Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

I Will Devour Your Soul…. and make you clean it out of my diaper.

Max is teething. Hmmm… how do I explain what this is like to people who may not have children. Well, a baby, delightful, full of joy, is supposed to look like this:

Image

My Max looks more like this:

Image

*I will haunt your motherfucking DREAMS*

We, geniuses that my husband and I are, figured this out yesterday after Max spent an entire day screaming, sleeping, and then his fever spiked to 102. He wouldn’t eat, and as much as he wanted to play, all he could manage to do was nurse in between fitful bouts of sleeping in my arms.

It was really sad. My poor angel!

…and then, nighttime came.

On Thursday mornings, I have an 8:30am meeting, because the US government fucking HATES it when I sleep. So, naturally, last night Max was up until 3:30am SCREAMING. My husband tried to be the loving father and helpful husband, and took Max downstairs to soothe him, while I tried to get some rest.

I’ll give you a minute to ponder exactly how well that went.

And the WORST part is that you can’t even BITCH about it (that’s right… this isn’t even CLOSE to me in full-on bitch-mode!), because he’s SUFFERING…

Let me tell you a little something about suffering, ok? Sleep deprivation is a form of TORTURE; teething is NOT. Mama’s not cute when she’s a hot mess, all tired and can’t even fucking BLOG properly. And what kind of fucking evolution comes up with the idea of, “oh! I know! JUST as the baby starts sleeping through the night, JAGGED PIECES OF BONE WILL COME *BURSTING* THROUGH HIS GUMS! Yeah…. I’m so awesome right now…”

I hate you, evolution. Go fuck yourself.

So, he’s asleep now. I want to do some writing, I want to read other peoples’ blogs, and I want to eat the entire box of oreos my husband brought home as our “emergency supplies” prior to the Snow-Storm-We-Didn’t-Get.

………………………and in the middle of my meeting, I realized my sweater was on backwards.

Whatever. At least I had my pants on. 

29 Comments »

I don’t know the international sign for “Do my panties smell like rye?”

I HAD been writing a lovely post, which was then interrupted by my FB acquaintance who felt the need to post photos of her baby in pink tutus (UPDATE!: They bought her a leopard onesie, just in time for me to throw up on my laptop screen). Then, I spent a few days wondering what it was I was going to write, and sort of generally being flakey and thinking “This whole ‘WordPress’ thing; what’s THAT about?” And I got totally philosophical and started questioning my place in the world.

Then, I got writer’s block, which………. I thought you had to be a writer to have? I dunno.

But then, some friends came over tonight and we were talking about travel.

“Oh!” I said, “And I never leave the US without cream.”

“Whaaa…. what KIND of cream?” My friend asked hesitantly… because she’s my friend, and thus, knows exactly where this might go.

“Weeeeeeeeelllllllllllllll….” I started, “When my guy and I first started dating, we went on a trip to the Netherlands so that he could lecture. There was a small town where the university was, and we were staying there for a few days. And, you know, when you’re a young couple, things are all fresh and exciting, and, you know, STUFF is happening… and stuff happened a LOT for us, which was great, but then…..”

“Then WHAT?” she asked.

“Well, then I started, you know… ‘baking bread’….”

“…………………what?”

“You know… it got YEASTY all up in my Magical Lady Forrest.”

“………………………….”

Now, you have to picture it, because (in retrospect) it’s pretty funny. I’m in this small town where almost nobody speaks English. I go to the local pharmacy, and behind the counter is a lovely young woman who probably thought that the most exciting thing that would happen with her day would be the new shipment of glow in the dark band-aids.

But then: me.

So now I’m like one of those chicks in the yeast infection commercials where they’re all sad and wearing sweats (which, I don’t understand, because being able to wear sweats makes me HAPPY, and these bitches are all mopey), except I’m in a country where the people speak Flemish, AAAAAAAAAAAND I have a feminine medical condition, because the universe hates me.

Back to the pharmacy, with the pharmacist who doesn’t speak English. From her perspective, I imagine the scene went as follows:

-Oh, here’s a nice young woman. She looks foreign. Huh. Don’t get many tourists here.

-Ahh, she’s approaching me. She must need something. I will try to do honor unto my people by being helpful and polite.

-Oh goodness. There appears to be some sort of language barrier! Ahh, the young woman is valiantly trying to overcome it via what I can only assume is some sort of interpretive dance/seizures. Her people are so brave.

-Ok, a lot of these gestures seem to be centered around her vag… she must need tampons!

-Oh. No. Not tampons. No, she seems a little disappointed…

-Why is she grunting and making scratching motions toward her pants? Oh my goodness! This woman must be mentally ILL! I will try to appease her by nodding my head vigorously, but darting my eyes toward the display of Swiss Army knives, in case she makes any sudden moves.

-I think she might be trying to tell me that her pants are full of angry, rabid ants.

… that part is actually not too far from the truth, when you think about it.

Anyway, it went on that way for some time, as I tried to mime “yeast infection.” I’m not even sure I could win a round of Pictionary if I pulled the “Yeast Infection” card. It seems so easy, but for some reason that just isn’t a common phrase in most travel books. Rarely do you see, “Good morning. I may have a yeast infection. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your local witch doctor?’ in your “Lonely Planet Guides”.

Needless to say, I left there without cream. I suppose I could have gone to another pharmacy, but after the horrors of my initial attempt, and the ever worsening look of horror on the face of that poor pharmacist (who may or may not be scarred for life), I chose to wait until we got back state-side.

 

And THAT, folks, if the  bonus post for the night. Because I haven’t written in a while, and I’m too tired to edit. So, writing without editing. How’s it working out for me? Leave your hate mail below.

25 Comments »

In which I learn that I have a hard time with boundaries.

I’m kind of like one of those Labrador Retrievers, in that I like to lick myself make new friends everywhere I go. Part of it is innate, but another big part I get from a friend of mine. I used to be her manager, and on our first day together, I took her out to lunch to get to know her better. She started off lunch by saying:

“I just want you to know: I know I have a hole in my crotch.”

INSTANT. FRIENDSHIP.

Of course, she was just referring to her pants, but I choose to ignore that, and believe that she just knew how to sweet talk me with awkwardness.

HER side of the story is that she liked me, and forced me to be her friend by telling me about her crotch, and also “inadvertently” grabbing my boob when our train stopped short one day. That happened, too.

Our friendship is built on accidental sexual harassment.

Anyway, today I went to Ikea with my husband and El Bebe. Ikea is what I do when I need pretty in my life, and Target just won’t fucking cut it anymore. Ikea makes me feel like I could be someplace foreign and exotic, but where everything is clean, in English, and they have delicious meatballs.

Interestingly enough, they don’t like when you go to sleep on one of their beds.

Ask me how I know this.

My husband walked away with Max for a couple of minutes and… ok, I’m not proud of this part, but I ran away.

HEY HEY HEY!! I DIDN’T TOTALLY LEAVE MY HUSBAND AND SON… you know, not for long. I just went to the bedding section when they weren’t looking. I also might have knocked over some KVELLERs or whatever those cabinets are called to make it harder for them to follow by accident. There, I spied a lovely bed that didn’t have a screaming baby near it, and figured I would test the firmness of the mattress.

I fell the fuck asleep in Ikea. A chick in a yellow shirt was all, “Umm… Ma’am… you can’t sleep in the display.”

Agree to disagree… because I totally am right now.

Image

*Her, too. I’mma find this woman, and make her be my friend. We’ll start a club. JOIN US.*

“Ma’am? Ma’am. Do you have any questions about the display?”

Yes… how do I turn the light off, and where do I get a fourth wall?

Eventually, I had to get up, because I’m too pretty for prison. And also because my husband found me. He says that most people don’t actually get horizontal in Ikea, but I think he’s just jealous that I thought of it first.

As we argued, I saw another exhausted looking mom walking around with a small baby. So, because I’m me, I asked her, “You have a baby; if you could take a nap in Ikea for a few hours, wouldn’t you?”

“Totally” she said without batting an eye.

I got her number. I’m going to make her be my best friend, and we’re going to have sleepovers in IKEA.

And eat meatballs in bed. Class, all the way.

16 Comments »

Guilty pleasures

as

I’m torn on a lot of things: to bra, or not to bra? Sweat pants or jeans? Peanut butter & chocolate, or chocolate & peanut butter? These are the essential questions that plague philosophy majors long after they’ve given up hope of doing… whatever the hell philosophy majors think they’re going to do with their degrees, and actually end up in HR. But the one question that plagues me the most?

My fantasies.

I was raised with ZERO guilt around sex and sexuality. Not that I was raised to believe that sex with strangers and outside of a committed relationship was a GOOD thing, but that sex in and of itself was no different than eating. Eating is fine. Eating is HEALTHY. But you don’t constantly eat (unless you have that brain disorder that I saw on CSI, where the dude TOTALLY ate himself to death. That was sad). Instead, you figure out when it’s appropriate, and where, and even then, sometimes you indulge.

But sometimes, your eye inadvertently wanders to the triple layer chocolate cake with dark chocolate covered cherries and strawberries, and you wonder if it really IS possible to have “Death by Chocolate” inscribed on your headstone. That chocolate deliciousness, for me, is one Mister Alexander Skarsgard.

Now, here’s my conundrum. Let’s say that one day, you could suddenly read the minds of every person you met, and you knew all the dirty thoughts they had about you, and everyone else they met. I feel like, to some degree, that’s how it must be if you’re a “sex symbol.” You must know there are millions of men and woman who think dirty things about you each night before they go to bed, while they’re in bed, while they’re in the shower, on their way to work, while they’re picking out cucumbers (let’s be honest), and just in the general course of their every day.

I mean, on the one hand, flattering!! People are lusting after YOU. They dream about YOU. But on the other hand, to KNOW that people are taking images of you in their heads and making you do certain things… and like weird shit too, if we’re judging just by MY friends, and what they like.

So I feel a little guilty about thinking dirty thoughts and making Mr. Skarsgard, you know… enjoy my company. I mean, fair enough, I’m fucking DELIGHTFUL, but morally is it right to MAKE someone do dirty/fun/illegal-in-twenty-states things to you without their consent?

OMFG? AM I BRAIN-RAPING ALEXANDER SKARSGARD?!?!?!

….I really need to stop blogging on NyQuil.

7 Comments »

Humans Are Weird

colourful observations

rarasaur

frightfully wondrous things happen here.

1pointperspective

NOT just another WordPress.com site

AmyReeseWrites

Stories, poems, photos and bumbles for the soul

Cinema Parrot Disco

Musings on Mainly Movies from a Table 9 Mutant

Skinny Jeans & Cupcakes

Fashionably Fit While Ballin' on a Budget

The Dirty Dame

Penny for your dirty thoughts?

Fiction Favorites

with John W. Howell

006.7 EKGO

a blogful of stories

mlewisredford

may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so ...

Bain Waves

The world is hurting; laugh more.

Sweet Mother

Where my Old writing lives!

Free Range Cow

The adventures and roamings of a silly cow

bakingnotwriting

A site by a writer who is baking...or a baker who isn't writing

Pucker Up Buttercup

Wisdom and Nonsense. Mostly Nonsense ...

I Won't Take It

Life After an Emotionally Abusive Relationship

slimegreen

By Punky Coletta

Genext13

Bits and pieces of me. (not as gross as it sounds)