Rock and Old

Last night Tom and I went to a Duran Duran concert. I found myself feeling sort of sorry for a 16 year old me who would have KILLED to see Duran Duran but could not afford it, whereas now I paid three times what tickets cost then, and I spent the entire time wishing I were in bed.

I could make a few excuses as to why I am so tired these days. This week at work has been particularly grueling, for example. But really, I'm just lame. Old and lame.

The second we entered the hall - about half the size of the stadiums Duran Duran used to fill which made me want to run backstage and apologize to the band - my ears started ringing. How is it that there are high-pitched frequencies only teenagers can hear, yet teenagers aren't at all bothered by the squealing of bad speakers turned up in volume to make up for quality? I don't remember ever thinking it was too loud when I was younger. But old people are notorious for the old "your music is too loud" complaint and now I'm a freaking cliche.

Luckily Tom, who is even older than me - FORTY if you must know, which is mind-blowingly old - foresaw this problem and brought... can I admit this? Oh all right. He brought earplugs. Yes, he brought earplugs to a rock concert and god bless 'im for it or my head would have exploded.

But we weren't the only ones suffering. Simon, the lead singer, was apparently feeling his age, too, or at least that's what I'm assuming based on the fact that he asked the audience to sing half his songs for him. I guess he was out of breath. It does seem the older the band, the more often they hold that microphone toward the audience with a limp arm, letting the audience do the work for them while they take a bit of a rest on stage. I sang more Duran Duran at the Duran Duran concert than Duran Duran did.

That all being said, it was still a great concert - the parts I was awake for, anyway. Despite the noise I was still able to sneak in a few cat naps here and there, which provided me with the temporary energy to stand for the particularly good songs. And of course standing helped with the whole singing from your diaphram thing too.

I think I'm going to write Duran Duran my first fan letter.

Dear Duran Duran,

You guys rock. You are so awesome. But next time could you keep it down a bit, and maybe start at 5pm so I can get home by my bedtime at 9? Also, please don't come on a school night. It throws off my whole week.

Thank you,

Karen

P.S. I enjoyed singing your songs for you. Please send my share of last night's ticket sales to the address below.

I Have Some News

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE PREGNANT!”

For the past two and a half years, this is what always followed any announcement that I had news. And then I had to disappoint whoever it was by clarifying no, I am not pregnant, I got a new job. Or was moving to another state. Or had finally dislodged that uncomfortable piece of lettuce from between my teeth. Or something equally dissatisfying.

Every time I went to my in-laws for dinner and accepted the offer of a glass of wine, everybody sighed dejectedly.

So, AHEM

I have some news. Yes, THAT.

While I busy myself with growing a person, someone I can’t see or feel yet but who nevertheless exhausts me beyond the ability to speak, very little else has changed. I guess I expected people to be flying across the country to bang on our door and deliver gifts and hugs. But except for the exciting moment of delivering the news, pretty much everybody went straight back to minding their own business. I guess they’ll be more interested when the child is outside my body.

There are a few exceptions. My mom, of course, is thrilled, and calls me her “sleepy knocked up girl.” Mom has a propensity for creating creepy nicknames when she is profoundly moved by a life event. When I was planning my wedding she called me her “baby bride,” completely missing the irony that I was getting married in Alabama, where such a thing could be taken literally.

So mainly I’m just left to myself, with whom I spend very little time because I am often sleeping if I am not at work. When I am awake I am generally trying to find something to eat that will satisfy some elusive, indefinable craving - which luckily, so far, hasn’t ever turned out to be coal or dirt, which I hear are some of the less enticing cravings pregnant women can get – while still following all the minute rules of the pregnancy diet. I have to say, for something the size of a grape with no digestive system, this kid is one picky eater.

Who knew you couldn’t have any soft cheese, like blue cheese, goat cheese – essentially, all the ones that smell the worst and taste the best? Before I knew I was pregnant I threw Tom a birthday party for which I made a platter of pear and goat cheese bruschetta, most of which I ate myself before the guests arrived, served alongside an enormous wedge of brie which I also consumed liberally. So already, before I knew the kid existed, I had completely screwed up as a mother by essentially hurling a murderous hunk of brie down my gullet at his poor undeveloped head.

So then I started to get paranoid. One night while cooking fake jambalaya from a box (“just add meat!”) I discovered that I can’t eat deli meats either. They have the same evil bacteria as my beloved cheese. So I stood beholding my already-cooked jambalaya, listening to my stomach growl (which it does a lot these days) pondering whether They really mean it or not. After reading online for about 45 minutes, and accidentally stumbling upon all sorts of unrelated-to-deli-meat horrors, I determined that so long as I cooked the meat until it was unrecognizable, it was okay to eat.

But now it seems that whenever a food is mentioned, suddenly I HAVE to have it. For example, I overheard somebody mention Cheetos the other day. I have never really cared for Cheetos but I immediately dug through my wallet for change and hurled myself desperately at the vending machine, PRAYING that it had Cheetos (it did). I stuffed them down my word hole like a ragged street urchin. And if you had told me a couple months ago, “When you’re pregnant, you can’t eat deli meat,” I would have scoffed. But now that I can’t, suddenly ALL I WANT is deli meat. What about Subway sandwiches? No more turkey sandwiches from the sandwich shop in my office building? How can a high-protein, low-fat food like turkey be bad for me? I find myself questioning everything I put in my mouth. How can I not, when a well-respected baby website posts prominently on the front of its “pregnancy health” page a question from a reader headed “Is it okay for me to eat vegetables?” Vegetables? I would have filed that under the “duh” category but apparently this is a question worthy of discussion! If I can’t trust vegetables, what can I trust? No wonder pregnant women are all nuts.

Oh! Nuts. That sounds good.

What's Really Important (aka The Pooping Blog)

Long before I ever got pregnant I developed an intense fear of childbirth not just because of the pain (my fear for that is, of course, to be assumed) but because of the fact that I might make a poop on the delivery table.

This has been a fairly constant concern that has weighed on me for many years, despite not having been pregnant. I don’t see how Tom could ever see me the same way again once he sees me poop on a table. Well, poop ANYwhere, but especially on a table.

Long before I became pregnant, when Tom and I were just throwing the idea of kids around, I would take care to mention as casually and as often as possible, “You know, I may make a poop on the table.” My goal was to intersperse this thought into so many non-related topics that eventually my husband would become immune to the idea.Tom responded at first with all the proper, supportive things: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Nothing you do could make me not love you. I will always find you attractive. Until, around the fiftieth or so mention of it, I finally broke him and he blurted, “Will you PLEASE stop reminding me!?”

I’ve often wondered why this isn’t a larger concern for every expectant mother. Why aren’t there bulletin boards devoted to this on babycenter.com or ivillage? Except for Anne Lamott’s “Operating Instructions,” (which is how I found out about this possibility- certainly none of my friends told me) I have yet to find one mention of it in any of the books that are otherwise not at all shy about discussing things like “cheesy substances” or a thing called a “mucus plug” - the definition of which I haven’t had the courage to learn. How is it that a woman will open up about the most indelicate details of the state of her vagina during delivery but will NEVER mention making a poop on the table, which I personally find the most horrifying detail of all?

Now I know the answer. And I’m not going to be a tight-wad about it. I’ll share it with you. Nobody made me take a vow of silence about pooping when I became pregnant, so I’m going to assume a mob of large, irate pregnant women aren’t going to come after me with torches for divulging this heretofor unshared secret.

The reason they don’t obsess about making a poop on the table is this: A pregnant woman is delighted to make a poop ANYwhere, at ANYtime, no matter WHAT else is going on. I would gladly squat in the middle of the dining room table if it would guarantee me a nice bowel movement.

My life has become, and will remain, revolved around pooping. Mine now (or rather the lack of it) and later the baby’s. I think pregnancy constipation is nature’s way of making you truly appreciate the passing of a healthy dump so that you won’t be quite so aggravated by having to change a diaper full of it several times a day. No, instead of being irritated, you will be delighted that your offspring has been saved the discomfort of a backed-up bowel.

Too much information? Well, I think I’m just saying what everybody has always thought. As my wise friend says, a good bowel movement can make anybody’s day, not just a pregnant person's. And lately my moods are determined, for days at a time, by when I made a poop.

Heed my words, oh yee lucky people who can poop whenever you want to! Do not take it for granted! Lock yourself in that lavatory with a good book for awhile! Proudly flip on that overhead fan! And poop! By all means, go forth and poop with pride!

Madam, I May Have Silly Fears but*

There are many reasons people choose not to have children. They may not like kids, or they may recognize that they are not mature enough to take care of them. They may be concerned about the future of our society or too scared by the current political administration to subject an innocent person to it. Perhaps there are significant health risks that run in their family, or they remember too clearly their own fucked up childhood (because, really, who didn’t have a fucked up childhood?). Or perhaps, like me, they are just petrified of vomiting.

It’s not that I’m afraid of baby spit-up or even full fledged toddler rainbow yawns at public functions. No, I’m afraid of ME barfing. Specifically, I am afraid of what people have cutely termed “morning sickness.”

Doesn’t this bring to mind, if one pushes aside the automatic thoughts we’ve grown accustomed to thinking when hearing this term, a woman circa 1880 wearing a frilly yellow gown, half collapsed and fanning herself on a velvet fainting couch? Something likely to be the result of a too-tight corset? It does not sound like a modern day full time working mom hurling into a garbage can on the corner of a busy street, while a bum looks on clearly thinking, “Hey! I EAT from that!” (Yes, firsthand. And to the mother-to-be’s significant credit, she just tidied herself up, grinned wryly to a concerned passerby “morning sickness,” and kept on moving. I would have burst into tears and collapsed on the nasty curb while the bum looked on thinking, “Hey! I SLEEP there!”)

I can name every time I’ve puked as an adult. I’ve only done so maybe a dozen times, and I’ve definitely beat Seinfeld’s no-barfing streak, thanks to staying away from those god-awful black and white cookies and sheer determined willpower. I loathe throwing up. It is hugely traumatic for me. This is the reason I will never be a drunk or a bulimic. Or get pregnant.

Tom and I have been asked, pretty much since the day we said “I do,” when we are going to start a family. Some have been more persistent than others (Katy, I’m looking at you) and some have kept completely quiet, but don’t think I haven’t seen that gleem in your eye whenever a baby is mentioned in casual conversation. Last year during the holidays my father-in-law kept intoning not so subtly, and - I’m sure I’m not imagining it - accusatorily, that Christmas is really “all about the kids.”

I know it sounds lame and ridiculous but honestly I can’t stand the idea of puking. It goes against nature! That pipe is meant for things to go down, not to come up. I hate the feeling of being completely out of control of what my body is doing. I hate the smell, I hate getting it in my hair, I hate that burning sensation in your throat afterwards. I hate the unattractive contortions my face makes and I certainly hate the possibility of doing it in front of other people. Yeah, sure, childbirth sounds pretty awful too, but at least you can get an epidural. And the puking lasts for MONTHS. Months! How does anybody put up with this?!

So until the medical community agrees that it is okay to put a pregnant woman in a coma for the first trimester or until the nausea passes, whichever comes last, I ain’t gettin knocked up.

I don’t care how cute that baby over there is. With his itty bitty fingers and his chubby cheeks and…

* From Dave Barry’s version of the Winston Churchill (a well known drinker) quote: “Madam, I may be drunk but BLAARRRRRGH”

And on the seventh day... they fixed the toilet

Today's blog is more of a status report than my usual griping. You know that saying "everything that can go wrong, will"? Well, that didn't apply to THIS move, which means I have relatively little to kvetch about. I mean, it wasn't FUN, and of course it ended up costing almost twice what I was quoted, but it's not like that's anything surprising.

One of my favorite authors, Suzanne Finnamore, wrote, "When planning a wedding you should know that everything costs a thousand dollars, except for the things that cost more than a thousand dollars." This can be applied to anything associated with purchasing a home, except of course for the home itself, which costs, well, let's just say WAY more than a thousand dollars.

After lucking out on the weather - a gorgeous, sunny day with a hint of warmth to it - and watching in terror as the moving guys schlepped our posessions up that steep driveway without dropping anything, we were due for some poorer luck. The moving bill was one thing, but (and don't tell them this) I would have paid one million dollars to not have to lug all that stuff up that driveway myself. So the fact that we went $500 over budget still seemed like a win to me. The treadmill alone was worth that. Those poor guys. I hope they are okay. I hope they are taking ibuprofen.

Anyway, yes, as I mentioned before: there is surprisingly little to report. The rest of the weekend went kind of like this:

• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $200 at Target
• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $500 at Lowe's
• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $250 at Costco
• Unpack 10 boxes...

So far our new home feels somewhat like a vacation resort. We have this ginormous master bath with a double vanity, waterfall shower and japanese soaking tub. It feels like our honeymoon. I managed to dry myself off after my shower without bumping my elbow on anything for the first time in over a year. I ran on my very own treadmill, which faces the window overlooking these two huge trees in our yard in which squirrels and birds frolick and chirp, providing me with my very own personal Animal Planet broadcast.

Speaking of which, Theo is still getting used to the whole yard thing. She'll wander and explore so long as she thinks one of us is out there with her, but as soon as she sees we've snuck back inside she stands at the door and looks perplexed. Also frustrating her are the stairs. She is no longer able to sit in one spot and keep an eye on both of us. There are four more rooms and two levels. All day long "click click click click" as she trudges up and down the stairs and hallways, trying to maintain a constant log of where we both are. Not easy when we are running all over the place unpacking. She was so tired from all the stair climbing at the end of the first day that we had to help her up onto the bed.

There were a few discoveries that led each time to my envisioning Tom Hanks laughing uncontrollably when his bathtub fell through the floor. Comparatively things like the rack in the dishwasher needing a part, and the hot water being yellow, are fairly minor, but as a new homeowner it doesn't take much.

Tom meets each of these challenges by driving to Lowe's and spending two hundred dollars. So far nothing has actually been fixed, but we could start a little hardware business of our own out of the garage. In theory we will put all these purchases to use soon. The first weekend we spend weeding the yard and putting in a french drain (I do not know why it is French - perhaps it is a very rude drain?) will probably return me to my normal, crabby nature, and provide much more fodder for your amusement. But for now... I'm going to soak in the tub and crack a bottle of champagne!

Buying a House is a Very Stupid Thing for a Young, Healthy Person to Do

I used to be full of life. My eyes were bag-free, I fit into my jeans, I laughed, I went out with friends. That was only last month, but I can kiss that kind of carefree life goodbye because I bought a house.

Seriously, WHY do we think buying a house is such a great idea? Who started this rumor? I bet it was the Republicans. They are always trying to beat us down with the old "it's un-American" guilt trip. "Tell them that spending three times their annual salary on an item that will take them 30 years to pay off and will suck up all their free time and certainly any energy they might have is the American Dream! They'll never go on vacation again and all their money will land in our pockets! We'll own their souls!" "I don't know," Cheney chimed in, "that doesn't really sound awful enough. I know! Why don't we also discourage insurance companies from covering therapy sessions? Mwahahahaha."

Another person who I'm no longer too fond of said recently, "Just be glad you bought a house that is move-in ready."

Move-in ready?? I don't think so! I am dealing with floor people, paint people, cleaning people, moving people, delivery people and, soon I hope, psychiatrist people. My people have people. I have so many people. And of course this doesn't include all the work people who have already made it their life goal to see that I never sleep soundly again.

Just when I think I have one thing taken care of, can make that satisfying CHECK on my long list of to-do's, it gets undone and creates several more. To-do's spawn like devil rabbits when you buy a house. The whole of last weekend was spent buying a guest bed and returning it. We wound up after 8 laborious hours - 8 hours which we absolutely cannot spare right now - in the very same place we started. It's a long and not very interesting story, but basically we bought a bed which could not be delivered so we strapped it to the roof of the car with about 3,000 bungie cords that my husband always has on him just in case (no I'm not kidding) and then drove it to the house where we braved the driveway and actually managed to get the car up it, unloaded the bed, deposited it in the house, went back to the apartment to resume packing where we received a call from the store that we'd been given the wrong hardware for the bed and that no, they didn't have the right hardware to give us. So... reverse above, ending the day with no bed and nothing else done, either.

Well, at least the painter was well underway and the upstairs looked fabulous. But... Tom called me from the house yesterday morning to let me know the floor guy hadn't shown up (which didn't do much to help the gastro-intestinal issues I've developed in the last couple of weeks) oh and incidentally did I mean for the master bedroom to be baby blue? Not that he couldn't live with it but... NO the master was not supposed to be baby blue! It was supposed to be a subtle gray. SO... back to the house for an emergency meeting with the painter while my cell phone rang itself hoarse as, apparently, the entire working world ground to a hault because I'd had the audacity to leave my desk for an hour.

This whole situation has me in knots. I have so many balls in the air I can't see even a piece of sky. I am completely scatter-brained. I don't know how people who have kids manage to buy houses without losing their jobs. Thank God I don't have any kids - at least, I don't think I do, since I'm not remembering much these days - because I would accidentally pack them or forget to feed them or something. As it is I feel like my head is going to explode. I am answering messages people never left and not answering messages people did leave. My friend asked me today why I hadn't responded to her email and I seriously had no idea what she was talking about. Meanwhile earlier this week I told another good friend how sorry I was to hear she was sick and she replied, "I'm sick?" I could have sworn she sent me a text saying she was sick, but no such text existed.

It's a little alarming, to say the least. I used to be really on top of things, back when I didn't have bags under my eyes and could fit into my jeans. My jeans... shit. I seem to have left them at home again. No wonder I'm getting such weird looks at the office.

I am never moving again until the next time

Shy violets cover your ears: Moving fucking sucks.

We have just a few short weeks before we are moving to our new home. I don't think I'll have the opportunity to enjoy the new home because I will likely be bedding down in a mental institution.

I am trying to space out the packing over these few weeks by first packing the stuff we haven't touched since the last time we unpacked it. But here's a funny thing. Even though you never use most of the crap you own, the second you decide that something is superfluous enough to pack it you will need it. Another funny thing is that as soon as something is packed you will have no idea what box it is in even if you take meticulous notes, which I do. If it is packed you just have to assume you will not see it again until after you've moved, if ever, because we all know things go mysteriously missing as well.

Another funny thing is that everybody who works for the cable company is crooked and on drugs.

My conversation today:

"I would like to transfer our cable to a new home."

"Okay, the new monthly bill will be $170."

"Why? It's only $150 now."

"No it's not."

"Um, yes it IS. I'm looking at the bill."

"I'm sorry MA'AM," in that snotty "what have I done in this world to deserve having to deal with idiots like you all day" voice that they get. "But that is incorrect."

"Okay, let's move on. What did you say the new bill would be?"

"$132."

"I thought you said $150."

"No, MA'AM. That's what it WILL be."

"You said it WILL be $170."

Heavy sigh. "What date would you like to move your service over MA'AM?"

"The 22nd."

"Okay, we will send someone the 24th and you do not need to be home for the disconnect."

"The 22nd, please, and if I don't need to be home, does that mean you do this remotely?"

"No."

"No, you don't do it remotely, but nobody needs to be at home when you disconnect the service?"

"That is correct, MA'AM."

"So they won't need access to the home to disconnect?"

Heavy sigh. "Yes, MA'AM they will need to get in the home to disconnect your service."

"But I don't need to be there?"

"That is correct MA'AM."

"But then how will they get in the house if I don't need to be there?"

"I don't know, MA'AM. It's not my job to know the answer to that. I'm in customer service."

I am speechless.

"So we are all set for the 24th MA'AM."

"The 22nd."

"EXCUSE me?"

"I asked for the 22nd."

Silence for about 10 minutes except for the tapping of fingers on a keyboard.

"Okay, MA'AM you are all set for the 18th. Is there anything else you need?"

"Not the 18th. The 22nd!"

"I put the 18th but they'll be there the 22nd. But you don't need to be."

"I don't need to be there the 18th, or the 22nd?"

"You will not need to be there when they disconnect your cable as I said before, MA'AM."

"And what date will they be disconnecting my cable?"

"The 20th."

"Right. Okay! And how much will the new bill be?"

"$163, as I said before, MA'AM."

"Okay! Now we're making progress! So I'll see you on March 18th."

"No, MA'AM, the 22nd."

"You're right as always! And our bill will be $163."

"No, MA'AM, the bill will be $132 as I mentioned earlier, MA'AM."

"Okay! Well thank you! You've been so helpful I'm just going to put a thank you card in the mail to you right now!"

"You'rewelcomethankyouforcallingcomcastclick."

Next on the list - utilities.

"I need to move my service over to a new address."

"We don't have your current address listed MA'AM. So would you like new service?"

"What do you mean? I have service right now. Can't you hear the TV? Could I have the TV on if I didn't have electricity?"

"I'm sorry, MA'AM but our records indicate..."

But I can't tell you what happened next because this is when I threw the phone out the window and started binge drinking.