Magical Days

It’s early – for our household anyway.  I’m sure we will get used to earlier mornings (more on that later).

I have a nice cup of cafe con leche because I’ve reached a point where this child will be happier if Mom is happy and damnit, Cuban coffee makes me happy. (For those of you without strong Cuban or Spanish roots who don’t live in Tampa or Miami – it’s a latte – we just don’t call it that here).  I got back on coffee a few weeks ago, for the health benefits. One, it keeps me from killing – which I consider a real healthy benefit.  Two, it uh, keeps things, uh, moving.  For the newly initiated or those that like to troll pregnant ladies (really? srsly? freak.) getting a little backed up is about as common as say… growing a belly.  And growing a belly is something I am doing with hella flair.

I like to think I’m still in “cute pregnant lady phase.”  I’ve seen pictures of me (and yes, I do look like the performance artist in Big Lebowski) and more than anything I’m fascinated by how round my face is getting. It’s actually quite flattering. When you’re not 23 (see what I did there?) fuller faces can make you look not your age (see what I continue to do there?). So I’m totally down with it.  A good case in point (thanks pop culture) is this chick who lost 155 pound on Biggest Loser. Of course the “fun” is to now tear down her accomplishment, slap a few labels on her, and sell some magazines – but my feminist ire is finely tuned right now (more on that later) and that’s not my point.  My point is….her face has aged with the weight loss.  She needs to put on some healthy weight and plump that face back up and she’ll look 24 again soon. Also, congrats on losing weight and taking control of your health young lady. Oh, and people are assholes – might as well get to that.

You may be seeing more of me (finally) on Week Forty. However, I’m reserving the right to microblog. I tend to have two speeds – long diatribe or two sentences or less. I’ll need a place to post two sentences or less.  It will probably be here. Like the other day when I was listening to NPR (because Liberal) and they were talking about the situation in Homs (and yes I just linked to that news site – its a good news site – I’ve been watching it since my days in “Little Persia” in LA pre-9/11). Steve Inskeep (kinda dreamy for radio don’t you think?) mentioned that part of the relief efforts was sending in “UN food trucks.” Suddenly, I had an image of war-torn, starving, injured Homes residents – grateful for a cease-fire – waiting in line at the Taco Bus and Two Asians & a Grill desperate for a tofu taco or a bahn mi. (This is how I think most days).  I need a place to share that kind of depraved logic. It might as well be with you nice people.  

Which brings me to two things – how I think and you nice people.

I’m going off the FB for a while.  I’ll still comment and there are actually work things that I do on FB several times a day, but personal posts will be few and far between. Yesterday broke me. Totally broke me. Back in my acting class days (roughly ’89 -’02) I always loved the term “walls up.” It comes from the Meisner Technique and method that actually, has always creeped me out. It’s therapy without a license and every Meisner class I ever took some poor kid had a break down and people would make out (one did not cause the other btw, they were usually *usually* separate incidents). But the term “walls up” was like a safe word in exercises. It meant you were done with the nonsensical bullshit the teacher had put you through and that paying $550 you didn’t have, for a two-day workshop where you spent a three hours pretending you were sand, was not getting you where you needed to be, and now a 68-year-old man, who smells vaguely like sardines and old newspapers, is making unwavering eye-contact and telling you over and over again he likes your sweater and all you can think is “creepy gliding towards me” and you scream (well maybe you just say louder than you should) “WALLS UP.”  And it means the exercise stops, you are judged for not being “brave” and “taking risks,” and you think to yourself you have to get out of this crazy train business, but you stay in it for another 8 years.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Walls up.  So I’m calling walls up on social media. I posted about three things yesterday. (And here’s where I should admit that I have a very large FB following for a person without a “personality” or “fame” or a “line of protein shakes.”  I post a lot and I tend to promote things in my community that I am involved in, marriage equality, kittens, and entertaining observations – you know – the foundational tenants of the internet).

My first thing was about cleaning the house.  Yesterday was my first day off in 8 weeks.  Think on that for a second. When I say day off – I mean for 8 weeks I haven’t had a Saturday or Sunday off.  For the past three weeks my schedule has been 14-16 hour days (10-12 for work, 4 for rehearsal of the show I’m directing) and teaching or rehearsing on the weekend. I’ve been in the Century Club of work hours and when people ask me, “How are you feeling?” I answer honestly, “I have lots of energy in the second trimester, I’m just using it all.”

It kinda blows, but it makes you appreciate a day off, which I had yesterday. So for the first time I walked around the house and opted to start tiding up the kitchen. This is where I have to say something about my wonderful mate. Mr. Forty has been great.  I haven’t made any food in weeks. Coffee is the extent of my cooking contributions and he doesn’t even drink coffee (It amazes me too, I know? Right? How is that possible? How do you not drink coffee?). He regularly sweeps and mops the floor, he loads and empties the dishwasher, he takes care of the litter box, he takes care of the dogs when they take care of the litter box, he basically is doing it all. He’s amazing.

But we, like every couple that has ever walked the face of God’s Green Earth, have different standards of clean/clutter. So yesterday, I went to tackle the corners, the surfaces, the walls, the crevices. I did a lot of, “is this an important piece of paper?” “Have you read this magazine yet?” “Holy shit, what is this in the fridge?” “Whose cat is this? Do we own this cat?” That kind of stuff.  I  posted this on FB.

It took two comments to relate this post to my pregnancy. Two more comments before someone mentioned that I wouldn’t be able to clean myself once the baby came (which errybody likes to say to me, I can’t tell if this is a time management issue or if there is a hormone issue that renders new mothers incapable of understanding how a fucking shower works, I’m very curious about this phenomenon).  I tried to explain, kindly, that I’m working 100 hour weeks right now and my mother, sister-in-law, father, friends, etc. are not coming over to help. While I expect to be a little flustered, I will have ONE JOB and while it’s a big one, my post was about cleaning my house now, and I’ll worry about those other looming threats in four months… when I have about three months of family lined up to help.

Which Mr. Forty and I have to wonder – “You won’t take a shower for days,” (because newborn) is such an interesting hang-up for folks. It makes me realize two things – these people obviously have never had a good tasty bout of depression and/or on a more positive note, have never had a really wonderful time in the wilderness for an extended period. Mr. Forty and I are fairly well acquainted with both. We can manage the non-showering thing – and we have each other to say, “Yeah, you now has a flavor, I’ll watch the Critter, go fucking wash.”

That post was a little frustrating. But whatevs. House got clean.

My next post was actually a series of posts about the best day of my year. Truly, the best day of my year. It’s the day that I go to the Florida State Fair. I usually go twice, once for the Governor’s Luncheon (which happens on opening day and I’ve now seen four governors open the fair – soon I hope I get to see a Democrat do it) and once for me.  Mr. Forty went with me for the first time last year and, as if I needed more proof, I knew he was the perfect man for me. He loves the fair for the exact reasons I love the fair (although he doesn’t keep a countdown from around Christmas on).

I eat disgusting shit. I may have mentioned that before, but if not, if it’s fucked up, I try it. I have what a hipster would call “an adventurous palate”and what the rest of the world would call, ” a dumpster for a stomach.”  The fair is my Wine and Food Fest. Only replace the wine with lemonade and get real loose with the concept of “food.”  If they fry it, I shove that shit in my mouth. I try every new trendy fair fare – from the epic discovery of the deep fried Twinkie in 2004, to the Krispy Kreme burger of 2010, I try it all.

This year, Carousel Foods (they don’t even need a website they’re so awesome), introduced a few new burgers. We opted to try the Ramen Burger and the Mac-n-Cheese burger. Just sit with those inspired options. And then know – they were goddamn delicious. I could have had 2 of the mac-n-cheese burger, but you know I had to save room for deep fried bubble gum and chocolate dipped bacon. Mr. Forty and I posted pictures (like I do every year – from deep fried butter to pork butt on a stick) on the FB.

The first comment blamed this eating on me bring pregnant. Subsequent comments cited the same thing.

I explained, nope, I do this every year. This has nothing to do with Critter. Just me. I do this. I do this thing. It’s me.

We let it go, mildly frustrated, but determined to keep our Fair Mood, Mr. Forty and I went to the livestock and did what two kids who grew up with seasonal trips to the farm do – we inhaled deeply, wooled animals lovingly, justified how we could have a goat, identified chickens we will need for the backyard, and got misty at the thought of Critter not having the amazing experiences we had, and how we needed to get that kid to a farm on a regular basis. (Mr. Forty spent summers off in New Zealand  on a sheep farm, I spent summers in Western Pennsylvania on a dairy farm – I’ll let you decide who had the better deal there).

I miss cows btw. They are the most loving, wonderful and delicious of all of God’s animals. And yes, I can say all of those things without moral ambiguity. They are wonderfully stupid. And they have great eyelashes. I miss their eyelashes.  Watching Mr. Forty pull on a sheep’s horns and watching the sheep lean into it, is a pretty sweet thing to see. Sheep are also really dumb. Wow. They so dumb.

We ate so damn much food and we walked a lot. After we managed the Rabbit Barn, it was time to call it a day. We had both agreed we were overstimulated.  We limped back to the car and what transpired next I posted on FB:

Me: That was a pretty magical day. 

Mr. Forty: Most of them are sweetheart. 

*dust flies in my eye*

Awesome right? I mean, honestly, that’s humble brag stuff. Stuff I don’t normally post on FB. But hell, I just wanted to remember it. It’s a “cross stitch that shit on a pillow” meaningful. We are so lucky to have each other. Really. We talk a lot about Critter here, but I hope it comes through that this relationship, this partnership, this 20 year friendship that became *waves hand in a circular motion* all this is truly remarkable. And  nobody is more amazed than us. So forgive me for, in the daze of fried foods and the glorious smells of hay and manure, overshared a pretty special moment on the public space of assholes that some call Facebook.

Because do you know what the two comments were?

2 Responses to “Magical Days”

1. Mona says:

   February 18, 2014 at 4:46 pm

   I was waiting for the long form version of this story. It’s amazing and so are you.

   Reply
2. MsForty says:

   February 25, 2014 at 12:44 pm

   Thank you. I’m bad about looking for replies, mainly because they are in really bad broken English and have something to do with opportunities to make $30-$50 dollars and hour…

   Reply