Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting

Thursday Thirteen: Things that skeeve me out

We all have them: things that make us shudder, things that make our stomachs churn, things that we stare at in abject horror, unable to tear our eyes away. You know, gross things.

I can't figure out if I'm more of a delicate prissy flower than I thought or if my little corner of the world has just gotten a whole lot skeevier lately, but at least once a day I find myself gagging over things like these:

1. Hair in the sink or shower drain, or on the shower floor at the gym. There are routinely giant hairballs hovering near the shower drains in the gym and stray hairs clinging to the shower stall sides. I cannot overstate how gross I find this.

2. People walking around barefoot in the gym locker room (see Number 1, above).

3. Chicks bowling without panties. If you're gonna go commando, you've gotta give up something, and that something has to be either the bowling or the little black dress. You cannot have both without showing the world your girly bits and then making everyone around you want to Purell their eyeballs and also the seat you were sitting in. 

4. Touching dirty socks that are not my own. Honey, if you've ever wondered why none of your socks ever seem to make it into the washer when I'm doing laundry, well... now you know.  Sorry.

5. Things in meat that don't belong there. The other night at Legume I got my favorite smashed chicken and it was not cooked all the way through. Wanna know how I found out? I had a bleeder. IN MY CHICKEN. There was a gross bleeding vein or artery or something that spurted when it was hit with the fork. Now, I like Grey's Anatomy as much as the next person, but notsomuch on my dinner plate. 

6. The guy at the gym who sweats so much while riding the bike that he actually drips. We're not talking little beads of perspiration, either. This dude looks like he just got doused with a bucket of water. And all that sweat? Drips all over the bike, the floor, and anything else in his path.

7. The inside of the sink drain. If my husband wouldn't kill me, I would totally let the garbage disposal eat every errant spoon and lid just so I didn't have to stick my hand down in that wet, dark, slimy portal to hell. 

8. People who put their mouths on the water fountain thingie. That water arcs up for a reason, my friend. 

9. The idea of picking up fresh dog poo with only a thin plastic bag between my hand and that poo. This is the prime reason we will never own a dog while living in the city. (Well, that and the fact that someone in this house is highly allergic. But honestly, I think the poo-picking-up is more of a deal breaker than the allergies.)

10. The sound that happens when Styrofoam rubs together. You know how some people get that watery-mouth-gonna-vomit feeling when they hear nails on a chalkboard? My personal hell is unpacking a new small appliance or toy shrouded in Styrofoam. 

11. Cottage cheese.

12. Knees. I nearly passed out when my physical therapist was moving around my displaced patella (even writing it out is making me shudder). The thought of all that joint and muscle and kneecap is just way too much. I  gladly watched open-heart surgery and passed around organs from an autopsied body during a GATE field trip, but I cannot stand to see pictures of or hear about any sort of knee injury or surgery.  This means you, dude at the UPMC Sports Medicine Center who felt the need to tell me all about that blown-out knee. I could have lived the rest of my life quite happily never knowing about your surgery or rehab, thanks.

13. Lice. I live in fear of the Lice Letter from school. Two years ago, we got the dreaded letter every. single. month. The mere thought of makes me want to scratch myself raw. 

And now, if you'll pardon me, I've got to go make a mug of peppermint tea. I'm suddenly feeling a little queasy.

The early bird gets the... eye patch? Lesson on digestive cancers? Whatever it is, I'm not sure I want it.

By 7:45 this morning I had:

• Consumed roughly 3 cups of coffee. 

• Spent 90 minutes at the gym (30 on the elliptical, 60 being tortured by Maria). 

• Learned all about the difference between the anus and the rectum and how anal cancer differs from colo-rectal cancer. (And Maria wondered why that poor old lady left 15 minutes into this morning's class. Ha.) What did we ever do before we could Google on our Blackberries while holding a lunge for two minutes? We must have been ignorant fools, all of us. 

• Volunteered DH and his beer for a fundraiser.  

• Showered and sheveled myself.  

• Answered at least 17 questions, most of which involved tornadoes and proper pirate attire. (Why yes, she WAS reading a book on tornadoes [her love of natural disasters has not dimmed] and it IS pirate day at camp. Whyever do you ask?) 

• Designed and created a felt-and-yarn eye patch for Miss O. PSA: Using a hot glue gun at 7:30 AM after no breakfast, 90 minutes of gym, and 3 cups of coffee? NOT recommended.   

• Lifted the lid off the blender (while blending) to check on the status of the berry banana smoothie I was making.   

• Cleaned up the purple smoothie splatters all over the wall, the counter, and my face.  

 

In which I out myself as a forgetful narcissist

I've sort of lost my journaling (and blogging) mojo. Not sure what happened, but I'd really like to get it back. A conversation with Miss O this weekend reminded me exactly why I need to write things down: My memory sucks.

"Mom, what kinds of funny things did I used to say when I was little?" (Note that she is all of 7 right now.)

I rattled off a few (pronouncing birds "boids" and calling her backpack a "packpack" and, of course, the oft-repeated-by-me "shranky") but then stopped. I couldn't remember anything else. "You're in luck," I told her. "I"ve written all this stuff down in my journal, so we just need to read through that." She was ecstatic and wanted to go find those entries right then.

There have been so many times over the last few months when DH has mentioned some bit of (fairly recent) history that I've completely forgotten. I've even forgotten those important kid milestones, like when Miss O got her teeth and how old she was when we took various trips and what her first word was. Is it normal to be this forgetful? If it isn't, I'm not sure I want to know. (And if you tell me, I'll probably forget, anyway.)

Although I have no idea what prompted me to start journaling in the first place, I am so very glad I did. As I write blog posts or LiveJournal entries, I'm mostly just doing a brain dump of sorts - daily life, or an anecdote about the kid. These are things that are, I know, not really interesting to many people. Yet this weekend's conversation with Miss O reminded me of why I need to keep journaling. I want to be able to remember her childhood, to answer her questions and, maybe when she's older, to help her understand the person I am (or was). 

I suspect that for many in my generation, our parents are complete mysteries. Sure, we know what they watched on TV and what they liked to eat for dinner and -- thanks to the magic of Polaroid -- what that favorite pair of purple and black plaid pants really looked like, but how many of us know what our parents thought about on a daily basis? The stuff they found funny or absurd or sad? All those small experiences, accomplishments, and setbacks that individually aren't much but which, when taken together, actually make up a person's core? 

People complain about the rise of narcissim due to social media - we like to talk about ourselves endlessly even though no one really cares. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe one day those narcissistic natterings will help our kids understand who we were and what their early lives were really like, without that gauzy filter of unreliable memories. 

Just think! They'll no longer have to wonder just why, exactly, Aunt Sally doesn't speak to Grandma any more or why weird Cousin Timmy lived at home until he was 49. No more will they have to feel like the worst parents ever when they hear us revise history and say "Oh, honey, I don't know why this is so hard for you. YOU never cried at night AND you were magically potty trained in a day when you were only 6 months old!" 

They'll know it all, for better or for worse. Is that good? I don't know. And as a narcissist, of course, I don't really care.

Hello from the House of Phlegm

My body has obviously not gotten the memo, the one that states that we get only ONE sinus infection per year, and that this year's infection has already come and gone, thankyouverymuch.

The phlegm, I am SO tired of it. And the near-constant headache? Also tired of that.

In fact, I am just tired in general. Exhausted, actually. And -- today at least -- I have no one to blame but myself.

See, I really wanted a peppermint mocha yesterday afternoon. It was cold, snowy, windy, and dark; in other words, a perfect day for the first PM of the holiday season. When I found the mother of all miracles (a parking spot right in front of the East Side Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon a weekish before Thanksgiving) I knew it was meant to be. 

I darted in to place my order.

Only I sort of forgot one important word in my "tall nonfat no whip decaf peppermint mocha" noun-string of an order. Can you guess which one?

Yeah. Thanks to the fully caffeinated peppermint mocha, I spent a quality three hours and fifteen minutes wiiiiiide awake last night. Hello, 1:30 AM. Hello, 3:22 AM. Hello, 4:45 AM. And, of course, we are up for the day at 6:35. 

I'm feeling extraspecialgood this morning, as you might imagine. The combination of a sinus infection and very little sleep does wonders for one's productivity at work, in case you were wondering.

DH has an appointment with Dr. LemonJello this afternoon because he, too, is sick. Unlike me, however, he was willing to jump through the eleventy seven hoops required to get past the office staff and score an appointment, and was willing to accept that he will likely leave a pint of blood behind for his troubles. (I have NEVER met a doctor who likes to take blood as much as Dr. LJ.) 

I am currently working on my plan to have DH score some antibiotics for me during his appointment because I am just that lazy. If he fails, I'm doomed to another rendezvous with Dr. Nick and his  Profligate Prescription Pad. Percocet, anyone? ;-)

An open memo to The Mean Girl

Mean Girl, you know who you are. And you know what? You SUCK.

As a grown up, I should probably chuckle softly and murmur things about how you can't possibly mean to be so malicious at such a young age, and how you must just be  "going through some stuff."

But I won't.

No, I won't, because you know exactly what you are doing and -- more importantly -- exactly what you want the outcome to be. You intend to hurt and exclude.  And for that, you suck.

Let me tell you something else, Mean Girl. When you finally grow up, you're going to realize that being a manipulative beeyatch isn't going to get you very far, not in the areas that actually matter.

Sure, you may have manipulated or backstabbed your way into a great job, but good luck finding a co-worker who isn't just DYING to stick a shiv in your kidney while you aren't looking.

Yes, you may have a gaggle of women to go dancing or drinking with, but good luck finding one who will be a true friend, the kind that holds your hair while you puke or takes your kids when you just can't cope for one more second. The kind you can trust with your deepest confidences, your fears, your hopes.

And while you may like what you see when you look in the mirror,  good luck actually liking the person underneath that flawless exterior.

Enjoy your reign now, Mean Girl, while you can, while you still have influence over the malleable little girls who want to fit in enough to put up with your crap. Soon enough it will end, and I will happily dance a jig of glee at your comeuppance.

The great purge, and other horrors of domestic management

So. The dining critic from our local paper is coming to our house next weekend to profile our supper club. With a photographer.

I have scrubbed dirt in places I didn't know dirt could exist.

I have washed windows, inside and out.

I have forced Miss O under the dining room table with a dust cloth to get the chair rungs de-funkified.

I have listened to DH using the steam cleaner on our kitchen tile. (That was really hard work, let me tell you.)

And yesterday I spent hours in the basement playroom (adjacent to the Man Cave of Beer, so fair game for public viewing) with Miss O trying to inject some semblance of order into the chaos. OMG, the chaos...

Being utterly Type A, having the Angelina Ballerina game pieces in the box with the USA map puzzle and the puzzle pieces in the kitchen set oven made me twitch something fierce. I don't know what the kids were hoping to accomplish by baking Nebraska. Alaska, maybe. But nothing good can come of baking Nebraska.

We (and by we I mean me, with occasional spurts of activity by Miss O) went through Every. Single. Item. Sorted, boxed, stowed, and, most importantly, purged.

The latter came with a heavy round of protests. "But Mama! I love this! You can't throw it away!" Dude, it's a broken piece of plastic crap with Jerry Seinfeld's bad bee self on it. It is not staying in this house.

When she was distracted by some other shiny object, I swooped in and deposited that lovely gem -- along with many others -- in the trash bag. And not just IN the trash bag. No... I had to disguise it within other trash and bury it as far down as I could. I have learned my lesson well after one too many instances of Miss O spotting a treasure I'd stupidly buried only ONE layer deep in the trash. And for the record? She can get REALLY indignant when someone throws away a broken headband or a torn up scrap of paper she scribbled on. That kid can say, "I have no idea where my school shoes are" as she literally trips right over them, yet her Spidey Sense starts tingling the instant something of hers goes in the trash. If only I could harness that power for good...

No laughing matter

As much as I love to ridicule Sarah Palin, she's really not funny. She's scary. Like, Oh My God She Could Be Leading This Country scary.

I spent last night watching the debate at a friend's house, surrounded by smart, liberal, politically-aware people. Even though Palin didn't crash and burn as expected, she still provided lots of eyerolling fodder. The fact that she "won" the debate by not imploding ("and we should keep the terrorists at bay by... oh, well, it's really all about job creation!")  speaks volumes about the low expectations that surround her.

That down-home, g-droppin' folksiness was appalling. The winking? Even more so. As I watched, all I could think was, "This one time, in Alaska..." (Apologies to American Pie enthusiasts everywhere.) She was So. Damn. Annoying.

And completely disingenuous.

I've been trying to think of why, exactly, that bothers me so much. After all, aren't all politicians  disingenuous on some level or another?

I think Palin's smarm strikes such a negative chord in me because she is a woman. If the ticket wins, SHE is going to be held up to my daughter (and girls everywhere) as a role model, the consummate proof of What Girls Can Achieve. Instead of showing the world that she can be VP because she is smart and informed and dedicated, she's showing the world that she can be VP because she flirts and says "gosh darn it!" and generally skates by on her superficial charms (and intense coaching) rather than her hard work and intellect.

What kind of lesson is that for our daughters?  Wink hard enough and you, too, can lead the country, little Janie.

Feeling crappy in more ways than one

I am a horrible patient. Truly awful. Even if I don't whine out loud, I whine on the inside. And I'm irritable. Like, more irritable than usual, which should tell you something.

For the last four days, I've been walking around with approximately eleventy seven pounds of snot in my head. Allergies, thanks to the fine air quality in the 'burgh? A virus? Who the hell knows. I only know it's making me miserable. It feels like someone stuck one of those baby bottle brushes up my nose and is using it to grate my nasal passages raw. Owie.

Because I was already walking that illness-induced fine line between self-possessed and freaking-the-hell-out, my coffee maker died yesterday. Less than a year old, and it just stopped making coffee. The little red ON light stared at me tauntingly even as no actual COFFEE was produced. Yes, there was water in it. Yes, there was coffee in it. Yes, it was National Coffee Day. Oh, the irony.

And then there was an accident on the way to ballet. Of course we were already late. Of course the cop decided it was JUST DANDY FINE to take up two lanes out of three in the already disastrous Negley/Center intersection. I thumbed my tingly stuffed-up nose at him as I inched my way past.

And then the ballet teacher informed me that Miss O and her friend were struggling somewhat in the higher level class. All I wanted to do was retrieve my kid and put us both to bed, but instead I got to have a long conversation about how she's not great at focusing and has a lot of energy and blahblahblah.

This is something we've struggled with over the last year, actually. So, it wasn't surprising, but it wasn't exactly welcome news, either. I'd really hoped all those discussions we'd had about focus and control would have sunk in, at least a little bit. *sigh*

On the way home, Miss O and I had a chat about her progress report. The fact that I never once raised my voice or expressed my exasperation? A minor miracle. Frankly, I sorta creeped myself out (and probably Miss O) with that eerie calm that comes from sheer exhaustion. 

By the end of it, I was ready to cry from the frustration (WHY won't she focus?) and the worry (dude, is something wrong with her that she can't settle down and focus?) and the parental heartbreak of seeing how disappointed Miss O was in herself. She likes ballet, and truly does want to to well, and we have all seen how great she can be when she tries.

As a mom, I want her to do well but I also want her to be happy. Such a thin line between nurturing and spoiling in situations like this. I don't want to just let things slide and let her get away without trying her best because honestly? That does her no favors in the long run. But man, that sad little face of hers last night was enough to  make me wish I could just say "It's okay, honey, you don't have to do diddlysquat ever again."

When you read those funky little parenting books while gestating or while nursing (Hey! I have extra time and I'll do some advance research!) you never come across warnings about situations like this. None of those perky (and annoying) authors ever tell you that you'll need to play the hard-ass while it breaks your heart and that trying to do so with a head full of snot will only make it a thousand times worse.

after her last spring performance

One of those mornings that make you want to add some hooch to your coffee

DH got up at 4:21 to leave for his jaunt to Philly with his parents. *yawn*

Miss O did not want to get up, even after oversleeping. She did not want to wear pants. She did not want to wear a shirt. She did not want to wear shoes. She did not want to get out from under the covers. She did not want to go to school. She did not want to eat breakfast. She did not want to say goodbye. She did not want to stop crying.

My caramel latte is vanilla.

It's street cleaning day, and finding a parking space on the right side of the street took all my vulturing skills.

*sigh*