June 30, 2009
Well friends, it's still raining in Maine. If I had to venture an honest guess, I'd say we've had two or three days of sun during the entire month of June. And according to the ten-day forecast, we shouldn't expect to see the sun until next Wednesday.
Long live the summer!
Swimming lessons started yesterday, and guess what? They were cancelled. Due to thunder.
You see, up here in Maine we don't do swanky swimming lessons in indoor pools--we pay $5 for a snotty little teenager to teach our kids to swim in the lake--the 54 degree lake. As of yet, swimming lesson are still a go for today--you know, with scattered showers and a high of 57.
In honor of the next three weeks, I taught James the word "hell." As in, "This lake is cold as a frozen chunk of hell," and "Why in the hell do you do this to me, Mom?" I'm hoping the extended vocabulary takes the edge off of his discomfort--I know it always works for me.
Oh, and geeze, I almost forgot to mention that James's 4-year-old group lesson is described in the flyer as a "parental involvement class."
Joy above joys.
Not only do I get the opportunity to shiver my cellulite off, but I also have the rare and unique chance to show my half-naked pregnant body to James's friends' parents, a handful of neighbors, and our adorable teenage babysitter (just one more reason not to have sex in high school, honey!).
I mean, don't get me wrong here, I'm all for walking out to the mailbox in my underpants--there's just something about the size large maternity tankini that makes me want to hide. Behind my 45 pound son.
So there ya go. Yay summer!!!
Pregnancy Sass
June 29, 2009
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
He May be Gone, But He'll Always Creep Me Out
June 26, 2009
I'm still sitting in the supply closet, using the computer that seems to have been salvaged from the Sputnik Space Shuttle in 1957. Now if I could just manage to find a poodle skirt and a pair of roller skates, I'd be all the rage.
So it's June 26, 2009 and Michael Jackson is no longer with us. And no, this will most certainly not become one of my heartfelt and contemplative posts.
I'm not planning to mince words here, folks--that man thoroughly creeped me out. From the Neverland Ranch, to the 493 nose jobs (which he claimed he never had), to the baby named Blanket, I simply never got Michael Jackson.
I got that the moonwalk was cool, and I got that Man in the Mirror was a tear jerker of a song, I even got the King of Pop title. But Michael? Above all else, you gave me the willies.
(Now his sister on the other hand, the one with the bangin' legs who let her hooter slip out at the Super Bowl? She remains on my cool list.)
I still remember the very first time he skeeved me out. I must have been three years old, and I was listening to the 'Thriller' record in our teeny, little living room. I picked up the album cover (click here to see the artifact first hand), locked eyes with Michael, and cried when I realized that a tiny, mini version of that guy was dancing around inside of my record album. (Remember? When you were three? And you thought a miniature band was actually playing instruments inside the vinyl?... No? You don't? Well you suck.)
I hid the album cover under the couch and cried for three days straight. Then I cried for three more days. And three days after that. But I guess the extended crying was due to the fact that I was a pain-in-the-ass of a child--not because of any Michael induced fears.
But really now, even with all of my personal childhood behavior issues aside, after he lost the afro and the babyface, Michael Jackson became one seriously creepy dude.
In spite of the fact that he induced heebie-jeebies like no other person on the planet, I'm still sorry for Michael Jackson and his family that his life was cut short at the age of 50. Any way you slice it, that's way too young to die. And any other way you slice it, he was a revolutionary musician in his day.
So rest in peace Michael Jackson, may you stay on my radio, but out of my dreams for the rest of eternity.
I'm still sitting in the supply closet, using the computer that seems to have been salvaged from the Sputnik Space Shuttle in 1957. Now if I could just manage to find a poodle skirt and a pair of roller skates, I'd be all the rage.
So it's June 26, 2009 and Michael Jackson is no longer with us. And no, this will most certainly not become one of my heartfelt and contemplative posts.
I'm not planning to mince words here, folks--that man thoroughly creeped me out. From the Neverland Ranch, to the 493 nose jobs (which he claimed he never had), to the baby named Blanket, I simply never got Michael Jackson.
I got that the moonwalk was cool, and I got that Man in the Mirror was a tear jerker of a song, I even got the King of Pop title. But Michael? Above all else, you gave me the willies.
(Now his sister on the other hand, the one with the bangin' legs who let her hooter slip out at the Super Bowl? She remains on my cool list.)
I still remember the very first time he skeeved me out. I must have been three years old, and I was listening to the 'Thriller' record in our teeny, little living room. I picked up the album cover (click here to see the artifact first hand), locked eyes with Michael, and cried when I realized that a tiny, mini version of that guy was dancing around inside of my record album. (Remember? When you were three? And you thought a miniature band was actually playing instruments inside the vinyl?... No? You don't? Well you suck.)
I hid the album cover under the couch and cried for three days straight. Then I cried for three more days. And three days after that. But I guess the extended crying was due to the fact that I was a pain-in-the-ass of a child--not because of any Michael induced fears.
But really now, even with all of my personal childhood behavior issues aside, after he lost the afro and the babyface, Michael Jackson became one seriously creepy dude.
In spite of the fact that he induced heebie-jeebies like no other person on the planet, I'm still sorry for Michael Jackson and his family that his life was cut short at the age of 50. Any way you slice it, that's way too young to die. And any other way you slice it, he was a revolutionary musician in his day.
So rest in peace Michael Jackson, may you stay on my radio, but out of my dreams for the rest of eternity.
Laptop Down
June 26, 2009
Well guys, I'm down one laptop--at least until the end of this week. The situation has left me typing this message on a six-year-old desktop, which happens to be half the size of Mississippi. I would also like to note that I'm sitting in the supply closet.
According to my very scientific calculations, I'm half a step above a homeless pirate sending handwritten messages in an empty rum bottle.
At least this computer monitor outweighs me. Not many things do these days, so it's going a really long way in the self esteem department. I'm actually thinking about dumping this thing in a grocery cart, pushing it around town, and stopping random strangers to ask questions like, "Excuse me, ma'am? Does this monitor make me look skinny?" or "Do you think a laptop would make my bum look fat?"
That's my long way of saying that I might not be on much this week.
And please, if I never write again, be sure to watch Wipeout tonight. It will change your life for the better. I promise.
Well guys, I'm down one laptop--at least until the end of this week. The situation has left me typing this message on a six-year-old desktop, which happens to be half the size of Mississippi. I would also like to note that I'm sitting in the supply closet.
According to my very scientific calculations, I'm half a step above a homeless pirate sending handwritten messages in an empty rum bottle.
At least this computer monitor outweighs me. Not many things do these days, so it's going a really long way in the self esteem department. I'm actually thinking about dumping this thing in a grocery cart, pushing it around town, and stopping random strangers to ask questions like, "Excuse me, ma'am? Does this monitor make me look skinny?" or "Do you think a laptop would make my bum look fat?"
That's my long way of saying that I might not be on much this week.
And please, if I never write again, be sure to watch Wipeout tonight. It will change your life for the better. I promise.
Marsha and the Grumpy Old Man
June 22, 2009
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
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