Clubbing

Okay, I lied. I said I would take you with me to my glucose test and I didn’t. The office didn’t have wi-fi, well at least not wi-fi they would give to a jacked up pregnant woman.  So I live tweeted it. It was finally summed up with this:   And then I went to work, and slept under my desk for about 30 minutes. I passed it. It’s bullshit. I’m convinced it’s bullshit. Glucose tests have the same intrinsic value as the PSAT.  But, for what it is worth, I passed it. So suck it sugar. Suck it hard. Since then I’ve had a little side project that I’m enjoying quite a lot. Turns out there is something in the water here in Tampa because the whole damn world is getting themselves all Knocked Up. This realization brought out a characteristic in me that is worth explaining/exploring: I have a fascination with clubs. Not the sandwich with an extra slice of bread in the middle. Not the kind you kill baby seals with and not the kind you go with your girlfriends to so you can hook up with a guy that has the same name as a state and then find yourself at 5 a.m. sneaking out of his apartment and realizing, “Oh shit, I’m wearing his skinny jeans, not mine…” and you swear to stop hooking up with guys that have slimmer hips than you so that this can stop happening and how does this keep happening? I mean… Oh wait. I’m sorry, I went back to my “unhappy time” for a little bit. Let me take a moment to thank Mr. Forty again for saving me from myself and not having slim hips. I love you. Okay, so… clubs. I like the clubs that have a specific membership. I don’t mean “no girl’s allowed” exclusive, or  “the elite aliens that protect the President” secretive. I just mean I like groups of people who have similar interests or lifestyles or hobbies. When I was young I was forever creating clubs that I would force my poor childhood friend, Dena, to join. I would make her a membership card, and explain to her the complex dues structure, and my ideas for building a  2-story clubhouse out of refrigerator boxes in the backyard. (“But what happens when it rains?” she would ask. That Dena, no vision. I hear she makes six figures as an auditor for one of the big accounting firms. That’s… impressive. Perhaps I should have listened to her more). I wrote manifestos for my clubs, I priced out die casting decoder rings (very pricey on a 7-year-old’s allowance), I joined other clubs I found in the back of comic books (I still have my membership card to Cracked, back when they were a Mad rip off and had a papery thingy called a magazine). I appreciated the ideas of secret handshakes and passwords and clubhouses. In high school I excelled at clubs. I joined ALL THE CLUBS. When I graduated, I was an officer in no less than five clubs (Thespians, Youth In Government, Omega Service Organization, Latin Club, and National Honor Society – and yes, that made me super popular and really cool just as you might imagine).  Then I went to college and it kind of fell apart.  I tried. But it turned out I was kind of a shit sorority girl (I still maintain that Birkenstocks can be “dressed up” if matched and...

Ugh.

Mr. Forty and I have terrible colds. This is terribly unfair because it means I could give a shit about his needs (Although I did offer to make him tea this morning. He declined and I took that as a sign to roll over and go back to sleep).  And frankly, I think he has a worse case than me, so I feel guilty asking him for things like Kleenex, orange juice, and the remote control. He was stuck having to go give a presentation today for work, but I’m at home. He’ll be back around 2 and I have set a goal to be showered by then. I also am washing the sheets. These two things make me a big winner. Mr. Forty posted about my high-larious glucose test last week. And it might have been the most insane thing I’ve experienced since I learned about the wonders of Demerol while passing a kidney stone (I was unaware that I was passing a kidney stone, in fact, I was unaware of most dimensional issues and had become one with the breeze…).  The glucose test was what I can only imagine smoking crack is like.  You know before I get all hyperbolic for the sake of comedy, let me check on that.  Please hold. … … … Okay, yep.  According to the first crack site I found, these are the short term effects of smoking crack (I put my experience during the glucose test in parentheses next to each symptom): SHORT-TERM EFFECTS Because it is smoked, the effects of crack cocaine are more immediate and more intense than that of powdered cocaine. (Try drinking 8 oz. of pure cane sugar after 4 and a half months of clean living – that is immediate too my friend). Loss of appetite (Food was the last thing I was thinking of) Increased heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature  (I was sweating, my heart was pounding out of my chest and I’m sure my BP went up) Contracted blood vessels (well I don’t know – oh wait – they had to poke me TWICE to get the blood for the test, so let’s say, “Yes!”) Increased rate of breathing (Ha! I thought I was hyperventilating at one point and I couldn’t stop laughing and so that made it worse) Dilated pupils (I don’t remember, but Mr. Forty told me I was totally doing the “I swear I’m sober” walk through the doctor’s office) Disturbed sleep patterns (I guess, does sleeping for THREE HOURS after the test count?) Nausea (Sweet mother of Mary, yes!) Hyperstimulation (There was a four year old in the waiting room while I was allowing the crack  glucose to course through my veins. She was dancing and making a very high pitched shrieking sound. I TOTALLY got her vibe. I really wanted to dance and shriek with her. I also wanted a kitten and a Big Wheel very badly). Bizarre, erratic, sometimes violent behavior (See above) Hallucinations, hyperexcitability, irritability (Yes, Yes, and Yes) Tactile hallucination that creates the illusion of bugs burrowing under the skin (I got really itchy, so I’m totally going to say yes) Intense euphoria (IT WAS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE) Anxiety and paranoia (UNTIL IT WAS OVER AND THEN I JUST WANTED TACO BELL AND A HUG AND DON’T HUG ME TOO HARD BECAUSE YOU’LL HURT THE BABY) Depression (*sob* The Baby is unhappy, because there’s no more sugar) Intense drug craving (I made...

Merry New Year!

Well 2013 has been a helluva year. As I sit here, with wet hair, wearing Mr. Forty’s t-shirt and telling myself I should go get ready to go out and visit some friends at their annual NYE party, I look back over the year. I also remember we have no Bloody Mary Mix for the NYD party we are throwing tomorrow afternoon. Hell. Let’s focus on everything Mr. Forty and I managed to do this year: January – I got a huge promotion at work and began building a brand new department. Over the year I’ve hired some people who aren’t just my coworkers – they’re my friends.  Mr. Forty and I celebrated our one-year anniversary by having a lovely dinner in Atlanta. We looked real nice. February – Mr. Forty visited and began to meet folks around Tampa in order to make the transition to moving here. I began to clean out my closets and my dresser and try to make room in my tiny bungalow for another human and a cat. I tried on a wedding dress. It was the only one I tried on. I bought it. It was perfect. I wish I was wearing it right now. I travel to Colombia. I could tell you why, but then I’d have to kill you. March – I escorted Mr. Forty and his cat to Tampa, along with all of his stuff. His house in Atlanta remains for sale. It is very nice. Please let us know if you’re in the market, we would love to sell it to you. “We have a vacation home in Southeast Atlanta,” doesn’t work – even for liberals. April – Mr. Forty, myself, about 60 of our closest friends, and some family got together at a big old house on the water, roasted a pig (named Amy – don’t ask), said some really nice things to each other, and were declared married in the eyes of the great State of Florida. We get away for as long as my job will allow and sneak off to Key West. Mr. Forty loves it as much as I always have. This is a good thing. May – After less than 45 days of co-habitation, we asked a realtor to please look for something in our price range that was slightly larger than a shoe box. She sent us several listings the next day. We liked one house in particular. We went and saw it that day. We made an offer. We now live in it.  Mr. Forty informs me he is taking the Florida Bar. I inform Mr. Forty that I like to be a part of life decisions. He promises to remember that. We take a trip to NYC and Mr. Forty gets to spend real time in the City for the first time in his life. June – Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I get rid of furniture we don’t need. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I spend time with my friends at the pub. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I clean around him. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I go for long runs. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. July – My very sweet old terrier with one eye passes away in her sleep. We are very sad. Two weeks later, sad from being sad all the time, we take our other bat looking terrier to the Humane Society and she selects her new bestest friend...

Shit like this…

  Shit. Like. This. This is what Critter is up against. This is what I’m up against. This is what Mr. Forty is up against. This is what we have to fight against. This is what we have to undermine. This is what we have to stand up and say, “HELLO IS THIS THING ON? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING AND WHY ARE YOU THINKING THIS?” Mr. Forty moved to my town thank-you-very-much, and I still have my last name, and I’m going to have an epidural if I want one goddamnit, and we’re having a baby because we talked it over and under and through more than you can possibly imagine (and we still do talk about it and we will for the rest of our lives). If you married a woman because you were doing them a favor – you’re a dick and she’s an idiot.  And FYI, the average retainer for a divorce attorney is about $7500, so have that ready in your back pocket because you’ll sure as shit need it.  Of course you probably spent most of your money on a designer wedding gown, a diamond as big as the Ritz, and two white doves that shit on your flower girl when they flew frantically away from you in the best metaphor of what you had just done to yourselves and each other. Yeah, I’m probably a bit more sensitive to this kind of societal dreck because I proudly call myself a feminist and I’m trying to come to terms with what that means when I’m also thinking about how I’m going to discretely pump breast milk at work when I go back.  (So far I think I’m just going to shut my door and hang a stuffed cow from the doorknob in a fucked up version of dorm etiquette).  I’m also more sensitive to this propaganda because the premise is totally up its own ass. And on top of it all, the image is so blatantly wrong I can’t even begin… Let’s take a moment and look at the picture. I’ll wait. … … … What do you see? Pregnant lady. More pregnant lady. Lady with a baby. Very good. Now what else do you see? Come on, use your critical eye. I’ll tell you what you see – You see a white pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady with no stretch marks, mottled skin, cellulite.  You see a woman looking down, in servitude.   You see a construct. A perfected ideal of an imperfect biological process. Frankly, if you wanted to really make your point about how much women “sacrifice” for a man, you should have posted this picture: But don’t listen to me… it’s probably just...

Congratulations! Did you fart?

Mr. Forty posted a few days ago about the raft of shit I’ve been getting lately for being pregnant. At the time of his post I was filled with an overwhelming sense of “Hell yes!” and “That’s my huzband right there and I’m a lucky woman!”  I didn’t have anything really significant to add. I mentioned in my last post that I found myself at a business dinner with nothing more to contribute to the conversations than my pregnancy. Not that I didn’t try to talk about other things, it’s just those things morphed into “Well that will change,” or “You’ll feel differently in a few months,” or “Interesting strategic insight… so are you going to breastfeed?” This has been a pretty common theme in the 6 weeks since I’ve been out of the closet. It’s very strange. I don’t happen to be one of those women who subscribe to the societal belief that pregnancy is some form of magic. It’s biology. I had a lot of sex and it had the biological effect it was supposed to have in my lady parts. In fact, I always feel slightly uncomfortable when people say, “Congratulations!” As I often interpret this to mean, “Way to go on the fucking!” Depending on who is telling me congratulations, my perceived subtext can range from creepy to downright horrifying. Also, “Congratulations!” is a tough one from a societal point of view. I guess I am worthy of a “Congratulations!” because I (for a change) followed society’s rules: 1. I am married. Happily married in fact. (Although I’m sure from the outside there are those that worry that Mr. Forty and I didn’t wait very long – we were married in April of 2013). 2. I am older. This is a tough one from society’s standpoint – get knocked up too young, you’re an After School Special.  You’ll only get “Congratulations!” from other WIC and SNAP recipients and an MTV producer.  Get knocked up young, you’re wasting your college experience and earning potential. Get knocked up youngish, and people will assume you’re planning to have a whole gaggle of children (oh my poor friends who had one child at 30 and are berated for “not having more”).   Get knocked up old and there are a couple different kinds of “Congratulations!” in play – namely that you managed it in the first place and that you got their expectations for you in under the wire. 3. My career is happily in a place and I could be where I am for a very long time and be okay. I can afford this child. I’m more or less done climbing for now. I have the title I wanted, the salary I desired, the team I hoped to build, and the environment where I can make a difference. I’m good. The next level of promotion for me would be one I would have to think about long and hard. I’m not sure I want it right now. That’s a perfect time to have a baby from my point of view. Looking at all of that, I get a hearty “Congratulations!” from society. Which is totally unfair to all the other women who have children under different circumstances. But life isn’t fair. Teaching Critter that will be one of the hardest lessons I will have to manage. Unless of course he is a mutant and goes Republican or Libertarian on us and names his stuffed animal John Gault....