The things people say to a pregnant woman:

On giving a fellow grad student the news: "I thought I noticed a little bump--but then, y'know, I figured it might've just been the holidays."





On being found in the bathroom (I avoid trips to the bathroom with other women, generally, and even more so now that my bowel and bladder habits are up for discussion): "Peein' again, huh? Let me tell you, girl--you ain't pregnant till you've pissed yourself."





On traveling (in my car, I might add) five minutes to work for my paycheck in a Midwestern February: "It's cold! You shouldn't be outside."





On the "glow" that pregos are reported to have: "What people really mean when they say that is you're so fat there's not enough skin to go around. Your skin's pulled taut so it 'glows'"

I'm feeling ridiculous.

Dude, I always cry during Rocky. Which one? Any and all, though of course I'm partial to IV.

The dog ate my homework

Kinda. Its a long story--let me sum up. The kitten peed behind the TV last night and we knew something bad had happened because of a weird humming noise that came from the mess of wires, not to mention the smell of burning cat urine (bless you, hormonally heightened sense of smell). Nothing happened just then, but sometime this morning--between the alarm going off and my shower--the power went out.

I was up and at em, ready to knock out some final research on paper-that-must-not-be-named. I noticed it was cold. Nothing new. Floyd is worse than my dad when it comes to the heat--or lack thereof. One day he'll freeze the pipes by keeping the house so cold, and we'll see who's laughing then (me, from my hotel room. In my skivvies with the heat turned up to 80).

I noticed the VCR clock is not working. Again, nothing too surprising. We had a silent fight about whose job it was to change the VCR time last April or whenever the clocks "spring forward." The clock remained one hour off until it was time to "fall back." Imbeciles, the both of us.

No heat. No clock. Floyd comes home and points out the obvious (that I had completely missed): "There's no power." I thought my toes were bluer than normal.

After exchanging unpleasantries with Floyd, because of course its his fault, and not because I'm a crazy preg, I went to local coffeehouse to continue work until the problem took care of itself.

Christmas music.

Fuck.

So, I gave up. Can't go home cos its a walk-in freezer, can't get work done at this point cos there's nowhere to go to escape "O Holy Night." When its not Michael McDonald, its Celine Dion. And its always bad.
So I'm all worked up and cranky...what better time to get some Christmas shopping done? I mean, I'd hate to spend a good mood shopping for vibrating doggie slippers. And so I knocked down what remained of my list that I couldn't find easily online. As it stands, my christmas endeavours are OVER. This means that when the semester is over I don't have to keep pushing once my papers are in and student grades are calculated. I can sit on the couch and stare at the wall in a comatose way that disconcerts Floyd. Ah, now that sounds nice.

...see you on the flip side...

My nature exposed

One of my biggest pet peeves is getting honked at. Whether I'm walking down the road, taking my garbage out or getting the mail, I always have a ready middle finger for the dipshit who honks at me. I mean, really, what's it saying? Hey that girl MIGHT be a 15 year old and she may or may not have completed puberty--HOOOONK. (FYI: I am petite, and thus from the side of the road, one really has no clue if I'm 12 or not. ) I find it to be a personal affront, an intrusion into my inner monologue, and--it should go without saying, simply crass and tasteless.

But Crazy Beeyotch, maybe its someone you know just honking to say hello? I say, if I EVER catch someone I know just honking at me instead of stopping to help me with the trash, or hell, just to say hello like a civilized person, I will kick your car. Maybe that's the hormones talking. I just really, really, hate. being. Honked. AT!!

So, a few weeks ago, I'm filling up the gas tank just after work; this gas station is located at a decently busy intersection. The passenger leans out the window of a minivan at the red light. "Hey!" he yells. *Verbal equivalent of a honk* I ignore him, but it doesn't work--he yells "Hey!!" a little louder. I wheel around and nearly spit, "Get a life, you creep!"
He looked as though I had slapped him, and stared at me with a downtrodden and confused expression until the light turned green (thankfully only moments later). My conscience bothered me about this interchange. I really need to just simmer down, basically. I need to not get off on yelling at people, its just not cool (although thoroughly gratifying). What if the poor guy just needed directions? I told Floyd about this and we both kinda laughed, though he did mention that if the guy really just needed directions, he could have said "Excuse me," etc.



Earlier today my husband and his friend (AKA permanent fixture on our couch, or PFOOC) visited a nearby convenience store to buy some Dead Guy Ale. The owner of the store is a patient at the office, keeps an excellent beer stock, and happens to know that I am friends with PFOOC. He proceeds to tell them the story of spotting me at a gas station and trying to get my attention, only to be verbally accosted. He wanted to let me know that they had some new lagers in stock (now that's customer service!).

Moral of the story--dude probably should have tried something less obnoxious than "hey" but I could have been a bit less on the defensive.(Thank goodness I didn't use any expletives) Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is exactly the kind of employee representation that NO OFFICE needs! Fortunately he had a pretty good laugh with husband and PF, at my expense. I don't recall being more mortified in any recent history.

Home sweet Home

I just returned from what may very likely be the worst bachelorette party experience of my life. The list of party offenses is long. I had so much fun that I graded all of my student's papers. Yes, at the bachelorette party. And no one noticed that it may have been rude to grade papers at such an event, because they were too busy bickering amongst themselves and gushing about an over expensive wedding. I was the token "representing the groom's side" invitee, anyway. Urgh. My brain hurts, quite literally. I'm just not that girly.

Or maybe I'm just not that interested in weddings, and the entourage of events that accompany them. I think its an extension of the cult of perfect motherhood--the cult of the perfect wedding. It is a very emotionally destructive and ridiculously expensive way to look at things. People seem to forget that a wedding is just a big friggin par-tay, and instead insist that the hall, color scheme, table settings, music choices, and countless other menial details be SET IN STONE AT LEAST TWO YEARS BEFORE THE DATE. Fuck.

So the wedding just set the happy couple and their parents farther into debt than my phD program ever will, and still I'm the impractical one. That's all besides the fact that when it comes down to it, the night's over just like any other night, and whether or not you served the mashed potatoes with the skins on or off will ony be remembered by the cruel promulgators of this wedding-cult regime. There's so much emphasis (and money) put on the silly day and time that no one reminds the couple of what comes next: marriage. More time needs to spent on preparing young couples for a life together, if this is what they've chosen. It's great to get the dream wedding, sure--but not if the partner is just a pawn to get to the fairy tale.

When I got back today from crappy bachelorette party (see above), Floyd told me that he and my oldest brother had been talking, and decided it would be really cool to fix up my brother's Z71 pick up (or some other such alphanumeric title). They want to chop off the top of it so it's like a souped up convertible, and then they plan to baja with it in our backyard. Now that's my kind of man. Maybe a little reckless. But he's always thinkin, that one.

I am happy to be home. I could use a backyard baja right about now.

My biggest regret: I said "yada yada" too much today.

I meant well when I got out of bed this morning, I really did. But the day was reluctant to play along. In the end, I felt triumphant--I mean, it was the first day, after all. I made it through.

First: Work. I was standing patiently, listening to my boss's instructions for a special therapy on a patient. This patient, whom I have known for some time, studies me for a moment then says, "Well, you must be well adjusted to married life--you sure do listen well."

Second: School. I got one of my first doses of outright competitive rudeness. I mentioned that I was dreading a class. Although I was referring only to its time slot (it is a late seminar), a young lady asks, "Oh, you don't like that it's old ?" I couldn't help getting ye olde vibe that she thought I couldn't handle *gasp* 17th century poetry. Ergh. I'm not a grad school grudge holder, and I don't think I can measure my worth by comparing how far back my literary tastes lie, but I couldn't help following her question with a very direct, "Where were you when we were studying Chaucer?"

Third: The mail on the counter. My suspicions were confirmed that I should take the GRE again. I mean, don't get me wrong--it was a'ight. But just that. A'ight. I had certainly hoped to do better on the analytical writing section.

All in all, it was a pretty good first day--I mean, I didn't black out. Once I was in the classroom teaching, the lights turned on and the performance began (I never considered myself a class clown until I was the one teaching the class:). The crowning achievement was my epiphany on the way home for a very fun and challenging opening assignment for my Comp II class (to replace the rather bland and insecure one I had initially considered).

Now I fear nothing. I have a plan!

Disjointed blog: Movie talk, Cat talk, Car talk

I can never get through A League of Their Own without crying. Terminator gets me, too. Possibly the greatest romance ever told. Romeo n Juliet didn't go across time for each other.



Normally I'd be watching SNL at this point, but it appears we're not getting the local channels for some reason...



I mentioned this to Floyd, who recalled that I'd done some weed-wacking earlier. A certain , peculiar sound came to my mind, one that I heard just as I was using the wacker by the satellite dish. I guess I thought it was a weed. Unfortunately, I was informed that this is one weed that won't just grow back. Yeah, so...moving briskly along!



In other news, I'm going out of town for most of August. I was worried how Floyd would do taking care of the kitten and dog, but it seems that they're doing pretty well taking care of each other:





I love this one--looks like they fell asleep running:

And yes, we got the kitten as an accessory to the dog. As you can see, she is a miniature version of him, with all the same markings, even. Take that, Paris Hilton--what with your "Tinkerbell" dog and handbag. We just got a whole new kitten, straight up, to decorate our dog!

And my best news yet? I got a new car today! It doesn't make horrendous, gut-wrenching sounds when it's started, and *gasp* it isn't halfway rusted through in some places! Now, not to say the old truck wa'nt all that. It looked ugly but had brand new shocks, brakes, and many other essentials (I lost track). Still, I never had a connection with it, it was never "mine." The new one, though...it was meant for me. I'm really trying to treasure this 'new car feeling' because it expires about as quickly as 'new car smell.'

It was interesting and horrible to get "financed." I am so naive about money and credit its embarassing, though I learned a lot today. Either way, what matters is that I used to just get a new back pack for the school year...this time I got a whole new ride! :)

A strange weekend, every year.

Old Neighborhood Annual Garage Sale.

This year I did not walk around much. I did not purchase a single thing; I did not even stop by a garage sale to turn my nose up at audacious book prices (that guy last year on Pothead Avenue wanted $2 for a paperback. I don't care if it was a classic, I told him he was an idgit--in no uncertain terms, and wished him luck with his flimsy sale. I do not wonder why my husband is not anxious to accompany me on such second hand endeavours).

My friends and I used to count down the days until the festival, and save up our dollars to spend on elephant ears and random trinkets. One year I bought about a dozen Beatles 45's for a quarter apiece. I had counted on them to make me big bucks. They now decorate my staircase. I did make big bucks, however, playing the flute on the street corner, and even wound up in the local paper a few times (apparently this time of year yields slow news days).

The nights that the festivities cooled down were always the most torturous to me. These were the times in which I would sit on my front porch and watch the passerby. I'd look curiously, if not longingly, at those college-aged individuals with bumper stickers on their cars, be-cigaretted and be-sunglassed and be-going-to-a-party-I-was-too-young-to-hope-to-go-to and hope that I would one day be in their number. Some days I wonder if I've ever grown out of this.


My favorite moment, however, was never the festival itself, wherein I felt like a tourist in my own neighborhood (and at the same time one who entertains tourists), but in the days following--when litter drifted across the streets once again trafficked by cars (having been blocked off for two days). Old bookcases and dressers. those with too many stickers and carvings on them to make the sale, decorated the curbsides.


And so, in my own tradition, I took a long walk today the silence following the festival is as refreshing as the moment of silence when you turn off the vacuum cleaner. I reviewed the avenues that adorned my adolescence, and found myself in a range of emotion. It's always faintly sad, to revisit such places, particularly when alone (otherwise you can distract yourself by showing off funny stories about the people who used to live in certain houses, etc). Today my t-shirt showed the sweat on my back, as it was the hottest part of the day; my feet have two new blisters because I walked many, many blocks.


The festival. This year saw the departure of another older brother, one whom I do not believe has left the neighborhood since our family's first encounters there, roughly 15 years ago. Apparently he has tired of living in the so-called "artists residence" (despite the few legitimate artists there, this place is more appropriately realized as a party haven for underaged and spoiled kids who play guitar or make crappy youtube films and call it art) and, thankfully, is moving out. On the slightly more awkward edge of that--he moved today to a semi-distant city with his girlfriend who, up until recently, I simply referred to as "Lil Miss Hotpants." She needed a nickname: tall, slender, attractive blonde, with a fresh law degree though obviously not a brain in her head cos she's dating the dimpled dorkbrain, my brother.

I wasn't much help packing, but I fed them pizza. I also insisted that the long-legged-wonder walk over two blocks (it only takes her two steps) and meet my parents since, after all, she's moving away with my brother. I don't think that's being unreasonable. Who ever said little sisters couldn't be as demanding and domineering as their big brothers? (Don't worry, I already asked her about her GPA. She passed my test, but barely.)

My parents were unusually gracious, especially given the circumstances, i.e "Hi, nice to meet you. Oh, you're moving tomorrow?" I was gracious enough not to point out the blaring double standard evident in the comparison between this reaction to "shacking up", and their reaction to myself when I moved in with the man who is now my husband (i.e. sound of shotgun being loaded, literally. Please give Floyd all due props).

Brother and Beautiful Blonde are gone now. I stopped by earlier. I had promised to help clean, and understood that they weren't actually moving until Tuesday morning. Monday afternoon I found the house empty. This made me feel more like a little sister than ever. I missed the boat. I put down my bucket of cleaning schtuff and took a walk. I stopped in several treelawns to examine telephone poles, and review the posts.

he's boxed up his staples and staple guns, my brother has, and so his occasionally profound poetry will no longer grace the telephone poles of the neighborhood in which we grew up.

Mispellings

OK but now let me tell you about last night's hilarity. My Roadie and I get together for a beer. I gotta just call it as it is, girl--we were not in our normal charismatic partnering last night, let's face it. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but that's just it--reading. When we're not in class together, and don't see each other for a week its like, conversation peters out. Am I wrong? Our friendship is founded on nerd-dom.When we begin discussing literary tropes in our newfound book group, things will swing right back to normal.


Two eligible bachelor-types sit down at the bar. One discusses the Spurs wtih the Roadie(I stand by, clueless:). The other smells like cigarettes and, from the way he talked to me, apparently thought he was cooler than me. He contributed a few titles to my list of books I wanted to read, and thought he was really cool in doing so. I thought he was pretty unoriginal to boast about how much Hunter S. Thompson and Vonnegut he's read. Yay. He's so suave, in fact, that he's got a Thompson quote tattooed on his calf. He lifts up his pantleg so I can admire his ink. And there, in lovely black letters, was the quote:

When the going gets wierd, the wierd turn pro.

Take another look if you have to, folks, and then begin to laugh uncontrollably at this idgit. That's one hell of a fuck-up, and that ain't no Sharpie . Not one but TWO mispellings in permanent, deeper-than-skin tattoo ink.
*for those of you who still haven't gotten it, "wierd" is spelled "weird." Now, go check your tattoos.

In my woozy mind, I considered my options--smile and let him continue to think that he's cooler than me, or break it to him gently and smash his bravado. obviously, i chose the latter, though I'm not sure I was incredibly tactful. I prefaced my observation with, "I'm only telling you this because there's no chance of us ever sleeping together"
Dont ask me where it came from. He was aghast, and offended at my assumption (but that's what I do, when a guy at a bar strikes up conversation. I'm either really paranoid, or absolutely right)--but didn't really even have time to reflect on it in his horrifying realization that it was, indeed, mispelt.

Ass.

The many faces of Beeyotch
While the days of rigorous and unforgiving deadlines is temporarily over for me, I am nonetheless swamped and pulled in 15 different directions at any given time. I've certainly learned to be a smooth 'time' operator. Let me walk you through the many facets of myself that I manifested today.

I woke up as extremely thirsty, fairly groggy, and mildly hung over Beeyotch. This is commonplace.

I was "Aunt" Beeyotch for a little while, mid morning, while I enjoyed the company of my beautiful niece, Rosie. Her parents were there, too, but I'm not their aunt. Besides, she's cuter--Here's from yesterday, when I was "photographer Beeyotch":
(disclaimer-my digi's not working really well right now, so these are a disposable...I guess a bad photographer blames her camera...)


Then I was New patient Beeyotch at my new doc's office, and I got a shot in the hiney that will [hopefully] make me sneeze less, or stop waking up from inability to breathe. Right now I still feel slightly sniffly and, what's worse, I feel like someone punched me in the ass. We'll see, I guess. We'll see.

Now its time for Work Beeyotch-you know, in the scrubs, darting about from room to room doing patient therapies, figuring out patient statements and giving my boss the ol stinkeye when he starts taking too long telling jokes (the same jokes every time, mind you. I can recite them).

I transformed from work Beeyotch to Resistance movement Beeyotch (I'd forgotten to note but there is a shoe change accompanying each of these dimensions. For this occassion, I went with fur n' sequins. I brought beer, which may have offended some, but after all these crazy changes through space and time, I needed a constant (nods to LOST fans out there) and BEER IS MY CONSTANT.
After some beer-mongering and opinion-mongering, I took off the shoes and went barefoot to transition into DanceCompany Beeyotch (with toes freshly painted for tomorrow's performance). [I was a little bit late, but I find this is true to form for extra-curricular Beeyotchs, such as DanceCompany Beeyotch and Resistance movement Beeyotch. My latest theory is that because money dictates my life, if I'm not paying to be there, or being paid to be there, I'm not so pressed about it. I'll get there. New Patient Beeyotch and WorkBeeyotch are 98% on time]. Rehearsal was a nice way to wind down the evening, and get my blood going a bit. New Patient Beeyotch learned that she officially weighs more than she ever has in her life to date, and wonders vaguely, looking at her gardetto's and beer...what ought to be done.

Wifey Beeyotch landed the role of the final home stretch towards bedtime. Pink fuzzy socks wtih a pink dingleberry are warmin my feet. I even made dinner (I know, after all this!:) and will begin folding laundry once this blog is finished. Then I will become She Who loves Dr. Who in the comfort and privacy of the living room at midnight...aw yeah-those clothes hampers make me HOT.

I guess that's a poor note to end on, but its a reality, one I live quite frequently. When my superhero hours are over, I'm just Floyd’s number one gal, and that's a great thought to end the day with.

I am in over my head

I volunteered to be on a committee I have no business being on. But dammit, no one is listening to the faculty here, let alone the students...and I guess I just want to get in on the action. They probably want nothing to do with me. I have Arts & Science cooties.

In other news, I am drafting a letter to my representatives in Congress about the budget cuts to higher education that so many of the big wigs at the last meeting were complaining about. I am, admittedly, rather in the dark about these matters. I have preferred my life in a box, until, perhaps too late, my little cardboard home was shaken by big scary outside forces. Now I want to voice my opinion and I don't mess around with the footsoldiers. I go to the big big general-managers-in-the-sky, and start my foot-stamping there. But--what do I say? Please stop cutting off the money supply to my university...now, I want to sound elegant and educated, not whiny. urgh. Is there a Government-policy-for-dummies out there? It's all written in hieroglyphic lawyer speak--only less interesting. I've got to get my foot in the door, somewhere, and thats the easy part. The part I'm worried about is saying something halfway intelligent once I've got everyone's attention.

its come to this

I invited poison into my house.

all myhusband and I have done htis week is fight over channels, making snide remarks about each other's choices.

I have been invited to par-tay at wesley's pop explosion bu i let the answering machine play it out while I watched Dustin Hoffman yell through the big window in the finale of "the graduate"

the three gigantic projects comprising my final grades for this semester lay unfinished--yay, untouched--in my bookbag while I figure out how to work the DVR recorder.

but now i have to stop this blog because Karate Kid is on.