wow. We are a sickly people.

To add to the drama, Mel got back from her midwife appt. this morning after having the so-called glucose tolerance test. Or as I like to call it: the normal vs. more normal sugar test that proves nothing other than we like to cause pregnant women pain for no proven benefit test. Which is why I wasn't there. Pissed, pissed, that I can't be a part of her prenatal care since because the tests "ordered" (you know, as opposed to chosen freely by informed patients in a way more befitting a human rights approach to health care).

So she returns, and they've ordered an emergency ultrasound for tomorrow morning. She is measuring 5 weeks behind. I'm not sure how this is possible, since when we were there FOUR weeks ago she was measuring to the day. Can a fetus shrink? The midwife said that she can fudge it and make it look like 3 1/2 weeks behind if she measures liberally. Either way, that's a big change from last time. So, we're going to find out why. Several points to ponder:

1. Fundal height measurements are considered wildly laughable by some. But then again, so are measurements taken by ultrasound. We all know someone who was induced/given a c-section because the baby was "too big" only to deliver a normal sized baby who wasn't ready to be born. Charlie, you are a crazy exception, my little man.

2. Small framed people (ahem, Mel) and those with very long tosos (likewise suspicious suspect in house) are also more likely to measure small.

3. That does explain her smallness, but not the fact that she's always measured right on. The midwife did seem heartened by this tidbit, though.

4. Please tell my that the baby has a brain. Just tell me. I KNOW it does. Just tell me. Please.

5. And what now seems like the most frivolous thing on the planet...should I find out the sex at the ultrasound. We have really only ended up with "emergency" ultrasounds in our pregnancies. Not into baby surveillance. But this time we want to dot our i's and cross our t's since we're giving birth in Massachusetts for legal reasons and want to show up looking compliant and low-risk, if at all possible. So we do what they tell us. And we go for our ordered ultrasounds. So, given that we're going ANYWAY, and given that no one in the house feels very close to Nugget right now, do you think I should have a secret with Nugget for the rest of the pregnancy (I would not tell Mel or Alice if I found out). Would you spy?

Save me from Myself

2006-10-24T17:28:00.000-07:00

I can't read the directions on a box of potato-product. I forget its overcooking -- to drain off the extra 2 cups of boiling water added by yours truly. It overcooks beyond overcooking.
I am not paying attention because I am trying to become an importer-exporter, but so far it reads like a bad Seinfeld episode. With the added twist of a number of international google-translator faux-pas. If you have a wholesale hookup, will you wheel and deal with me? I promise that I will treat your product better than I manage dinner. I'm very responsible when needed. Yessir. Really.

Mark as Shipped

2006-10-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and these cute shoes had infiltrated my computer. Does Mel shop in her sleep?

It's another Baby Blog. Don't you care.

2006-10-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

OK, it's not that I'm *against* the blog, per se. I had one back in the day when blogger was too time consuming to figure out and you had to load it onto your own domain, and people misread diaryland and thought it had something to do with dairy and cows. I had this blog for at least 2 years. You can probably find it out there in cyberspace, languishing and rife with pithy statements about the cute girl sitting next to me in "Lesbian Lives and Cultures" circa 1997. Please don't look.

So here's something better (unless you're in the throes of a coming out crisis and looking for a source for old school Sleater Kinney reviews).

It's all about Alice, and her 2 moms. In the deep south.

This is Alice. She's the most important one...at least until January. She grooves on Dixie Chicks and says "scissors" with gusto.

This is Mel. And this is me getting back at Mel for telling me which bloggers I'm allowed to yell at.

This is bubby, but I prefer "Nugget." We don't really think too much about it yet, because we have a one-year-old. We don't find out the sex of our kids, and we certainly don't find out the "gender," which our child will (hopefully) tell us by age 18 or so.

I'm up on the left. I hope to one day make a living selling handcrafted Tibetian baby shoes from my craftmatic adjustable office, set up in my fluffy bed. A lofty goal, I'm sure. Especially since I'm not in Tibet.