Saturday meme-ing

I’m sick of bitching about various and sundry relatives, so I meme. Feel free to play along.

As stolen from Joke, who stole it from Poppy, who stole it from someone else. As you do.

Accent: Well, I don’t think I have one, but I think I’m kidding myself, since I grew up in Massachusetts, a bit west of Boston. I also lived in England and I’ve been married to a Canadian for six years. I have bizarre pronunciations of some words.

Booze: Guinness, and not that super-cooled crap either. Red wine, as long as it’s not too sweet. Maker’s Mark. Jameson’s. Plymouth Gin and tonic. And, vile though it may be, Red Bull and vodka. I cannot wait until I can drink again.

Chore I Hate: Pretty much all of them, but I really hate doing the dishes.

Dog or Cat: One of each, both dumb as a box of rocks. But nice.

Essential Electronics: Computer. Preferably the G5.

Favorite Perfume: Mademoiselle by Chanel and Chanel #5, although I think being pregnant is fucking with the last one because lately, when I wear it, it smells funky after an hour or two.

Gold or Silver: Yellow gold, preferably studded with saphhires.

Hometown: Auburn, Massachusetts

Insomnia: Not so much right now, but I do get it and it annoys the fuck out of me.

Job Title: Chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, general dogsbody. Oh, and administrative assistant. Whoopee.

Kids: Three, soon to be four, god help me.

Living arrangements: House that I own, for the first time in my life, with one husband, two of the three kids, one dog and one cat. And a mouse whose days are numbered.

Most admirable traits: Um, according to my sister, I don’t have any. I think I’m loyal, sometimes to a fault.

Number of sexual partners: Enough that I know what I’m doing.

Overnight hospital stays: Three, for three babies.

Phobias: None, really. I don’t like heights, but it’s more of a “Urgh, I’m going to throw up” than a paralyzing fear.

Quote: When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it. – Bernard Bailey

Religion: Happily agnostic.

Siblings: One opinionated sister.

Time I wake up: 5 a.m. during the week, around 7 on the weekends, depending on the Boo.

Unusual talent or skill: I don’t think I have one. I’m pretty ordinary.

Vegetables I love: I pretty much like them all.

Worst habit: Impatience

X-rays: Two broken fingers and a shitload of cavities.

Yummy foods I make: Lasagna, tacos (does that count as cooking?), chili, I’ll attempt just about anything, with varying degrees of success.

Zodiac sign: Scorpio. A seething intensity of emotional energy under a placid exterior. Yeah, that’s me.


It’s a good thing I don’t own a gun, part II

I went to the school this morning and spoke to one of the vice principals there. She was understanding, but it bordered on dismissive. So I stressed that I didn’t necessarily want these children punished, I wanted some education to be done. Perhaps the pump company could come in and do a presentation on diabetes and answer any questions the kids had.

I know that kids are like that. They will pick on any percieved weakness – god knows, it happened often enough to me when I was little. If O had dyed her hair green or pierced her nose 12 times, I would have told her that that was a choice she made and she’d have to deal with the teasing somehow. She doesn’t have a choice about diabetes. It’s not going to go away. And she’s already talked about another boy with D who is picked on mercilessly. He has no friends and always sits by himself at lunch. I DO NOT want O to become that child.

O has developed a lot of self-confidence over the last couple of years about her diabetes. Going to camp has done that for her and I don’t want this to cause a major setback. We had to do a site change last night and she wanted it in her stomach “So people won’t see it and make fun of me.” Knife. Heart. Twist.

She told her dad about it last night, too. His advice? It’s just something you’ll have to put up with. God, she was pissed about that. She got off the phone and was totally disgusted with him.

It’s a good thing I don’t own a gun.

I’m starting to think I killed babies in a past life.

O called me at work today and sounded upset. When I asked her what was wrong, she said at lunch, some kids pointed, laughed and said “ewwwww, gross!” to her about her pump infusion site. This is what they look like:

It’s not gross, you can’t see a fucking thing except something white, like a round band-aid, and some tubing.

So these little fucktards have now upset my daughter and I have to go in to the school tomorrow to see what can be done about it. I would like to hold them all down and poke them with blood glucose testers about 8,000 times, but I’d probably go to jail for it. And they frown on using skulls as drinking vessels these days.

Honest to god, I’m about ready to kill someone. I’m not a violent person, but it’s a damned good thing I don’t own a gun.

It’s a good thing I’m pregnant

…otherwise I’d be an alcoholic.

Before I start today’s rant (I’m ranty-girl lately, huh?), I wanted to say thank you for all the nice comments on yesterday’s post. You guys are great. I really appreciate it.

Now. Yet another diatribe:

Honest to god, my mother is going to drive me into the loony bin.

My son, A, is a senior in high school. He’s heavily involved in drama and the music department and they are putting on Footloose next Friday and Saturday night. A has a good-sized part in it – not the lead, but the lead’s best friend. Going by the amount of rehearsals these kids are putting in, it’s going to be a good show.

So I called my mother to see if she could watch The Boo on Friday and go to the show on Saturday. TCBIM is working and we need the money, so he can’t do it. And my sister wants to charge me $30. Um, no. You’re 35 years old and I’ve asked you to babysit exactly ONCE, so no, I won’t be paying you.

My mother said no. Said she wants to go to the show on Friday, since she can’t go on Saturday. She said “Well, I guess you can’t go, then.”

Is it just me? Seriously. Am I insane to be making such a big deal out of this? Because I’ve been sitting at my desk crying about it for half an hour now. This is A’s last thing in high school. I want to go. I don’t get to see him that often because he lives with his dad (another story for another time), although we talk on the phone a lot. And I want to see this.

In desperation, I emailed a friend of mine. We share a daycare provider and she also has a CWD and a kick ass babysitter. She’s going to give me the babysitter’s name and also offered to watch The Boo for me if the babysitter was busy. She’s such a nice woman (and she’s blonde, tiny and adorable, too *sigh*).

Why can’t my family be a bit more like that? I don’t ask for a lot – I’m not out gallivanting all the time; TCBIM and I never go anywhere without the kids. Until last Friday, when we went to that concert, I don’t think we’d been out alone in 5 or 6 months, at least.

I’m just so frustrated by them. And I hate that they make me cry. I hate crying.

If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother

Maybe this is going to sound like a big, self-indulgent whine fest, but I need to complain about it.

I’ve always had issues with my mother. She’s incapable of giving me a compliment or telling me I’ve done a good job at anything. I thought maybe this was just me, being hyper-sensitive and weird, but I got an email from a friend yesterday that justified my feelings. He said he’d be happy to come to the housewarming we’re going to have “Just so long as your mother doesn’t go on pontificating and noting how you do a lot of things wrong.”

So, it’s not just me. I was really starting to feel like I had this complex left over from my childhood or something, like I was reading into things.

Last night was the capper, though. She was telling me how her friend was over the other night, admiring A’s graduation picture my mother has on the mantelpiece. The friend thought A was a handsome kid (he is – you’ll just have to believe me). My mother agrees with her friend. After relating this to me, she says, “Well, it stands to reason he’d be handsome, doesn’t it? I mean, after all, his dad is a very good-looking guy.” I’m waiting for the “and you’re very pretty, too,” or some such thing, but no. She just starts talking about knitting or quilting or something. I can’t even remember, I was so stunned.

I mean, even if you think I’m a troll, lie. Is it THAT difficult to pay me a compliment? To tell me that my child looks like me and how handsome he is?

I used to think there was something wrong with me, that I was fundamentally flawed and a failure because she never, ever thought I did anything well. I’m constantly held up to my sister and step-sister and found wanting. “Your wedding was nice, but K’s (the step-sister) was just SO classy.” “It always made me chuckle to hear your high school chorus attempting to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. That high A was so brutal.” “Well, yes, that’s nice, but did you see the piece of art that your sister did?”

And she wonders why I have zero self-confidence.

This is why I praise my kids to the sky when they do things. Yes, O’s soccer team has yet to win a game, but I always, always, always tell her how great they played, how much they’ve improved, how hard it is because they have no subs. I play up her strengths. If she talks about weaknesses, we strategize how best to overcome them. When A’s show choir took second place in a competition, I was thrilled for him. I always tell him how great I think he’s doing with that stuff. I get interested in the stuff he’s doing and I tell him how proud I am of him when he improves his grades in a class he’s had trouble with. I try really, really hard to be there for my kids, to be supportive and kind. I don’t want to stand by and watch as they fall and then tell them what they did wrong; I want to be their safety net, the person they come to when the world kicks them in the shins.

My mother is incapable of that. Nothing is ever good enough. She finds fault in everything I do. Everything. It’s a suck ass way to go thru your childhood, feeling like you’re a big, fat disappointment to your parents. It’s not a fun way to live as an adult, either.


….the newest girl in the family.

Walk AND chew gum? Are you nuts?

File under: Klutz.

I forgot my lunch today, so I picked up a salad at Wendy’s on my way in to work. Lunch time rolls around. I put the dressing and croutons on, then very carefully, re-seal it and start to shake it up. At which point, the lid slides off and lettuce, chicken and parmesan cheese fling themselves with gay abandon around my office.


I now have half a salad from Wendy’s.

This is the story of my life. I fall over for no reason, I drop things, I break things, I bump into desks and beds and cars – BIG things, things you shouldn’t miss, I trip over. I trip over cracks in the pavement all. the. time. I once fell down in Cambridge. Just fell. Walking along and, whoosh, there I went. Scraped palms, bleeding knees. It was lovely. I wasn’t drunk, it wasn’t dark, I just fell.

It amazes me that I’ve never had a car accident. Never even come close (knock on wood, turn around three times, go outside and spit).


So, where does one buy tinted moisturizer? I bought what I thought was a moisturizing makeup, but I think they lied because I put it on and an hour later, my skin was as flaky as a flaky thing. It’s really getting annoying – my skin is so sensitive (it’s ’cause I’m a delicate, fragile flower. What? Stop laughing.) I need something that’s not going to make my skin go nuts.


In diabetes-related news, I’ve talked O into doing a thigh site on Saturday. I’m holding her to it. I expect lots of protesting and bargaining, but it will be done. Her stomach is a mess; all puffy and her sites are getting infected there. It’s disgusting.

A Shameless Plug

Great Big Sea
Calvin Theatre, Northampton, MA
21 April 2006

Such a fun band. If you’re at all into Celtic music – not trad, deedle-deedle-dee music, although they do have some of that – you need to check out Great Big Sea. They’re extremely talented and very funny. They put on a hell of a show, too, full of energy and perform with a pure enjoyment and love for their music. They make sea chanties dead sexy and Newfoundland folk songs rock.

Go check them out. Rant and Roar is their US greatest hits compilation and a good place to start. Then find out where they’re playing near you and go see them and dance your ass off.

Today, my legs are sore and my throat a bit raw, but man, I had a blast.

Wanted: Peace of Mind

After reading Julia’s, Lauralu’s and Sandra’s blogs and crying all over the place about them, I’m officially a paranoid mess.

I lost a baby a little over 2 years ago, at 13 weeks gestation. She just died. I had an excruciating backache for three days, then some spotting and when I went to the doctor, they couldn’t find a heartbeat. I had a D&C two days later. I never got a reason, just a “Sometimes these things happen.” And the rational part of my brain knows that, but my heart still can’t really accept it.

I spent the first 20 or so weeks of my pregnancy with Isobel being a complete basket case. I was petrified all the time and was positive that every twinge and ache was the beginning of another loss. Even after I passed the 13 week mark, I was still a wreck. I didn’t relax until she was actually in my arms.

And now I’m scared again. I don’t have a real reason to be – there are no symptoms of anything going on, nothing seems weird, I can feel the baby moving around, and yet I’m making myself sick with worrying. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I become so adept at expecting the worst that I’m incapable of thinking the best will happen? Is it because I have a streaming head cold? Am I just hormonal? Is it because this baby is due 2 years to the week that the baby I lost was due? Did I not grieve enough at the time? That’s impossible; I cried buckets then. I still cry about it, I still think about the little girl I never got to meet.

Whatever it is, I wish it would stop, because I hate feeling this way. I hate the feeling of dread and doom. I hate trying not to get too attached to this baby, just in case. It’s a horrible, morbid way to live.

I need to still the mad scrabbling in my mind.

Everyone else is doing it,

Why can’t I? (Name that [paraphrased] album title)

I am: pregnant
I want: food
I wish: I had long, red, curly hair a la Susan Sarandon
I hate: lies. And liver.
I miss: my friend Caragh
I fear: something happening to my family
I hear: Gene Loves Jezebel – Jealous. And the server humming.
I wonder: how the Red Sox will do this year.
I regret: my first marriage
I am not: very patient
I dance: like Elaine from Seinfeld.
I sing: too often.
I cry: All. The. Freaking. Time. (see #1)
I am not always: neat.
I make with my hands: great meals.
I write: to fulfill a need.
I confuse: left and right.
I need: a massage
I should: file the shit on my desk.
I start: too many books
I finish: this meme

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