Scribbling Dame

Preposterous Pondering.

Get Your Freak On November 20, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 9:49 pm
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I knew today was going to be stressful when last night I woke up because one of my nipples was itchy. Yes, the mysteries of pregnancy keep on giving. Definitely the sign of something off.

Every pregnancy has its freak out moments, and by this I mean not things that should freak a person out like health issues or the  vast weight of being responsible for another human life. I am talking about fearing, on apocalyptic levels, completely ridiculous shit. With Sofia, I was convinced, despite an entire closet and dresser full of clothing, that she would inevitably be forced to be naked. I don’t know if I thought she was going to spit up, or I’d never be able to do laundry (I wish!)–the cause is of no relevance. I impulsively kept buying clothing. She never went forcibly naked, in case you were concerned.

So today I had to sooth myself and talk myself down from a ledge of panic over, not unfortunate nakedness, but money. Now, this is not a totally irrational fear, especially given the temperature of the economic environment, but my privileged white ass was stressed because I thought I probably bought too much for Sofia for Christmas and her birthday, and somewhere I convinced myself that we’d be bankrupt next month. I started looking around my house at items that haven’t been used or only used once and  caught myself thinking of how I bought that stupid bath salt set and now we’re all going to starve.

Yay hormones!

I should also point out that I started off the morning in tears while watching a CBS news story of all the people in America who are worried about where their next meal will come from, and I cried because I am so grateful with everything I am blessed to have, especially considering my (at times) very poor upbringing. I am no where near poor, or even broke. Real poor people have no time or energy to contemplate if they are poor or not.

And what are my coping mechanisms for stress? Beer or vodka, which is out. Shopping, which is why I am stressed in the first place. Sex, but my back is killing me and sounds like too much work. So I took a bath, had a cup of tea, and reminded myself to be normal. It mostly worked.

These are my Thanksgiving Plans!

 

I secretly like when my kid is sick. October 26, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 3:46 pm
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Well, I guess it’s not so secret now.

I should define a couple of things; sick= a cold, there is no pleasure in illnesses that are more serious, or involve bodily fluids other than boogers and phlegm. Second, I don’t find pleasure in my child’s actual suffering.

That being said, when my kid is sick is the best of times!

Sofia knows how to work the system, and I don't mind being played.

I get to spend time being a mommy to my oh-so-independent muffin. She wants to snuggle, she is needy, and I don’t have to make her follow the usual protocols of good parenting; like eating lunch before popsicles, brushing her teeth or getting dressed, or limiting T.V.

She loves me extra because she gets to do all the things I would normally not let her do, because I don’t want her to grow up and be a lazy/dumb/spineless/unkempt/unhealthy drain on society. I love her extra because she will snuggle me all day and fall asleep in my arms like a newborn, plus she listens to me because I am not actually asking her to do anything.

Added bonus–it is totally acceptable for me to take a sick day for this. There is no stigma for me to take a day off when a sick kid is involved, so no guilt!

And I have to say, at just (almost) four years old, Sofia is mastering the art of being sick and pampered. She repeatedly reminds us that her throat is sore and she has a fever (complete with her own hand on her forehead). She will perk up if we let her eat an English Muffin with Nutella, but is “too exhausted” to brush her teeth at bedtime. She is not hungry when it’s time for dinner, but can, in the same breath “have room for a popsicle.” It’s entertaining, and let’s face it, we’re both working the system of sick-time awesomeness.

 

You don’t even want to know… October 20, 2011

Filed under: Boobs,Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 12:53 pm
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Disclaimer: You may hate me a little after this post. Also I am pregnant and very grumpy.

I know this is intended to come from a good place, but one of my pregnancy pet peeves is when people ask, “how are you feeling?” It’s not just that they ask the question. It’s that they ask it like your dog just died. It’s like asking someone in the hospital how they are feeling. Perhaps more annoying than the question, is that I can, nine times out of ten, not actually answer genuinely. I can’t tell my boss or my colleagues how I’m really feeling. It’d sound like this, “I can’t see my vagina anymore. I haven’t shit for a week. I’m tired and don’t want to work anymore. I also feel like a giant stomach even though I am barely starting to show, which makes me terrified of how I will feel when I am actually big. I thought that meeting was total bullshit. Also I hate stupid fucking questions I can’t answer.” That’s the real answer most days, but instead I have to resort to the polite, “A little tired, but otherwise good” response that shows an acceptable amount of suffering but generally a good attitude. I am trying to avoid talking to people as much as possible, since I don’t have a lot of faith in my ability to filter at the moment. Thankfully I can work from home a lot.

I will henceforth let Nicki Minaj tell you how I am feeling.

I will also be really pissed if my boobs are getting bigger, and I think they are. Seriously, I thought a G-cup was big enough to carry over milk to baby #2, but my cleavage is looking pretty deep, confirming my conviction that I really do need to be Dolly Parton for Halloween one of these years, but son-of-a-bitch! I just dropped major coin on some nice bras at Nordstrom, and now I will not only have to buy tarmac-sized nursing bras, but I’ll probably have to get all new bras again. Guess Sofia doesn’t need to go to college–“Sorry honey, you need to get scholarships because Mommy’s tits took over a small island and she had to buy bigger bras from the Army Special Forces to contain them, which ran up a 2 million dollar bill.”

I will end by saying I don’t actually hate people, and where possible, try and appreciate my giant bazooms. Just everything in moderation people…I am off to Taco Bell, because the baby is making me do it.

 

Pregnancy Goals October 11, 2011

Two unexpected things happen to my brain when I am pregnant;

1)I genuinely become ditzy and forgetful–I like the term “Pregmentia.” This is very challenging for those of us who pride ourselves on our quickness and wit, but highly amusing for our colleagues and partners who are usually the victims of said wit. I have literally asked my husband for the date 20 times in 5 minutes before. (At least I put out.)

2) The other thing that happens, and maybe this is just me, but my filter of politeness and tolerance for idiocy dramatically decreases (and for those of you who know me in real life, you are aware that this is not my strength on a good regular day). I have literally spent years  learning how to not immediately express the thoughts that come into my head, and sometimes to keep them to myself altogether. This is a very difficult symptom to deal with if you are not self-employed, if you are married, or if you have to talk to other human beings. This is also one of the reasons I am working from home more.

The worst part is, I am not one of those that likes to excuse all naughty behaviors because I am pregnant. I should probably change my position on that, but generally I don’t want to be treated differently because I am pregnant, unless I like the difference in treatment (i.e. not having to cook as much, carry things, or do dishes at home). Still I don’t want to send the message that pregnant chicks are stupid, unreliable or overly emotional, even if I did cry at the trailer for that Dolphin Tale movie.  Sadly, the reality is I haven’t pooped for a week, I haven’t felt cute in ages, and the last thing I have the energy for is waiting behind you in the checkout line while you organize your coupons and write a check for your groceries with your left hand because your right one is arthritic due to the rain. This is also because I am starving every 30 minutes.

My goals for this pregnancy are the usual: don’t fuck up noticeably at work and don’t bust a cap in someone’s ass. I will have to focus.

 

Working Mom Conversations September 20, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues,SuperWoman Syndrome — Scribbling Dame @ 8:27 pm
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There are a lot of things you become comfortable freely discussing once you enter into parenthood. Talking about poop with your friends (size, shape, color, consistency, smell, frequency) is about as shocking among parents as discussing a cardboard box. Today I found myself in one of those conversations that only parents would care about, or even notice–I have no idea how in the hell this even came up, and in retrospect, I am totally shocked that we were engrossed in it for so long. Alas, this is part of what makes a community among the parent set:

[Context: Betty and I (Wilma) are both pregnant and discussing how useless we are when we get home from work at the moment.]

Betty: We’ve been eating a lot of macaroni and cheese lately. I feel bad that there’s no vegetables in that, but Bam Bam doesn’t really eat vegetables anyway.

Wilma: I know. Pebbles likes to dip her pizza in that terrible garlic sauce, so I always make myself feel better about it by shoving some carrots on her plate. You know, to add balance. Whenever I feel guilty about our meal, out come the carrots.

Betty: Thank God for daycare. They always say he eats his vegetables there so at least he’s getting them from somewhere. I don’t know why he won’t eat them at home.

Wilma: Peer pressure. It’s the same reason Pebbles doesn’t nap at home, but always does at school. If you had ten kids at dinner eating veggies with you, I’m sure he’d do it. You could always give him that juice that has sneaky veggies in it.

Betty: Oh we do drink that. And we eat a lot of fruit.

Wilma: Well between daycare, sneaky juice and fruit, we’ve got it covered I think.

A few things to note about this conversation: 1) yes it’s totally benign, but 2) lots of women have made fortunes on their cookbooks that teach you how to sneak veggies into kid food undetected so it’s a moneymaker topic and 3) I find it highly fascinating that I could generally give a shit about what my husband eats (including the pizza in garlic sauce) but if my kid doesn’t eat a carrot with dinner I am ready to accept a worst mom ever award. Sometimes when I step out of my life and observe it I wonder WTF?

I am not the healthiest eater in the world, but CREEPY!

 

 

 

Dear Medical Professionals… September 9, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues,Vagina — Scribbling Dame @ 10:05 am
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I am unsure why this is, but the most brutal prenatal appointment is your first one (of the pregnancy). For me, in the first trimester, I am nauseous, starving but the thought of eating is unappealing, thirsty but I can’t stand water, tired like I have the flu, and generally feeling like if I am not wrapped in a blanket on my couch, I am in imminent danger. So fun!

Slightly less fun than a mechanical bull.

What could make this magical time even more fun? A pap smear! Just what every woman wants when she is bloated and has a swollen uterus. And to add to the excitement, tests for every STD imaginable–so you can find out if your husband is cheating on you or your slutty past caught up with you at just the right time!  Plus, while your boobs feel like a very sensitive zit about to explode, you get a breast exam poking all up in there! All of this is just the fun you get to have with your doctor.

Even more fun awaits you at the lab where you get to sacrifice your precious bodily fluids; one million vials of blood and a pee cup. Yeehaw!

I feel like a total trooper this time around because I got through it without even crying. I suppose it is good training for the reality in motherhood that your body is no longer your own–ever since Sofia I have been poked, prodded, elbowed, head butt, stirrupped, kneed, bonked, tugged, etc., etc. Still, I stopped for my requisite ice cream to blunt the mama trauma.

 

UVS: Ugly Vagina Syndrome August 30, 2011

Apparently I am out of the loop on the latest fashion trends. It could be because I’m pregnant again, and have been trying to keep quiet about it for a few weeks just in case, which is so very hard for me. It could be because I am anxiously awaiting the new T.V. season so I don’t have to watch re-runs of Ellen. Never-the-less, I managed to totally overlook the fact that I should be critically assessing the prettiness of my vagina.

Apparently, if you are unfortunate enough to have an “ugly one” you can opt for vaginal reconstructive surgery, which is seeing a rise in occurrence among women with no apparent abnormalities. If she just needs a touch up or some pampering, you can consider a “vagacial” or “peach smoothie” spa treatment. Apparently your vagina can be too fat, too flabby, in need of exfoliation, a dye job, or for the more ambitious types: rhinestones instead of hair.

So do they put a cucumber on your labia?

Don’t shoot the messenger! It’s not my fault if your vagina is sub-par!

My newfound knowledge of this trend has gotten me pondering a few questions:

1)Where does one find out if they have a pretty vagina? Or an ugly one for that matter? Is there a quiz in Cosmo? I am pretty sure no partner in their right mind is bringing it up!

2)How much time should a lady spend on grooming and examining her lady bits to ensure beauty standards are maintained? Is this a group activity?

3) Do vagina groomers specialize in this kind of spa treatment? Do they get a certification at beauty school, or is it just part of the standard curriculum?

I think given my limited availability in time and money and the fact that my husband still seems to like this pony ride, I will remain ignorant as to the ranking beauty of my vag. For the rest of you, go with God.

 

Necessity is the Mother of Invention August 8, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 8:59 pm
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I know. I haven’t blogged in a bit. Sue me. 🙂

I have been busy, and when I haven’t been busy I’ve been tired. And when I haven’t been tired and busy, my laptop battery had 3 minutes left on it. C’est la vie. Plus, I’ve been busy coming up with white lies to tell my daughter so she’ll do my bidding.

I bring you–the snake tent! Never heard of a snake tent? That’s sad for you. You should know about a snake tent because it keeps out all your bad dreams, most especially ones with snakes in them. More importantly, if your kid buys the snake tent concept, it will give you nights of actually sleeping for multiple consecutive hours, which I naively thought would be a given since I have an almost-four-year-old, but apparently that was a lie too (along with pregnancy being nine months, breastfeeding gets rid of your baby weight, etc, etc.).

Snake tent! Genius!

When I was a kid I had a stuffed E.T. doll that kept away bad dreams. It was a totally effective prop.

When my husband was a kid, his mother put coffee grounds in his milk so he’d drink it.

When most of us were kids, we got whiskey on our gums to ease teething pains.

So all I’m saying is, even with all the new-fangled products out there, it’s still easy to find yourself having to get creative to keep your kiddo calm. It’s better than a one-armed man (for you Arrested Development fans). Necessity is the mother of invention, and mothers know invention is totally okay if it makes your kid feel better and gets you what you need to prevent you from selling your kid on Craigslist. See–everyone wins!

 

Sacrifice July 27, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — Scribbling Dame @ 11:31 pm

Besides the whole pregnancy, labor, and time suck/money suck attributes of the sacrifices of parenthood, there are those special moments that come up that make you really understand what a slave you are to your child. For me, you would think this was earlier this week when kiddo thrust her fork out at me and said, “Give me all your money.”

But no. The real moment was when last week we decided to explore a local place called “PlaydatePDX.” It’s a giant indoor playground, perfect for rainy Portland days. The husband and I had heard good things, were bored and slightly frightened of being alone in the house all day with our super-active kid, so decided to give it a whirl.

At the end of the 15 minute drive to get there, kiddo is asleep. So, after much debate and waiting in the car, we decide to head home.

Drive home. Almost there. Kid wakes up and asks “Are we almost to the playground?” In a move that is more like something I would think of, my husband says “Let’s just tell her it’s closed.” But like any good mother, I couldn’t handle the guilt.

We turn around, drive the 15 minutes again and actually PAY MONEY to enter what is the equivalent of a war zone with very tiny screaming soldiers running amongst all the bodily fluids one can imagine, while shoeless. There is a cafe but there are literally no open seats in this joint, so I have to stand and hover for a spot like it’s the goddamned hottest restaurant in town. Did I mention that we had to pay money for this?  The only redeeming factor about this place is they sell beer and wine–it was my only defense of this shit fest of a place that I drove to twice because I can’t bear to see a look of disappointment on my daughter’s face.

When you know you are getting hosed, but you do it anyway, that is sacrifice.

 

Kid Weird: A Photo Montage July 20, 2011

Filed under: Lessons in Parenting — Scribbling Dame @ 9:53 pm
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Kids are weird. Mine is especially weird but it is a true fact that all kids are weirdos. Some people call it “creativity” and “imagination” which I think is just doublespeak for weird. I mean, none of us want to give our kids a complex or stifle their weirdness. If we did, what would there be to talk about?

So, here are a couple of samples of the Sofia particular brand of weirdness:

 

 

 

“Mommy, what’s a shithead?” July 5, 2011

Filed under: Lessons in Parenting — Scribbling Dame @ 1:51 pm
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Tragically the time has come. I have magically avoided this day for three-and-a-half years, but I suppose everything has it’s season.

Baby girl has entered the parrot phase, which means that one of my vices, the art of cursing, must now become a secret indulgence–at least around all-too-perky toddler ears, which are connected to the suddenly very articulate toddler mouth.

I am a little depressed at my need for discipline. One, I am not good at restraint in almost any variety, and two, I love to swear. Even though I have a wide-ranging vocabulary thanks to a couple of English degrees, I have yet to find the perfect replacement for a good fuck, or mother fucker even.

Still, my love of the curse is replaced by wanting to avoid the chagrin of those clean-mouthed folks such as teachers and other preschool parents, who will not likely think it’s as funny as I do when my little Tiger says, “Fuck it! I hate this!”

So if you know me in the non-internet world, you might see an uptick in my f-bombs and ass-hats, because basically I will be on a swearing binge every time I leave my house. See how I sacrifice?

I guess since we're not sports fans, we'll have to find another use for that finger...

 

Goddamned Tragedies June 28, 2011

I am at a pizza joint with my kid and my husband. It’s late, kid is starving, pizza arrives blazing hot. Me, being the angelic, well–ok nice, mommy that I am, starts to cut up the pizza into bite-sizes so that baby Tiger can blow on them and hopefully eat them sooner due to the cooling effectes. This was my plan.

Birkenstock heels. Now that is tragic.

Until my kid sees my selfless act and determines that it is the worst affront to a human being since slavery and shoulder pads. Then we had to spend 10 minutes trying to calm her down and convincing her that 1) Mommy was just trying to be nice and 2) she shouldn’t be such an asshole about it because 3) all her pizza is still basically the same.

What I don’t understand is why none of my husband’s “wrong” moves get the same prolonged reaction as mine do. I also don’t understand how on earth a three year old can be so damned opinionated about every little thing and the exactitude with which it is done.

On a daily basis I commit at least three goddamned tragedies in her eyes. It might be time to enroll her in acting class. What on earth am I going to do when she is a teenager and really has an attitude?

 

There’s not an app for that–yet June 22, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — Scribbling Dame @ 8:56 pm
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My husband has slowly converted me into an Apple fanatic. Between my husband’s penchant for technology and my ability to be completely suckered by marketing (read: “ooh pretty package!”) Apple is a perfect match for our indulgences. We feel cool and edgy, even though we are middle class yuppies willing to waste cash on things that a hundred million other people also own.

Still, here are five apps that I really think Apple should consider. While I like Angry Birds and interactive Scrabble, I know some people who could really use these apps instead:

Zero points on Weight Watchers.

1. Zero calorie mixed drink app. This one is for me. I’d really like an app that lets me drink my sorority-grade cocktails–you know, high sugar, barely any taste of alcohol–without the guilt of knowing that every time I get buzzed I have an hour on the treadmill as payment.

2. Make my teenager less of an a-hole app. Teenagers are a-holes. Even good ones. I should know. I have two teenage siblings that are utter shits. If teenagers weren’t so hateful and stupid and selfish, the world would be a better place.

3. Traffic Remover. This is an app that almost everyone can use. Imagine how much more life you could live if you weren’t stuck behind ass hats who can’t merge, rubber-neckers who want to see carnage, and slow pokes in general.

4. Magic dinner maker. The solution to America’s obesity and financial problems. If we had an app that made our dinner for us, with fresh ingredients, we’d be in good shape and we would have more time with our families. Do you remember the magic windows on Star Trek that just required a push of a button and then it’d open up and whatever you needed was there? Yeah, that’s where I’m going with this.

Honey, you look a little different tonight!

5. Spouse Skin. Think of this like a new skin for your phone or your laptop, but it makes your husband look like Bradley Cooper (my latest Hollywood desert island choice–you know the game where you and your husband assume that your spouse is dead and you have to choose a celebrity to be stranded with and nothing counts because you just need to keep the human race going…) I love my husband. I wouldn’t marry anyone else, but it would be fun to be able to have his personality in Bradley Cooper’s body. Really fun.

Okay Apple and developers. I did my part. Now get to work.

 

The Perfect Father’s Day Gift June 15, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — Scribbling Dame @ 9:11 pm
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Father’s and Mother’s Day are made up holidays that seem basically lame until you are in fact, a mother or father. Once you cross over you know these holidays are an awesome way to milk your partner and children for that thing you’ve been wanting, or at the very least, justifiably make your family be at your slaves for a day.

These are also days of potentially awful gifts, if your kids or your partner hate you or generally want to get revenge for something. You can thank me later for handling your shopping issue for you.

I introduce The Booty Pillow. It seems there is a pretty large market of pillows for or with boobs, among other shapes. This is marketed towards women who do not want to cuddle their man after sex, or horny perverts with a really immature sense of humor. Either way I am sure NASCAR is involved…

My personal favorite is the Amsterdaaaam Booty, but you will know the right booty for your man when you see it. Cheetah Booty anyone?

I know what you are thinking–but no, they do not offer engraving. I can guarantee, however, that this gift will make it a Father’s Day he won’t forget.

Nothing says "I love you" like replacing your woman with a stuffed, trashier, well-shaped version of her ass.

 

To flee or not to flee… June 2, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 10:51 pm
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It’s not really a question. I already bought tickets to go to Scotland for a week with the hubs. We will be gone for one week, with no child.

A funny thing happens to me before leaving my kiddo for a whole week at Grandma’s while I go and pretend I don’t have a shit load of responsibility…even before I have left, I feel bad for leaving and I miss my kid immensely. I also start preemptively missing my dog.

I feel guilty for wanting to live a week as if I am not a parent, or a reliable employee, or an adult for that matter. Add to the guilt an extreme sadness at leaving Sofia behind. She suddenly becomes in my mind not a lot of work at all, and all I can think about are her funny and charming qualities and then what a beast I am for counting down the hours until I am drinking mediocre screwdrivers served to me by an angry coach stewardess.

The thought of both my husband and I boarding a plane (aka flying death trap) and leaving my daughter behind just seems downright irresponsible. Especially since we still haven’t had a will drawn up (Real thoughts in my head: “Shit! That has been on our to-do list for three years. Shit! We should have done that before this trip in case we die.”)

So then I finally come around to some semblance of sanity, which involves a lot of self-talk akin to the scene in Feris Bueller’s Day Off where Cameron is in his shitty car arguing to himself the pros and cons of picking up Ferris: “I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go.”

And that’s when the immense tornado of shit to do or else a small kitten will be shot every hour hits.  At work, at home, everything becomes urgent and the length of the responsibilities to be fulfilled to set myself up for a week of no responsibility is bigger than JLo’s ass. What is with that? Where do all of these sudden urgent needs come from?

Whatever. T minus 3 days until whiskey tours, accents, and castles and shit. I must go watch Braveheart to prepare…

 

 
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