Note: Things are looking goofy in Internet Explorer, and I don’t know why, and I’m too tired to figure it out. Sorry about that.
Monthly Archives: October 2004
Bootie-licious
Babies “R” Us. Ellicott City. Me, my mother, and about 300 other pregnant women. An eye-opening experience, I can assure you.
We both emerged unscathed, and with a Graco TravelSystem [in Mocha, natch] to boot. And after that, the siren call of Target beckoned, where I found underwear to fit [still can’t believe I’ve outgrown my bras — somebody record this for posterity] and a basket full of cute, coordinating baby clothes.
I think I need to be restrained now. Now that the floodgates of baby shopping have been opened, there’ll be no stopping me! Quick, hide the Visa!
Time to mom-proof the house?
Welcome to Balwmer, hons! A friendly Charm City shout-out to my very own Ma, Pa, Ky, Kate, and Ry, who are willingly traveling more than eight grueling hours over bumpy Midwestern roads to see me and my favorite husband this weekend. Em and Matt couldn’t make it, but I’ll make fun of them just as though they really were here.
Have to say, I never, ever thought I’d see the day when two and a half days with my family just wasn’t enough.
All right. Honestly, I’m off to bed now.
Awakening the Inner Bitch, who just wants another bowl of Lucky Charms
Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Hate me because I am about to express some sentiments which are not warm, fuzzy, glowing, or supporting you in your quarterlife crisis.
This seems like one of those posts I should have Iain read before publishing, but alas, he is asleep, snoring like the gods. I’m on my own.
1. The eBay lady hates me. She finally mailed me my clothes, but only some of them. And when I pointed this out to her, she called me rude and a snob. Go figure. It’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to write a nasty, profane e-mail detailing her personality flaws, criticizing her grammar and just plain calling her bad names.
2. Silence is golden. Again, my tongue is bleeding from me biting it so hard. I try not to write vague, hateful things on my blog, since it doesn’t usually bring about any result other than pissing off parties I never intended to piss off, but it’s getting difficult. I have so many people I want to complain about, but it’s just not worth the grief I’d get in return. Iain is well-versed in my venting and the habits of those I’m venting about, and if I had more balls I’d write about it here. In actual detail.
3. But I was born with ovaries, not balls. Some people have told me that blogs about pregnancy and/or babies are horribly boring. This may be true. But I happen to find blogs about Christian theology or indie music horribly boring, so, you know, to each his own.
Also, other people [Iain] have pointed out that I mention THE BABY and THE PREGNANCY quite often on my site. Again, this may be true. But as I told him, I don’t give a rat’s heinie. This leads me to the crux of today’s post.
4. Pregnant mind dictates wheat and chaff must be separated. Or look at it this way: I have a baby in my belly. Consequently, some things are important to me now [growing a baby, eating Frosted Mini-Spooners, taking walks, reading Entertainment Weekly] and some things don’t mean a thing [resurrecting old, doddering friendships, plucking my eyebrows, returning e-mail]. A lot of people don’t like this change, especially because Old MB always seemed available for long, drawn-out sob stories, mindless rantings, and whatever other projections seemed necessary for a one-sided relationship. New MB is putting her new family and her own comfort first. Between working full-time and figuring out how in the hell she’s going to be a mother, she’s fresh out of the inclination to nod for hours on end as other people monopolize her time to make themselves feel better about their own lives.
Also, New MB likes to write on her blog, but hates having to please “readers.” She doesn’t like having to censor herself in case somebody’s feelings get hurt. She doesn’t like trying to guess what people would like to read, and would rather treat Supafine: The Blog as an online diary to commemorate the magical, technicolor-yawn qualities of being pregnant with her first child ever.
She is growing some life right now, y’all, and this shit’s way more involved than sea monkeys.
Post script. See, I knew this would happen. Some of you guys are going to read this and get all up in my grill and call me, behind my back, pretentious and holier-than-thou and bitch and whatever phrase came right off this week’s ep of the O.C. — “How dare she, who does she think she is, blah blah blah.” DON’T SWEAT IT. Just think of it as a reminder that hauling around 20 extra pounds and living that scene from Alien [where the alien is just about to leap from that woman’s stomach and Sigourney Weaver is all like, uh-oh] on a day-to-day basis is exhausting, first of all, and mentally and emotionally draining, second of all, and maybe give this girl a break. I don’t call in my chips very often, so you can hardly blame me when I do.
This is what happens when Zen MB says “Fuck it.”
On that charming note, it’s about time I crawled back into bed. It’s hard enough getting three uninterrupted [hell-o, bladder!] hours of sleep without working myself into a lather about my weblog.
Won’t be fooled again.
Finally got to see “Fahrenheit 9/11” last night. And when it was over, Iain signed his first-ever voter registration application, which is in the mail today.
There’s still time for you to register to vote in Maryland, if you haven’t yet. Just download an application from the state board of elections, fill it out, and get it to your county’s elections office by 9 p.m. Oct. 12.
Simple! Easy! Important! Remember the 2000 election? If anything, it shows us that every single vote does count.
Sad, miserable and pathetic.
Nothing is more pitiful than a pregnant woman with a hacking cough and a squeaking voice. Somebody’s going to come take my uterus away.
Iain, ever the partner, is just as sad, miserable and pathetic. Tonight we’re going to sit around passing the box of Kleenex back and forth and sniffling until it’s time to go to bed. Except he gets to take Nyquil, the bastard.
A Stay-Puft kind of weekend
Pretty good weekend, on the whole. Friday, a couple of the guys came over to share some home brews and shoot the shit. They’re good fellas.
Saturday we slept in, and the mailman brought me baby clothes from my sister-in-law. Lord, but that’s some cute stuff — I can’t wait to play Dress The Baby. We cleaned the house and readied ourself for the party.
AND when I made a last-minute run to Target, I discovered they actually carry Frankenberry cereal, one of the rarest cereals on the market. The others are Booberry and Rocky Road [which may not even be in production anymore, considering I recall last eating it about 1989]. To top it off, it was on sale — for $2 a box. If that’s not the sale of the fucking century I don’t know what is.
And then there was the party, which I thought went over reasonably well. I served the famous BusterBar to much critical acclaim, and Iain’s “flavorific ground meat explosion patties,” a.k.a. seasoned hamburgers, were a hit. By the end of the night Kelly the Superfreak was blasting “Let’s Get Retarded” and all the beer was gone, which by my standards makes it a success. Either that or a party without enough beer.
Today we are recovering from one hangover and two colds. This we accomplish by eating leftover junk food and watching Ghostbusters, the best movie about paranormal containment units to ever come out of the ’80s. File under C for Comfort Movies. I would have rented Beetlejuice but Cranbrook Video was out.
Oh! And the coolest thing ever: I talked to my folks today, and my family is actually going to come out to Baltimore to visit me [and Iain too, of course] for the first time since I moved here. I am more excited than you can know. I get to show them the house and let the baby kick them through my skin and show them the sights of the town, which I have to come up with quick before next weekend. But WOO-HOO! They’re coming!!!
Now, the only true what-the-fuck of the weekend happened Friday, as we were taking our evening constitutional. We’re walking along, minding our own business, not even trespassing or anything, when out of the clear blue nothing this dog bites Iain on the arm. I’m talking a big chonking bite, right at shoulder-height. This crazy fucker of a dog had to actually leap and extend its snarling maw over the chainlink fence in order to reach him. And bit him! Bit my husband. My jaw hit the sidewalk and I had a sudden, irrational urge to hop the fence and strangle the dog with my own skinny fingers. Nobody, not even a mean-tempered asshole-dog, messes with my man, know what I’m saying? Of course, in this case my opponent had inch-long fangs and a severe drooling problem, which didn’t bode well for my shirt nor any of my favorite limbs.
Anyway, barring physical harm to the dog, I wanted to at least call the cops or file a lawsuit or throw rocks through this guy’s window or sic the FBI on him or report the dog for rabies or something. In the end, we did nothing. A frustrating course of action, but one that made the most sense. It’s not really the dog’s fault it’s a mean biting machine; dogs like that are raised that way. And people who raise dogs to be like that are typically assholes themselves, and we figured face-to-face confrontation would result in nothing but further wounds to one or both parties. Also, there was a clearly posted Beware of Dog sign, though it was at the other end of the fence. And the dog itself was fenced in. Besides getting rid of it, I guess the owner had done everything he’d be required to do.
The good news is that they were able to reattach Iain’s arm, and doctors expect him to gain nearly full use of that limb within a few years, so there’s something to look forward to.
Ha. Just kidding. Snarly Von Chomp didn’t break the skin, lucky for him, and the semicircle-shaped bruise is healing pretty well so far. But I did deliver a very stern lecture to the dog about his behavior and I think the message is sinking in.
This post brought to you by: Dinner Bell from the album “Apollo 18” by They Might Be Giants.
Good news for people who actually like good news
Lord, I am so, so sick of Modest Mouse. But I digress before I even start.
1. Looks like the eBay debacle I have neglected to mention is finally clearing up — I hope. The peril of buying maternity clothes online from someone you’ve never met is that they may or may not decide to give you what you pay for. But like I said, I think it’s resolved. AND I think Iain’s sister is mailing me her old clothes, too. Rock on. Because right now I have exactly three pairs of pants and four shirts that I just rotate in an endless cycle of unflattering outfits.
2. Also, I started the BusterBar-making process this morning. It involves stepping on a package of Oreos for a few minutes to crush them up and then mixing them by hand in a large, very large, metal bowl with a stick of butter. It smelled so good and chocolatey I nearly stuck my face in the bowl, but did manage to restrain myself. The final result is going to be so motherticking delicious.
3. Also, nobody pointed out the less-than-real dye job I pulled directly before going to the happy hour last night, which I appreciate. It was time to go back to dark brown, but at the moment it’s hovering on purple-black. It’ll fade in a few days to a rich mahogany [well, let’s hope] but I admit looks rather goofy at present. You know, when my dental hygienist, Rosalie — who is 50-plus, I might say — expressed shock and dismay at the number of grays on my head, I figured it was time to do something.
4. I hooked myself up with a pediatrician this morning and finally scheduled my Tour the Hospital visit at GBMC. I’m so on top of things I can’t even believe it. Hear that, Beans? Your momma is a mad, task-accomplishing woman.
Anyway. Another beautiful Baltimore morning. Time to get my ass in the shower and head on out to Catonsville for sammich-time, otherwise known as a department meeting.