not that you asked...

Answers to your burning questions

Matt Damon still lingers in a red Netflix envelope on top of the TV. I haven’t completely ruled out watching it because, as was pointed out in the comments by two other mildly-OCD people, it kills me to return it WITHOUT HAVING WATCHED IT. I don’t know why this is, but it is probably the same motivating factor behind why the volume on the TV must always be set at an even number and why I can only wash grapes in multiples of five and why I rewrite entire shopping lists if the first one looks too messy. DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT I’M CRAZY. I do.

Elmo has not been stomped into a splintered plastic silence. Truth be told, this is not because Elmo was helpful during the car ride. It just turns out that we didn’t need him as much as we thought we would because Asher was so good during the six seven nearly eight-hour drive. Eight-hour trip courtesy of the Virginia Department of Transportation, which advised us that a portion of the highway would be CLOSED AHEAD, PLEASE BEGIN PANICKING AND ALSO RECKLESSLY CUTTING PEOPLE OFF, so after stopping for lunch, we took a detour onto a two-lane road with what seemed like THOUSANDS of stoplights, only to merge back onto the highway 30 miles later and find out that the road? WAS NEVER CLOSED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Also, please note that in New Market, Virginia, there is a Burger King with life-sized recreations of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe and the Blues Brothers just hanging out under a gigantic vinyl record suspended from the ceiling. As far as I know, neither Elvis or Miss Monroe or the Blues Brothers claim New Market as their hometowns, nor can I imagine any reason for them to have visited, especially having driven through it myself. Therefore I cannot help but classify this discovery as anything but Bizarre.

Here I should also note that on our return trip we had to stop at a gas station in the middle of nowhere because we were RUNNING ON FUMES. Three things about this gas station: 1) No credit card machines, we had to prepay by GOING INSIDE, oh the humanity, 2) Enormous sign on the property that said, “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns,” and 3) There was no automatic shut-off on the gas nozzle. So when the tank was full, it just started spraying out everywhere. The puddle under the car was also the SIZE of the car, and we had to wipe down the exterior with baby wipes to try to remove some of it, you know, so we didn’t blow up or something during the remainder of the trip.

And back to what I was talking about before, which was that Elmo was not necessary, because we found out that Asher has a much stronger attraction to marching band music than he does to furry puppets. So we watched this video on repeat instead, and that is fine by me because WAR EAGLE, this is the only university my children are allowed to attend and the sooner they know it, the better. And if they don’t like it, they can be fry cooks somewhere for all I care. Somewhere like New Market.

Other highlights of our trip included:
Dave and my brother playing Wii Tennis on Thursday night. Me (to my grandmother): “Don’t worry, if they break anything, we’ll pay for it.” And approximately two seconds later, Dave’s wildly swinging tennis arm broke the ceiling fan.

A lesson from my grandfather on how population explosion creates a garbage explosion. (Overpopulation is his favorite teaching topic, followed closely by fashion and its utter uselessness.)

Dinner at my dad’s parents’ house, where: 1) my grandmother “misplaced” the mashed potatoes (How on earth do you misplace a vat of mashed potatoes? The answer is: SHE NEVER MADE THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE.), 2) “cheesecake” is referred to as “cream cheese pie” which means my brother will not, under any circumstances, eat it, and 3) their camera showed the date as June 8, 1994. Not that it mattered, because I don’t think they knew how to use it anyway. This doesn’t surprise you, does it? Because you already read that part about how they lost the mashed potatoes.

But lost mashed potatoes also means I fit into my pants today. So there’s that.

A post about weight loss TWO DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING. Idiot.

So it turns out losing weight is easy. Maintaining, on the other hand? Maintaining kind of blows.

I recorded my lowest ever adult weight about two months ago. Since then I’ve tacked on about five pounds, which I don’t think is all that much considering the Emotionally Charged Life Event That Required Chocolate Chip Cookie Therapy we experienced about three weeks ago. Five pounds is not a big deal; five pounds is, at worst, a couple of weeks’ worth of closely monitored eating and maybe a handful of extra-long walks. I’ve got this losing weight thing down.

But maintaining is hard. You know why maintaining is hard? I’ll tell you why.

When I was actively losing weight, I could see the difference every week when I tried on my clothes. As my body got smaller, my clothes got bigger and bigger, and whenever I got dressed in the morning, I was reassured of my smaller self when I put on my pants. But then I got way too small to wear anything in my closet without looking like a big stupid dope wearing gigantic pants WITH NO BELT TO HOLD THEM UP, and I went out and bought things that actually fit correctly.

Which means that if I gain a couple of pounds, I know it as soon as I pull on a pair of jeans. That puts a little anxiety in getting dressed every day. And once I finally work up the confidence to slide my legs into the legholes and button and zip (this is usually only because I don’t want to wear my penguin pajama pants to Target), all my confidence oozes out my ears and I start hyperventilating about EXACTLY HOW THEY FIT. Are they tighter in the waist than they were yesterday? Are they SHORTER? Is this because they went through the dryer or because my butt is substantially larger than it was last week? WHAT IF I AM FATTER OH MY GOD I AM FATTER WAAAHHHHHHHH. (Crumple to floor in heap of desperation and swear to eat nothing but protein and whole grains for a month.)

(I know I’m not the only person who does this. Actually, I don’t know, but I am pretty sure I’m not the only one who does this because sometimes I say some really weird crap on this website and yet there is always someone who does the exact same thing.)

Regardless. It’s just a very sucky feeling.

Other currently sucky things: enormous zit on my chin (CANNOT STOP PICKING CANNOT STOP PICKING), idea of Christmas shopping on a budget, getting this movie in the mail and being unable to bring self to watch it because, really, ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN MINUTES? I could bake like, six pies in one hundred and sixty-seven minutes, and I don’t even know HOW to bake a pie.

And finally, tops on sucky list: Driving six hours to our Thanksgiving destination tomorrow, with a child who turns sour after only 20 minutes in his car seat. Did I actually run out to Target tonight for the sole purpose of purchasing a 53-minute Elmo DVD? Oh yes, I did. And if it works, it will be the best $10 I ever spent in my whole entire blessed life.

And if it doesn’t? Well then I paid $10 for the therapeutic opportunity to stomp all over Elmo’s precious little furry red face. HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

Hair update

SEE HOW LONG IT GOT?



Also please take note: 1) I am obviously not good at maintaining any bangs (see how I have just let them mysteriously disappear into the rest of my hair?) and 2) uh, why didn't anyone tell me that this outfit makes me look like a robot? I'm like Johnny 5's body double.

But the hair... the hair's ok, right?

If cleanliness is next to Godliness then I AM SO GETTING INTO HEAVEN

There was a comment on my last post from Christie (who I must disclose is an actual, real-life friend of mine, albeit one I haven’t seen in YEARS, BOOOOOO) asking me to please address on this blog whether or not I pick up after my husband.

The simple answer to this question is (insert BIG SIGH) yes. I do pick up after my husband. I pick his dirty clothes up off the floor and deposit them in the hamper and I put his crusty dishes in the dishwasher and I occasionally even clean his bathroom, but only in a desperate situation, like if I’ve stepped inside to grab said dirty clothes and find that I cannot control my gag reflex upon catching a glimpse of the inside of the toilet. And leaving something like that to continue… festering is just not something I am capable of doing once I am aware of its existence.

I am not sure that I am doing the right thing by picking up after him. It’s a vicious cycle, actually: I pick up his stuff for weeks on end, gradually getting angrier and angrier about it until one last khaki-colored sock thrown haphazardly over the arm of the couch sets me off and we have an excellent shouting match about respect and thoughtfulness and, because I am not good at arguing, probably about the lack of flowers and/or nice gestures I’ve received in the last six months. (He tells me this is called Sandbagging.) And then he tells me to LET SOME THINGS GO already, Miss Anal-Retentive and I tell him I CAN’T, stupid stupid man who leaves this house for nine hours every day while I remain inside it, don’t you get it, this house is my office, and although I’m fairly certain that my dirty underpants aren’t decorating the inside of your cubicle? YOURS ARE CERTAINLY ALL OVER MINE. And then he does ok for a few days but before long we’re back to the beginning of the cycle and all that anger starts building up again.

I am ok with being the person in this family who does the laundry, cooking, and cleaning. As a stay-at-home mother, these tasks naturally fall to me and I accept them as such. I am totally fine with that; frankly, I ENJOY cleaning, and I certainly don’t expect Dave to work nine plus hours each day and then come home and fix me a three-course meal or stick a load of towels in the washer.

What I will never, ever be ok with, though, is when he neglects to do simple tasks that require one bajillionth of an ounce of extra effort. He can carry his glass all the way back to the kitchen, but it goes in the sink instead of the dishwasher. He can throw his socks toward the laundry hamper, but not in it. He can clean up after dinner, but he can’t take an extra two minutes to wash the wineglasses by hand or wipe off the countertops. He leaves all those extra chores for me. And they’re not big chores, I know, but they add up, and before long I’m saying, “Is there ONE THING that you could POSSIBLY finish around this house FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE?” and I don’t know if you’ve ever said that to your husband? Take it from me. Don’t. It kills them. You’ll feel terrible, even if you’re telling the truth.

Now, in Dave’s defense, I am a little cleaner than most people I know. I clean regularly and thoroughly and I like my house in order. I don’t tolerate clutter and our neighbors probably think the vacuum cleaner is surgically attached to my arm. And I don’t expect his standards to be completely in line with mine. (Although this situation was a tad much, don't you think?)

But here I am dancing around Christie’s ACTUAL question, which is: Is it better to make your husband pick up his stuff himself (with nagging or, in some cases, violence) or to just suck it up and do it yourself? I suspect that I would feel much angrier about our situation if it was exactly the same as it is now and I was working full-time. I suspect there would be so much anger that I might even spontaneously combust. Right in my own living room. And either the combustion would kill me or I would kill myself trying to get the scorch marks out of the carpet.

I will feel horribly guilty if I post this and don’t say some nice things about my wonderful husband. Although he seems to lack an Orderly Home gene, he makes up for it in other ways. Not the least of which is the fact that he is going on a date with me, on Saturday night, BABYSITTER ARRANGED AND EVERYTHING, to (seriously, are you ready for this?) IKEA. We are going to spend HOURS upon HOURS in IKEA researching what it will take to renovate our kitchen. And eating meatballs. And mispronouncing products. (Is the “J” silent?)

Now please excuse me while I march downstairs and kiss him. And then hand wash a couple of wineglasses.

(And don’t forget to add your two cents in the comments.)

Better

Things are looking up.

Ok, ok, so the truth is that things were already looking up last week, but then there was that nasty tray-flinging incident and I thought I was going to spiral downward into something terrible but I woke up the next morning feeling miraculously back to normal. I haven’t thrown anything for, like, five days or something, even though we just had a weekend and I kind of hate weekends, what with the being surrounded by TWO people who spend their days strewing random things about and THEN NEVER PUTTING THEM AWAY.

I mean, yes, I love my family and I love seeing my husband blah blah blabbity blah but FOR PETE’S SAKE, there is no reason we have to leave our paint scrapers/socks/empty Fresca cans/Wii remotes/USED, SOGGY KLEENEX lying around. It’s called a weekend, not a lazy-ass free for all.

I could also be feeling a trifle better because I am not wearing a pillow between my legs anymore. I find maxi pads, especially winged ones, to be some of the most insulting and depressing things I’ve ever had to wear. I tried doing a little shopping a few days after the miscarriage began, but I swear I had to go up an entire pants size just to accommodate the bulk of my overly padded crotch. Retail therapy will just have to wait for the upcoming weekend.

Except that I did allow myself a trip to Target yesterday afternoon, ALL BY MY LONESOME, to buy a couple of new bras. I suppose if I’d absolutely had to take Asher with me it would have been ok because the dressing room doors at Target go all the way to the floor, so there’d be no chance he could escape underneath. Because you know if there was a chance he could escape, he most certainly would, and of course it would be right after I’d gotten my shirt off and, well, I’d probably never be able to show my face in that particular store again. Not after everyone had seen me and my naked boobs chasing a toddler through housewares and into the soft drink aisle.

Luckily, nobody but me had to see my naked boobs. And nobody has to see them today, either, because they are happily ensconced in Shine. I have a holiday-ready chest! That I hope no one can see through my shirt.

In other, equally titillating news, it’s been exactly two and a half weeks since I got my hair cut and it no longer looks anything like it used to. I mean, I know short hair requires more maintenance, but I didn’t think my hair really fell into the SHORT category. More… I don’t know, medium? Chin-length? I try to get it to curl under but it already touches my shoulders and it rebels. So I end up flipping it out, and I just… well, is flippy hair still cool? Or cute? Or remotely in style? I have no idea and I am unable to do any real research because I am the last person on earth without a subscription to US Weekly. I think it looks ok, but I don’t know. Also I have been letting my husband out of the house wearing socks with his Crocs—that should say something about my fashion authority.

And hey! Since this is already the most disjointed entry ever, can I just go ahead and tell you that Hambone COMPLETELY EMBARRASSED us on our walk the other day by attempting to play with a dead fox? Like, flies buzzing around, decomposing ROAD KILL. And it was sad, I don’t think he knew it was dead and there he was, hopping around and barking at it like he wanted it to start chasing him and, well… people were pointing and laughing. It’s a good thing we walk fast.

Wait, back to the important things: Do I need to show you a picture of my hair?

Hormonal imbalance

If I didn’t already have a child, and therefore hadn’t gone through the royal suckiness that is the postpartum hormone crash once before, I would have really scared myself yesterday evening.

BUT. I am familiar with this insane hormonal rollercoaster and so after I was done throwing the high chair tray at the laundry room door because Asher refused to try my delicious turkey meatballs and angrily demanded green beans and macaroni and cheese for the eight millionth night in a row? I just shrugged my shoulders and noted that there were only 42 minutes until Dave was to arrive home, and surely, SURELY I could keep my you-know-what together for 42 more minutes.

I won’t lie, it was hard. The hardest part of having all these raging hormones inside you is knowing that you’re acting irrationally, but not being able to do anything about it. I KNEW throwing a high chair tray because my one year old, WHO IS PICKY EVERY EVENING, THIS IS NOTHING NEW, was unacceptable, but I did it anyway. I couldn’t help myself. I was frustrated and angry about something completely trivial and I lost control. And when I say I blame the hormones, I mean that I really, actually, truly blame the hormones. For your information, I do not regularly get upset about macaroni and cheese. Who could EVER be angry about the existence of macaroni and cheese in their home? Especially if it is made with whole milk and real butter?

Wait, I know who. MY THIGHS, that’s who.

I apologized profusely to everyone for the incident, but I didn’t cry until I hugged the dog, which is just further proof that I’m turning into an absolute nutjob over here. I have been impatient and short-tempered with Dave all week, something I feel terrible about, but something I can’t turn off. I bought a lot of wine at the grocery store on Monday but I can’t quite bring myself to drink eight hundred extra calories (I’m assuming that’s what it would take; what’s that, like 12 glasses of wine?) after I ate an entire batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies over the weekend. (Something I like to call Food Therapy.) So. I’m kind of stuck until my system empties out all the superfluous hormones and I can get back to normal.

The good news is that when I’m not acting nutjobby, I’m actually feeling pretty good. I still get hit with pangs of sadness, I still sometimes forget that I’m not pregnant (“WHY IS NO ONE HELPING ME CARRY THIS 20-POUND TUB OF LAUNDRY DETERGENT INSIDE WHEN I AM… wait. Nevermind.”) and I sometimes feel guilty for feeling happy. But I also know that all of these things are ok, and that it will get better, and that I have the right to feel any which way I like about it, because I am ME, and not anyone else. And also because there is no Miscarriage Rulebook by which I should be living.

Although sometimes I wish there were, and that it had an entire chapter on the benefits of Retail Therapy because Dave just doesn’t believe that spirits can be lifted by cashmere and embellished flats. (He is so very wrong.)

Speaking of which, I have a $55 credit at Zappos. Seen anything good there lately that might fit the bill? Something that might be cute for upcoming holiday parties and a date night or two? Does flattery get me anywhere? Because you all have such exquisite taste.

Grieving

I was terrified going into Wednesday’s ultrasound. The weird thing was that I already knew what they were going to tell me. I knew the baby wasn’t going to make it; I knew that the pregnancy was over; I knew that the bleeding was only going to intensify. I knew it was the end and I had already resigned myself to that fact. I was already on my way to accepting it and making my peace with it.

Instead, I was terrified that I would find out that I didn’t care. I was afraid of being cold and indifferent; of being unattached; of finding myself secretly, horribly relieved that I was no longer pregnant.

The screen above my head showed a tiny bean-shaped embryo with a gestational age of five weeks, six days. There was no heartbeat. The tech took the information to the doctor who came in a few moments later and kindly announced that he was very sorry, but that it appeared that I was actively miscarrying. I felt sad, but I felt manageably sad. So naturally, I felt absolutely awful about feeling only manageably sad and not completely devastated.

The next 24 hours involved lots of activity: a visit with my doctor for prescriptions, visiting two pharmacies to get those prescriptions filled, calling and emailing close friends to break the news, buying candy for trick-or-treaters, stuffing Asher into his Halloween costume and stuffing maxi pads the size of mattresses into my underwear every 30 minutes. I barely had time to sit down, much less consider the magnitude of the situation.

On Thursday though, my doctor called and wanted to squeeze me in for another ultrasound in the late afternoon, just to make sure my body was doing what it was supposed to be doing. I think she wanted to perform a D&C about as much as I wanted to be the subject of one—which is to say, NOT AT ALL.

Another paper-covered exam table, another ultrasound tech, another transvaginal wand. Everything the same on the outside: cold, beige, sterile. It was everything inside of me that had changed.

This time, the screen was mostly black. “Well,” said the tech quietly, “The good news is that there is no sign of a pregnancy.” Meaning I would likely avoid surgery.

Meaning that without even knowing it, my body had already expelled the baby. Yesterday it had been there. Even though it was dead, it was there. It was with me. And now it wasn’t. And maybe it sounds silly, but I realized that I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. I hadn’t known it would go so fast, that already this baby would be nothing but a memory, a wish, a would-have-been.

And oh, God, did that ever hurt. So much more than I could have ever imagined it would.

A lighter note, for the moment

Tonight, as Friday Night Tradition dictates, Dave and I will be kicking back with a frozen pizza and enjoying a movie. Also to be thoroughly enjoyed tonight is the ingenius comic timing of Netflix, which sent us (despite the stern, humorless promise of a VERY LONG WAIT) Knocked Up. Ha ha, Netflix! Aren't you just a regular Jerry Seinfeld these days!

The pizza is by Freschetta, and there is nothing remotely funny (or even particularly delicious) about it. In fact, Freschetta pizza is actually rather annoying because each and every time, it comes out of the box looking exactly like this:



Please PLEASE tell me you don't take the pizza right out of the wrapper and insert it into the oven with the pepperoni lying about all willy nilly and overlappy? And also completely UNFAIRLY, because I don't care how you go about slicing up that pizza, SOMEONE is going to end up with LESS PEPPERONI than someone else and that someone who gets suckered out of pepperoni better not be ME and not just because being slighted on pepperoni will totally make me cry. (Although it most definitely will.)

Frozen pizzas going into ovens should instead be modeled after this fine piece of pizza craftsmanship, which took approximately four minutes to assemble and required the removal and painstaking relocation of every single piece of pepperoni within the tri-state area:

It's rather breathtaking, isn't it? There I go, getting all choked up again.

In other less heartwrenching events, Asher continues to insist - sometimes hundreds of times a day - that I read Big Brain Academy to him. Never have I wanted him to understand English more than I do when I say, "ASHER. Big Brain Academy is a VIDEO GAME. There are no pages inside and there are no pictures of kittens to squeal at and there are no words for me to read to you because, again: VID. EEE. OH. GAME. Also it is shrink-wrapped because it is a DUPLICATE COPY that someone gave us as a gift and we have yet to return it but we can't UN-shrink wrap it because then Target won't even TAKE it back, so don't you get it? I CAN'T EVEN OPEN THE PACKAGE." He just looks at me. And then he whines again and shoves it at me again and I compensate by reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar 18 times in a row. AGAIN.

Thank you, each and every one of you, for your comments and your emails and your words of condolence and support. So many of you professed to not know what to say, or to wish what you said was more eloquent or comforting. But everything you said was wonderful and kind and caring and amazing. Everything you said was exactly what I needed to hear. Everything you said was perfect. I am honored and humbled that so many of you took the time to do such a compassionate and meaningful thing. It means so very much to our whole family. So thank you again; thank you so very, very sincerely.