Y'all, Baby Shagari is missing. Okay, that was dramatic. He's with his mother, but we all know she's batshit crazy.
Since Thanksgiving she's been talking about all the people who are trying to kill her, and how she needs to go to a Safe House. (By the way, one of the killers is named Burnis. If I'm ever stalked and killed, I hope the killer is named Burnis. It makes the Dateline story way better.) Sorry, I digress. This week the Baby Daddy got all worked up about her massage therapist and busted up the spa. So...she called the Safe House people and got a placement somewhere. Praises be, she picked a weekend when the bigger boys were with their father, but she took the baby with her.
Ridiculously long story short...little Shagari is somewhere with his paranoid schizophrenic mother and we don't know where. She called her ex-mother-in-law yesterday (Why her? Because she's effing nuts.) and said they went to Walmart for a while. That to me is the mark of a woman who is in dire fear of her life.
I think they'll be home soon. No men at the Safe House.
Does anyone have ideas on how to resolve this little conundrum??
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Julep: Credit When Due
Since we're prone to kvetch about the poor decisions made at our dearly beloved Junyaleeg, I'm here to give props for the email I received a short while ago. Finally, the League is recognizing that 8 years active is far too long to expect people to be members before they go Sustainer.
Even though it's come too late to do me any good (8 years down and my status change is already approved for next year!), I heartily approve.
Even though it's come too late to do me any good (8 years down and my status change is already approved for next year!), I heartily approve.
Julep: Mr J Takes the Test
Another month has passed in the Casa Julep household without success at procreation. We know, thanks to my Good Catholic Girl adoption of natural family planning, that the simple things that can go wrong on the female side of the equation are going right. (Mr J has facetiously suggested that maybe I should go on the Pill for a month, since skipping a pill or going off birth control seems to be the most efficient way for anyone we know to get knocked up.) There could still be something arcane wrong with me, but it's not very likely.
But we don't know much of anything about Mr. J's side of the equation. So this morning at 10 am, Mr. J presented himself at the OurCity Andrology Laboratory downtown near the hospital. I told him to call me as soon as he left. But I was pretty darn surprised when the phone rang at 10:18. I said, "Are you still there?" and he said no, he was in the truck headed home. Really? at the gyn's office, you can sit for 18 minutes before they even call you to talk to the insurance clerk. These people must be models of efficiency ... not to mention the efficiency on Mr. J's part. I asked, "Did it go OK?" and he said, "Are you asking me if everything came out all right?" Ha ha, good one. "No worries," he said, "I spent years studying up for this test. I didn't even need a cheat sheet."
(Lola is squealing about TMI right now, and Mr J would probably be none too happy that I am writing this up, but that's why it's the Stealth Blog, right?)
We should know by tomorrow afternoon how his swimmers measure up. He might be fine ... my friend Peggy and her husband had all the tests after a year of no baby, and got told, "You're both fine, just keep trying!" (Their son is now 2, so that is promising, although they've been trying for a second for a while now.)
I feel terribly disloyal to even begin to think that it would be better if something IS wrong, but at least then we would be able to start trying to fix it. Apparently there are plenty of things they can do to improve male fertility - diet and lifestyle changes (Mr J could quit smoking and cut back on the alcohol considerably and see big improvements) as well as medication.
But if there isn't anything wrong with either one of us, we're still stuck on this endless loop of no-baby-making, and I'm not sure I can keep it up. I really don't know how many more times I can spend the last week of the month hyper-obsessing over the slightest physical symptom that might indicate a bun in the oven (Look, I have a huge zit on my chin! Hormones cause break-outs, right? Maybe I'm pregnant!) without losing my ever-loving mind.
I need a game-changer. Frankly, I'm not sure what to hope for.
But we don't know much of anything about Mr. J's side of the equation. So this morning at 10 am, Mr. J presented himself at the OurCity Andrology Laboratory downtown near the hospital. I told him to call me as soon as he left. But I was pretty darn surprised when the phone rang at 10:18. I said, "Are you still there?" and he said no, he was in the truck headed home. Really? at the gyn's office, you can sit for 18 minutes before they even call you to talk to the insurance clerk. These people must be models of efficiency ... not to mention the efficiency on Mr. J's part. I asked, "Did it go OK?" and he said, "Are you asking me if everything came out all right?" Ha ha, good one. "No worries," he said, "I spent years studying up for this test. I didn't even need a cheat sheet."
(Lola is squealing about TMI right now, and Mr J would probably be none too happy that I am writing this up, but that's why it's the Stealth Blog, right?)
We should know by tomorrow afternoon how his swimmers measure up. He might be fine ... my friend Peggy and her husband had all the tests after a year of no baby, and got told, "You're both fine, just keep trying!" (Their son is now 2, so that is promising, although they've been trying for a second for a while now.)
I feel terribly disloyal to even begin to think that it would be better if something IS wrong, but at least then we would be able to start trying to fix it. Apparently there are plenty of things they can do to improve male fertility - diet and lifestyle changes (Mr J could quit smoking and cut back on the alcohol considerably and see big improvements) as well as medication.
But if there isn't anything wrong with either one of us, we're still stuck on this endless loop of no-baby-making, and I'm not sure I can keep it up. I really don't know how many more times I can spend the last week of the month hyper-obsessing over the slightest physical symptom that might indicate a bun in the oven (Look, I have a huge zit on my chin! Hormones cause break-outs, right? Maybe I'm pregnant!) without losing my ever-loving mind.
I need a game-changer. Frankly, I'm not sure what to hope for.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Twinkle: Are They Serious?
I know we always come on here to complain about how tacky the Junyaleague has gotten, so I thought I'd chime in. I just got an e-mail confirming my volunteer shift at the Junyaleague's gala fundraiser this weekend, and it said to dress "in a black dress or black pants and a white shirt." Well it's good that we have the option of wearing a black dress, because there's zero chance I'm showing up at a party dressed as the help. (I really think they should encourage their member/volunteers to wear black dresses instead of white shirts/black pants, because it looks better, anyway). My problem is that next to the bullet point, it said "no black jeans."
Who even has black jeans? And, even if someone does have them, who's going to wear them to a dressy party? Has this really become a problem for the League--members volunteering at their gala showing up in black jeans? If so, the League's problems are more far-reaching than I expected.
I guarantee you that in "other organizations" (which shall, in accordance with custom, remain officially unnamed), they would not feel the need to make the distinction about black jeans, because no member in her right mind would wear them. I suppose I should be happy; at least they still have some standards. Next thing you know some bleeding heart on the board will say that outlawing jeans of any color is discriminatory to the casually-dressed among us, calling for much board debate and a change to the bylaws to be voted on by the entire membership. Only then will we complete our long transformation from "white glove organization" to "multi-colored jeans organization."
Who even has black jeans? And, even if someone does have them, who's going to wear them to a dressy party? Has this really become a problem for the League--members volunteering at their gala showing up in black jeans? If so, the League's problems are more far-reaching than I expected.
I guarantee you that in "other organizations" (which shall, in accordance with custom, remain officially unnamed), they would not feel the need to make the distinction about black jeans, because no member in her right mind would wear them. I suppose I should be happy; at least they still have some standards. Next thing you know some bleeding heart on the board will say that outlawing jeans of any color is discriminatory to the casually-dressed among us, calling for much board debate and a change to the bylaws to be voted on by the entire membership. Only then will we complete our long transformation from "white glove organization" to "multi-colored jeans organization."
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Julep: That's N-O.
Let me start off this post by saying, to my knowledge, Mr. J and I are not yet with child ... but as y'all know we'd like to be. I've talked to my mom (who's discussed it with my stepdad) and I gather Mr. J has told his parents that we are trying to have a baby. This is all well and good ... while I do not want to have a lot of conversation with either my parents or Mr. J's parents about our sex life, quietly advising that we're trying avoids them asking us when we're going to have a baby. (It's a touchy subject some days.) The delay has not stopped both of our sets of parents from taking a deep interest in the prospective grandchild.
It has long been my philosophy that my putative husband could name any sons we have himself, because I've had my hypothetical daughters' names picked out for eons and I am not open to suggestion. Y'all remember the drama that ensued last spring when Mr-J's trashy cousin flagrantly appropriated the name he had envisioned all his life he would use for his son. Well, I won't say he's gotten over it, but he has moved on. And the name he likes right now is my mother's maiden name. (This isn't quite as random as it seems ... Mr. J has gotten really close to my mom's brother and of course it's his last name too). It's a perfectly nice name ... let's pretend it's Murphy ... though I delicately suggested to Mr. J that despite its Irish heritage, today it is most commonly used by African-American comedians and NFL players. He pointed out that his own full first name also often belongs to big black guys. Touche.
And then on Saturday, Mr-Mama decided to chip in on the topic of baby names. She carefully brought it up when Mr. J was out of the room. She wanted to tell me that she thinks Murphy is a great name - for a girl. Um, really? I'm OK with reclaiming Murphy for a son, but I draw the line at naming a daughter after the star of "White Chicks."
Furthermore, while I don't object to anyone else who wants to give her daughter a last name for a first name, I personally like old-fashioned girls' names, the ones that could have been your grandma's name ... and in fact, one is my grandma's name. And one is my great-grandma's name. And the third peaked in baby-name popularity well before World War II even though two of my very best friends have shared it.
I explained to Mr-Mama that Murphy, while an uncommon first name, is generally used as a male name. And I explained to Mr-Mama that I don't insist on Mr. J using my family's name for a son, it's completely his choice if he wants to do that. But I have already picked out three lovely, traditional, feminine names that come with family pedigree and emotional attachments - and I really doubt we'll be having more than three daughters, given how long it is taking us to spawn the first one. (I left that last clause out.)
She then repeated to me not once, not twice, but three times that she thinks Murphy would be a perfect name for a girl. That's great, lady. Want a cookie? What part of "no" didn't come through? Finally I just said, "Mr-Mama, forget it. I don't care if he decides not to use it for a boy, but we're not using it for a girl."
Tact is worthless with her. Being polite just encourages her to keep going.
(By the way, I told Mr. J about this conversation later and he rolled his eyes and said, "I told her you wouldn't want to use Murphy for a girl. It's a boy's name!")
It has long been my philosophy that my putative husband could name any sons we have himself, because I've had my hypothetical daughters' names picked out for eons and I am not open to suggestion. Y'all remember the drama that ensued last spring when Mr-J's trashy cousin flagrantly appropriated the name he had envisioned all his life he would use for his son. Well, I won't say he's gotten over it, but he has moved on. And the name he likes right now is my mother's maiden name. (This isn't quite as random as it seems ... Mr. J has gotten really close to my mom's brother and of course it's his last name too). It's a perfectly nice name ... let's pretend it's Murphy ... though I delicately suggested to Mr. J that despite its Irish heritage, today it is most commonly used by African-American comedians and NFL players. He pointed out that his own full first name also often belongs to big black guys. Touche.
And then on Saturday, Mr-Mama decided to chip in on the topic of baby names. She carefully brought it up when Mr. J was out of the room. She wanted to tell me that she thinks Murphy is a great name - for a girl. Um, really? I'm OK with reclaiming Murphy for a son, but I draw the line at naming a daughter after the star of "White Chicks."
Furthermore, while I don't object to anyone else who wants to give her daughter a last name for a first name, I personally like old-fashioned girls' names, the ones that could have been your grandma's name ... and in fact, one is my grandma's name. And one is my great-grandma's name. And the third peaked in baby-name popularity well before World War II even though two of my very best friends have shared it.
I explained to Mr-Mama that Murphy, while an uncommon first name, is generally used as a male name. And I explained to Mr-Mama that I don't insist on Mr. J using my family's name for a son, it's completely his choice if he wants to do that. But I have already picked out three lovely, traditional, feminine names that come with family pedigree and emotional attachments - and I really doubt we'll be having more than three daughters, given how long it is taking us to spawn the first one. (I left that last clause out.)
She then repeated to me not once, not twice, but three times that she thinks Murphy would be a perfect name for a girl. That's great, lady. Want a cookie? What part of "no" didn't come through? Finally I just said, "Mr-Mama, forget it. I don't care if he decides not to use it for a boy, but we're not using it for a girl."
Tact is worthless with her. Being polite just encourages her to keep going.
(By the way, I told Mr. J about this conversation later and he rolled his eyes and said, "I told her you wouldn't want to use Murphy for a girl. It's a boy's name!")
Monday, February 15, 2010
Twinkle: Pack-n-Play
Do y'all remember when I was expecting Twinklette, and everyone told me I had to get a Pack-n-Play, and MIL was the pushiest one of all? She insisted that I wasn't going to want to go upstairs to change diapers and I needed a lycra and plastic monstrosity right there in my living room, and I'd need one whenever I traveled, too. She and FIL went shopping with us and insisted that we needed one, and I had to throw a pregnant b*tch fit in the middle of Babies 'R Us to get her off my case.
The thing I've found is that hotels provide cribs or Pack-N-Plays, so all I really need to do is bring sheets (plus who wants to go through TSA with their own collapsible crib?). That makes traveling a non-issue...and as for walking up the steps to change a diaper, I've never minded. I prefer to have the sanctity of my nice, clean living room intact and free of baby clutter, and walking up the stairs is a small price to pay. I did invest in a pretty little Moses basket for Twinklette to take downstairs naps in when she was an infant. Who would ever imagine that buying a Moses basket would be an act of sedition? But it is, to so many mommy clones and bossy grandmothers.
I've never missed having a Pack-n-Play, and I actually revel in the way not owning one makes me feel like a rebel. I know that they're convenient; I know that some of my favorite people in the world have them...and that's OK for them, but for me the Pack-n-Play became too tied up with the controversy surrounding it and with my pushy MIL's opinions of how I should run my home. It became a personal symbol of oppression. Incidentally, SIL has a Pack-N-Play in her living room, which makes no sense because she lives in a ranch. Her kid's nursery is quite literally a few steps away from the living room, but there the Pack-n-Play sits, front and center. You know MIL is pleased.
So now my SIL's SIL, Beth of the Verboten Birthday Cake, is coming to town--this girl is nice enough, but she's a pushy Jewish grandmother-in-training. I mean, her son is not even one year old, but I would say that in about 30 years or so, his future wife will have one hell of a stealth blog where she does nothing but b*tch about Beth. Anyway, Beth just Facebooked me because she wants to borrow my Pack-n-Play (I guess the one at the hotel isn't good enough for her little Noah) and I got a little ego boost telling her--the mother of maternal obligation--that I don't have one. I happily sent her to my MIL...Pack-n-Plays are the least of what those two have in common.
The thing I've found is that hotels provide cribs or Pack-N-Plays, so all I really need to do is bring sheets (plus who wants to go through TSA with their own collapsible crib?). That makes traveling a non-issue...and as for walking up the steps to change a diaper, I've never minded. I prefer to have the sanctity of my nice, clean living room intact and free of baby clutter, and walking up the stairs is a small price to pay. I did invest in a pretty little Moses basket for Twinklette to take downstairs naps in when she was an infant. Who would ever imagine that buying a Moses basket would be an act of sedition? But it is, to so many mommy clones and bossy grandmothers.
I've never missed having a Pack-n-Play, and I actually revel in the way not owning one makes me feel like a rebel. I know that they're convenient; I know that some of my favorite people in the world have them...and that's OK for them, but for me the Pack-n-Play became too tied up with the controversy surrounding it and with my pushy MIL's opinions of how I should run my home. It became a personal symbol of oppression. Incidentally, SIL has a Pack-N-Play in her living room, which makes no sense because she lives in a ranch. Her kid's nursery is quite literally a few steps away from the living room, but there the Pack-n-Play sits, front and center. You know MIL is pleased.
So now my SIL's SIL, Beth of the Verboten Birthday Cake, is coming to town--this girl is nice enough, but she's a pushy Jewish grandmother-in-training. I mean, her son is not even one year old, but I would say that in about 30 years or so, his future wife will have one hell of a stealth blog where she does nothing but b*tch about Beth. Anyway, Beth just Facebooked me because she wants to borrow my Pack-n-Play (I guess the one at the hotel isn't good enough for her little Noah) and I got a little ego boost telling her--the mother of maternal obligation--that I don't have one. I happily sent her to my MIL...Pack-n-Plays are the least of what those two have in common.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Julep: Oh, Sandy!
From '40s wardrobes to '80s videos .... Billboard made a list of the 50 sexiest songs of all time and weirdly, Olivia Newton-John's "Physical" is number 1. You know what's even weirder than that? The video for "Physical" (it's the last one on that page). I may never be able to watch Grease again without picturing Sandy in her work-out clothes. Y'all have got to check this out.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Julep: Marriage and Money
More years ago than we might care to admit, LoLa and I were sitting at the kitchen table of my childhood home, engaged in the deep philosophical conversation typical for smarty-pants girls soon headed off to college (or back to college, I can't remember exactly when this took place).
The topic du jour was this hypothetical: Say you had two wonderful fellows seeking your hand in marriage. One was a doctor or businessman or something else lucrative, who could support you and your hoped-for family in fine style. And he was a good guy, a nice person, but just, you know, kind of boring. The other was the opposite of boring: he was exciting and funny and someone you could talk to for hours. But although he had a job he loved and was good at - a musician, say, or a mechanic - he was clearly never going to bring home the bacon to any significant degree. Which should you choose? A family's financial stability, or the love of one's life?
Unbeknownst to us, as she bustled around doing something productive, the J-Mama was listening to us (and no doubt laughing at us). And as she left the kitchen, the J-Mama had the last word. She said, "Girls, marry for sex. You can make your own money."
I have never forgotten it, if only because it shocked the hell out of us and seemed so contrary to what anyone would expect a mother figure to advise. I'm thinking of it today because Mr. J and I met with our new financial planner. Although we've both known all along that I contribute the bulk of income to our family coffers, I don't think either of us realized before today exactly how much comes from me - and what seems like the more emotionally significant corollary, how little comes from him.
I truly do not care. I am blessed to have a career that I enjoy, I'm good at, and pays me quite well. I don't need a husband to support me financially. Mr. J supports me so much in so many ways that are more important to me. When we got to the car, I told him: "I really hope you know that your contribution to this marriage is not measured in dollars." And he said, "I sure hope so, or you'd have kicked me to the curb a long time ago!" In and of himself, I don't think Mr. J cares either. We're pretty good with thinking of it as "our money."
But there is still a lot of societal pressure on a man who is not the bread-winner. The new financial planner is a friend's husband. I 100% trust his discretion with the details of our finances. But I have to wonder if he and Mr. J will be as comfortable with each other with this information on the table. I never thought about that before we were sitting around today. When the topic came up, Mr. J and I both immediately started talking about these new commission-based things he has going that may mean he'll earn much more in the future, blah blah. And isn't that a little silly?
I have a great job and my husband is handy around the house, a wonderful cook, drives me to court appearances when the weather is bad, and sails a lot. And someday, when we have kids, he'll almost certainly be the stay-at-home parent. Why should we make excuses for it? And yet we do.
The topic du jour was this hypothetical: Say you had two wonderful fellows seeking your hand in marriage. One was a doctor or businessman or something else lucrative, who could support you and your hoped-for family in fine style. And he was a good guy, a nice person, but just, you know, kind of boring. The other was the opposite of boring: he was exciting and funny and someone you could talk to for hours. But although he had a job he loved and was good at - a musician, say, or a mechanic - he was clearly never going to bring home the bacon to any significant degree. Which should you choose? A family's financial stability, or the love of one's life?
Unbeknownst to us, as she bustled around doing something productive, the J-Mama was listening to us (and no doubt laughing at us). And as she left the kitchen, the J-Mama had the last word. She said, "Girls, marry for sex. You can make your own money."
I have never forgotten it, if only because it shocked the hell out of us and seemed so contrary to what anyone would expect a mother figure to advise. I'm thinking of it today because Mr. J and I met with our new financial planner. Although we've both known all along that I contribute the bulk of income to our family coffers, I don't think either of us realized before today exactly how much comes from me - and what seems like the more emotionally significant corollary, how little comes from him.
I truly do not care. I am blessed to have a career that I enjoy, I'm good at, and pays me quite well. I don't need a husband to support me financially. Mr. J supports me so much in so many ways that are more important to me. When we got to the car, I told him: "I really hope you know that your contribution to this marriage is not measured in dollars." And he said, "I sure hope so, or you'd have kicked me to the curb a long time ago!" In and of himself, I don't think Mr. J cares either. We're pretty good with thinking of it as "our money."
But there is still a lot of societal pressure on a man who is not the bread-winner. The new financial planner is a friend's husband. I 100% trust his discretion with the details of our finances. But I have to wonder if he and Mr. J will be as comfortable with each other with this information on the table. I never thought about that before we were sitting around today. When the topic came up, Mr. J and I both immediately started talking about these new commission-based things he has going that may mean he'll earn much more in the future, blah blah. And isn't that a little silly?
I have a great job and my husband is handy around the house, a wonderful cook, drives me to court appearances when the weather is bad, and sails a lot. And someday, when we have kids, he'll almost certainly be the stay-at-home parent. Why should we make excuses for it? And yet we do.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Julep: Superbowl Shuffle
Just a brief note inspired by the football -- I love me those Manning boys, but yay Saints! -- or more precisely, by the ads.
I quite enjoyed the Volkswagen "punch buggy" ad, as well as the Doritos one with the little kid confronting his mom's date, the Google ad about finding love in Paris, and yes, the Budweiser Clydesdales. The Superbowl wouldn't be the same without a slightly schmaltzy beer ad about some other species of animal bonding with the Clydesdales.
But I could have done without all the ads full of unattractive people wearing too few clothes. I'm looking at you, Dockers, Career Builder, and whatever that awful Superbowl Shuffle ad was for. Frankly, I was no more happy about the ads full of attractive people in too few clothes. I watched the game with Mr. J's parents, and after the second Go-Daddy ad, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I can't be the only person in the nation who doesn't care to watch trailers for soft-core porn amid the same people with whom she watches a football game.
And what was with all the misogyny? The overarching message of the Dove for Men, Dodge Charger and Flo TV ads ("women suck! They are holding you down, man!"): what's up with that? How about the Bridgestone ad that indicated one should hold on to one's tires and toss one's wife to a pack of scary-looking ruffians? Wow, that's ... kind of vicious.
Do the advertisers somehow not remember that 50% of the Superbowl audience is female? And for once, people are actually watching the ads?
I quite enjoyed the Volkswagen "punch buggy" ad, as well as the Doritos one with the little kid confronting his mom's date, the Google ad about finding love in Paris, and yes, the Budweiser Clydesdales. The Superbowl wouldn't be the same without a slightly schmaltzy beer ad about some other species of animal bonding with the Clydesdales.
But I could have done without all the ads full of unattractive people wearing too few clothes. I'm looking at you, Dockers, Career Builder, and whatever that awful Superbowl Shuffle ad was for. Frankly, I was no more happy about the ads full of attractive people in too few clothes. I watched the game with Mr. J's parents, and after the second Go-Daddy ad, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I can't be the only person in the nation who doesn't care to watch trailers for soft-core porn amid the same people with whom she watches a football game.
And what was with all the misogyny? The overarching message of the Dove for Men, Dodge Charger and Flo TV ads ("women suck! They are holding you down, man!"): what's up with that? How about the Bridgestone ad that indicated one should hold on to one's tires and toss one's wife to a pack of scary-looking ruffians? Wow, that's ... kind of vicious.
Do the advertisers somehow not remember that 50% of the Superbowl audience is female? And for once, people are actually watching the ads?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Twinkle: Just a Quick Observation
Just a quick rant, but why is Mr. Twinkle's family so freaking weird?
Today was pajama day at Twinklette's school, and so she wore her favorite pjs, which are lime green and have fairies on them. Because Twinklette loves everything fairy.
So we get to school, and Mr. Twinkle's cousin/Twinklette's teacher greets us. We're admiring everyone's pjs and Cousin says, "What's on your pjs, Twinklette? Butterflies? Ballarinas?" Twinklette knows good and well what's on there, but she stands silent on the issue so I say "I think they're fairies." Cousin looks baffled, like she's never heard of such utter ridiculousness, and says, "Ye-ah...they could be fairies..."
No...not could be. They are fairies. That's the whole entire reason why we bought them. When you see a picture of a girl in a dainty dress, with wings and a wand, what do you think it is? Not a butterfly! Did these people grow up under a rock, or what?
Today was pajama day at Twinklette's school, and so she wore her favorite pjs, which are lime green and have fairies on them. Because Twinklette loves everything fairy.
So we get to school, and Mr. Twinkle's cousin/Twinklette's teacher greets us. We're admiring everyone's pjs and Cousin says, "What's on your pjs, Twinklette? Butterflies? Ballarinas?" Twinklette knows good and well what's on there, but she stands silent on the issue so I say "I think they're fairies." Cousin looks baffled, like she's never heard of such utter ridiculousness, and says, "Ye-ah...they could be fairies..."
No...not could be. They are fairies. That's the whole entire reason why we bought them. When you see a picture of a girl in a dainty dress, with wings and a wand, what do you think it is? Not a butterfly! Did these people grow up under a rock, or what?
Monday, February 1, 2010
Dibbs: Honey, Get Some Stones
Oh, I'm not finished yet. One more thing.
I had my doctor's appointment today. That one. And can I tell you, some woman had the nerve to bring her husband up in there.
Let me explain, my doctor doesn't deliver any babies. There aren't any sweet ultrasounds to ooh and aah over. That I would understand. The only thing going on in that office is pure and utter humiliation.
I understand I'm the only single one here, and I anticipate the arguments I might hear, so I will now counter them.
1) Her husband needed to understand her condition and the prognosis.//Sorry, sugar. The doctor gives a folder of reading material an inch thick. He can read it. Better yet, read it together. You can bond.
2) They only have one car. They need to ride together.//Nope. The office is located in a plush, new hospital. Wait in the lobby. It's lovely.
3) She needs moral support.//Well, don't we all, but you don't see anybody else up there with a man. It's embarrassing, what's going on in there. No one wants to look some man in the face and think he knows what's going on with her. It's like a little sisterhood. We all "man up," if you will, and take it like grown-ups. She can, too.
I know that guy had to be so embarrassed. He sort of stared at his lap. She just chattered along, blissfully ignoring the glares of the other patients. Oy, I just can't think about it anymore.
I had my doctor's appointment today. That one. And can I tell you, some woman had the nerve to bring her husband up in there.
Let me explain, my doctor doesn't deliver any babies. There aren't any sweet ultrasounds to ooh and aah over. That I would understand. The only thing going on in that office is pure and utter humiliation.
I understand I'm the only single one here, and I anticipate the arguments I might hear, so I will now counter them.
1) Her husband needed to understand her condition and the prognosis.//Sorry, sugar. The doctor gives a folder of reading material an inch thick. He can read it. Better yet, read it together. You can bond.
2) They only have one car. They need to ride together.//Nope. The office is located in a plush, new hospital. Wait in the lobby. It's lovely.
3) She needs moral support.//Well, don't we all, but you don't see anybody else up there with a man. It's embarrassing, what's going on in there. No one wants to look some man in the face and think he knows what's going on with her. It's like a little sisterhood. We all "man up," if you will, and take it like grown-ups. She can, too.
I know that guy had to be so embarrassed. He sort of stared at his lap. She just chattered along, blissfully ignoring the glares of the other patients. Oy, I just can't think about it anymore.
All Hat, No Cattle: Dibbs
Okay, Ladies, the bitching is about to commence. Sorry.
I know I volunteered to chair this silent auction, and until last week, I honestly haven't minded. Asking for things isn't a strength of mine. This has been quite the character-building experience. I'm pretty good at it.
(BTW, thank you, Julep and Twinkle, for your kind donations. And Twinkle, thank you for the procurement road trip. I hope Twinklette enjoys the distillery.)
Here's the thing: We started this little venture in June. We had our first procurement meeting in September. At that point people pledged their items. It's February 2. Now is not the time to tell me, "I might be able to get it to you by Thursday." Or, "I don't know how much the gift certificate is worth." What? Call the damn place! I'm not the only one who knows how to use a phone.
You'll understand when you hear the worst culprit. She marked her name beside ten items. She promised to take care of those items. "Don't worry, Dibbs," she said. "These are under control." When I asked her about them, she sent a spreadsheet of her progress each time. Great. A spreadsheet don't buy Mama new shoes. Now she's between the Pro Bowl and the Super Bowl and I've got nothin'. The only blessing is the YWC won't listen to her talk about pillars, connectivity, or Zoomerangs, and she's no longer employed by KFC.
I just don't know how much more of this stress I can take. You should see my skin. But I can't talk anymore. I have to drive to the 'burbs and pick up an Arbonne basket. Toodles.
I know I volunteered to chair this silent auction, and until last week, I honestly haven't minded. Asking for things isn't a strength of mine. This has been quite the character-building experience. I'm pretty good at it.
(BTW, thank you, Julep and Twinkle, for your kind donations. And Twinkle, thank you for the procurement road trip. I hope Twinklette enjoys the distillery.)
Here's the thing: We started this little venture in June. We had our first procurement meeting in September. At that point people pledged their items. It's February 2. Now is not the time to tell me, "I might be able to get it to you by Thursday." Or, "I don't know how much the gift certificate is worth." What? Call the damn place! I'm not the only one who knows how to use a phone.
You'll understand when you hear the worst culprit. She marked her name beside ten items. She promised to take care of those items. "Don't worry, Dibbs," she said. "These are under control." When I asked her about them, she sent a spreadsheet of her progress each time. Great. A spreadsheet don't buy Mama new shoes. Now she's between the Pro Bowl and the Super Bowl and I've got nothin'. The only blessing is the YWC won't listen to her talk about pillars, connectivity, or Zoomerangs, and she's no longer employed by KFC.
I just don't know how much more of this stress I can take. You should see my skin. But I can't talk anymore. I have to drive to the 'burbs and pick up an Arbonne basket. Toodles.
Julep: So this is fun ...
Check out this poll from 1941 about the items and quantities in a "co-ed's" wardrobe.
Now I have to get to work - late start today due to a morning errand I will blog about later. I know, you're all on the edges of your seats.
Now I have to get to work - late start today due to a morning errand I will blog about later. I know, you're all on the edges of your seats.
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