Crack is whack

The crack in question is my flesh. The horrible desolate wasteland that is my flesh. Specifically, the flesh of my face and hands. I am experiencing an utter crisis of dryness. Crisis. I have known dry skin, I have known it. I am a lifelong Wisconsinite...we have long, dry winters. But this year I'm seriously on the verge of requiring stitches to hold my knuckles together. (Is this really a valid topic to post about? No. But even my husband and sister have been up in my grill about my lazy posting schedule of late, and they talk to me every day, so I'm trying to just put something out there despite my lack of inspiration. Hence, this.)

Okay, so, newsflash, I'm a stay-at-home-mom. I deal in fecal matter. As in, I touch a shitted ass multiple times per day. And I touch a be-pissed ass what seems like a hundred times per day. These unsanitary chores necessitate copious handwashing. And my home, however lovely, lacks a dishwasher. And yet, many, many, many, many, many dishes need to be washed in this home. And my sad, sad dishpan hands handle 99.999% of that endeavor. And, as noted on this here blog, I've recently taken up water aerobics. And, against all odds, I do shower daily. And, I wash a lot of root vegetables, because who the fuck doesn't? What I am saying is that I am exposed to a lot of liquid. The liquid in question is theoretically water, but it seems to be acting more along the lines of sulfuric acid.

People, my hands. Oh heaven help them. Every knuckle is cracked open, sometimes bleeding. There is actually a buildup of near-scar tissue along the tops of my pointer fingers (not sure why they are particularly affected, but whatever), with raised bumps on top of the raised flesh. At times, my entire hands appear to have a spotty, rashy look to them. Where my fingers meet the palm of my hand, the skin is white and cracked. My cuticles defy description. There is itching. There is burning. There is pain.

People, my face. My pitiful face. The t-zone area (forehead, nose, etc.) is continually flaking. It is rough. It is patchy. And it is also pregnant. So I have mysterious zit action in random locations. On any given day I may have the pleasure of removing peeling skin from my nose and popping a nice pimple from the very same pore. How is this possible? I am a disaster.

I swear that this is not 100% resulting from neglect. I am trying actively to manage these issues. I am drying my hands after they are laundered. I am applying creams to them at least 3 times per day, including but not limited to: Neutrogena Hand Cream, Aveda Hand Relief, and Burt's Bees Hand Salve. I believe these all to be high-quality products. But they are nothing but lipstick on a pig. They provide momentary relief, if anything. After sinking in and going to the magical place of absorbed lotions, the intensely detailed topography of my hands returns. I cleanse and moisturize my face twice daily. I had been using some Clean and Clear Morning Burst shit or something after the last of my fancy pants stockpile of Mary Kay shit from my monied days ran out. I think that it can only be a magnet for all the horrific skin conditions known to man. My face, although technically clean, is not anything resembling clear. No, I am JoJo the Dog Faced Boy.

Tonight, after leaving water aerobics, I reached up, stupidly, and touched my face. My shredded finger tips (I doubt I even have prints at this point) landed upon a sandpaper-like surface that could not possibly be the genetic legacy of my 92-year-old great-grandmother who still has a peaches 'n cream complexion. No. There is no way this face could stem from that face. I must be adopted. Anyhow, I was so horrified that I minivanned it across several lanes of traffic and spun my van around 19 times whipping into a grocery store in a frenzy of moisture-seeking. (Slight exaggeration, but only slight.) I ran to the aisle containing beauty products and grabbed some Oil of Olay active hydrating cream or some such shit. I seriously considered ripping it open and slathering my face in it in the aisle, but some sense of decency came over me just in the nick of time. I did have that shit ripped open on my way out the door though. My face feels at least 5% better, so that was worth the $6.33 I guess.

So, hell. We all know that Big W is not exactly a vain woman who primps and preens before getting the mail. No. She could barely be called upon to do these things for her own wedding. But, Christ, I don't want to bleed out via knuckle before the spring thaw. This is ridiculous. I am in pain. I am in discomfort. I am pregnant and I have lots of physical problems right now that I'll probably end up whining about eventually, but this issue is seriously reducing my capacity to enjoy snacks. I just end up staring at my hands, which are probably burning from the chemical herb blend on my pita chips that has leeched into my bloodstream, and wincing in misery. That's no way to live.

So my sister tells me my only option is to put on as much hand cream as I can physically get my hands to cling to, and then sleep with socks or gloves on my hands. This is against my moral code. And it reminds me of that scene in Ocean's Eleven when the dude is trying to weird the car salesman out of those vans by just getting all creepy about his moisturizing habits. I do not want to be a sock puppet master in my sleep. But, hell, I'm not even sleeping these days, so who gives a fuck if I'm up all night staring at my socky hands?

So, fine, go ahead. Recommend something. A product. A practice. A way to embezzle money so I can afford an extended trip to a humid destination. Keep in mind that I do not have the means to buy anything even remotely upscale. But I guess you can tell me about upscale products if you want to. We have a strip club in The Woods and I'm sure they have to have "Pregnancy Night" at least once a month, knowing this town. I'd take a spin on the pole to remedy this situation. Who doesn't like a good look at a re-streched stretch mark? Come on now, people, that's gotta be worth a couple bucks.

Oh, one thing. I will report that I have been able to keep my overall body flesh relatively under control with religious post-shower moisturizing with various drugstore brand moisturizers. Of course, this is in comparison to my "one step away from amputation" paws, so maybe my perception is flawed. But, whatever, I feel that that matter is under control. My ass isn't flaking off or anything.

I gotta go. I think I'm going to go put my hands on my husband's greasy back and see what that does for me. (Sorry about that vomit on your keyboard.)

Love,
Big W

P.S. This is totally one of those posts where I laughed so hard at myself and snorted like a swine with self-amusement through its entire writing, and all my readers are going to be utterly horrified by it and no one will comment. Just calling my shot...

And it rained awesomeness on the House of K...

So the other day I had a horrible dental experience, and I came home and wrote a really long (surprise!) blog post about how badly it sucked. But then I realized, despite having a seriously malfunctioning filter in regards to what is a reasonable thing to discuss with the universe, that it was lame and I shouldn't put you through it. It basically went: crown, pain, small mouth, pregnant lady gag reflex, gag, gag, gag, embarrassed, pain, why do they have to take this mold thing four times, gag, I'm going to kill everyone. So there was that.

But rather than a highly detailed post about the severe ill fortune I have had over my lifetime in the dental arena, I'm gonna tell you about something that is undeniably awesome. Those of you with children know that children require (or, rather, acquire) massive quantities of equipment. When you bring home that baby and you have a swing, a bouncy seat, and maybe an infant tub cramping your formerly semi-lovely home, you think, "Man, this baby has a lot of shit!" But you have no clue. And I, as the mother of a near-16-month-old, probably have no clue compared to those of you with older children who have the capacity to state what kind of toys they like, which may include things like elaborate train sets. But the gear associated with having a kid is immense pretty much from day one, and it just gets uglier and uglier from there.

So one day, you're sitting in your house, and you realize it is crammed with shit in places you don't want shit. Perhaps you have a living room and it doubles as a toy store. We here in the House of K have had this problem. Having been engaged with a number of highly neurotic authors who like to fill my mind with poison about de-cluttering and cleaning in an organic fashion, I have become absolutely itchy at the state of my home, particularly as far as Phook's heaps o' phookcrap are concerned. Looking at her half of the living room, (it was probably only a third pre-Christmas), I'm pretty sure I was breaking out in hives, even if no one else could see them. And, as children do, Phook had a tendency to take her mountain of shit and use earth moving equipment throughout the day to disperse it around the entire first floor of our home. I've twisted more than one ankle on a faux chicken leg from her play grocery cart's contents. Despite feeling as if I was being tied to a chair and beaten with a bag of nickels as far as this situation was concerned, at some point I realized I did have options as far as my home goes.

You see, we have an odd room on our first floor which was apparently originally used as a bedroom and which we have used as an office since moving in. When I say office, what I mean is revolting dumping grounds for my husband's copious amounts of technology related shit and paperwork he is utterly incapable of managing. I could barely enter the room without needing an EpiPen stabbed in my thigh, and I don't even have allergies. So there was that. And then we have this odd room-sized space at the top of our stairs which has three bedrooms shooting off of it. We had a TV up there we never used, but it has basically served as a room-sized hallway since we moved in.

So, the K's put their minuscule goat brains to good use and determined that the upstairs thoroughfare would become a non-disgusting office, and the former office would become a playroom. We had this idea a good six months ago, but of course it takes time to muster the fortitude to make this sort of endeavor actually happen. I finally bit the bullet a few weeks ago and purchased the cheapest possible desk and bookcases I could find to furnish the new office. You know, the kind with assembly instructions that have been poorly translated through nine languages before getting to English, where you always end up with a bunch of leftover hardware and a piece of "furniture" that lists decidedly to the right? That stuff. So two weekends ago, Big K set to work with his assembly rage in full force and got the shit done. We ended up, miraculously, with what I consider to be a pretty nice little office:

(As an aside, if any of you people know why the jade plant in the lefthand corner of that top picture is really fucking dying, please let me know.)

Then, this past weekend, we set about dismantling the remains of the former office, relegating them to various cast-off locations such as the basement and garage. I set about attempting to remove 17 tons of dust from the room. I don't know what it is about tangled webs of computer cords, but holy shit I think I could have fashioned a shawl, if not an entire sweater, from the quantities of dust bunnies I harvested in that room. My lungs seriously begged for mercy after about 10 minutes, and I had like 2 hours to go.

Then we moved some old craptastic bookcases into the room to serve as toy storage and set about moving Phook's toy store in from the living room. The one purchase made to complete this room was a lovely foam alphabet mat for the floor, to make it look playroom-y. I spent some Christmas money Phook received from her great-grandma on this item, and felt wildly reckless in doing so, since every other dollar she's ever received is resting comfortably in a savings account, but such is life. I figured she'd like it. And she does. So it's kind of a ghetto playroom compared to some of the fancy ass full basements I've seen decked out for kid wonder in the homes of some of my associates, but I think it's nice enough and Phook seems to dig it.

So now our living room is fully reclaimed. On Sunday night after we finished this project, Phook took like 47 hot laps around the living room screaming, as she too seemed to enjoy the open space we had created. It was rather charming to see my baby as overjoyed by de-cluttering as I am. We now have a 100% adult office and a 100% adult living room, and a Phooktastic toy room, complete with a door I can shut with extreme prejudice to contain her intense levels of multi-colored nonsense. Of course, the past couple days have taught me that she will still drag shit everywhere and my ankles are no safer than they once were, but at least there is a central containment unit for her crap. After I had her and was bitching about the wide stance of her baby swing or something, some fellow mom told me, "Once you have a kid, they will overtake a room, and then they will overtake the entire house. And then, bit by bit, you will try to reclaim little pieces of your home from your children." That was a very wise statement, and I'm glad we are at stage 3. Of course, we're about to throw another human into the mix, and everything will re-clusterfuck accordingly within a few months time. (Which reminds me, I think I have a couple cats to give away. (I jest.))

So every time I enter or walk past one of these rooms, I kind of gasp. It's like a fairy came and dumped awesome on my property. I repulsively and joshingly told Big K that I had an "organization-gasm." He threatened to divorce me and I've not used the term again, but suffice it to say that I'm the type of asshole who really, really enjoys having everything in its place and a place for every thing. So this is major.

Once Phook's new bedroom, which remains perpetually under construction (we are currently stalling out at two layers of mud on the drywall), is finished, I think I will actually void my bladder and bowel inappropriately. After she is moved in there, what with the adequate closet space and all that shit, I think I may be able to declare that I've conquered the house beast. (I will never conquer Big K's closet, the garage, or the basement, as they are the terrain of a junkyard-gene carrying hoarder, but that is something I've come to accept.) So I feel cautiously optimistic about that whole business, without actually allowing myself to believe it will ever be finished.

And, not to get all cheesy on you people about some stupid rearranging of shit, but I have to say that I feel pretty lucky to have these options with our home. A lot of cats are living in apartments with one wee closet and trying to remain sane while adding humans to their families. I just feel like we really got something really big for almost nothing, and that feeling is rare. So I must state my appreciation for the situation.

Okay, I'm going to go roll around on Phook's playroom mat now. And contemplate the fact that my dad checked out of the Monte Carlo hotel in Las Vegas this morning where he had been staying on a business trip, and it is now on fire. Big K and I strongly suspect that he rigged up his automatic car starter keychain thing so it could start his truck from the airplane (lest he have to get into a cold vehicle in our subzero weather upon his return), and something in his tinkering went horribly awry.

Miscellany

I don't know if anyone is still reading this piece of work, but, if you are, I'd like to say hello.

I have no grand post to offer. My mind hasn't been turning to blogging lately. But I thought I'd just yammer a bit for the fun of it. Well, the first item of business is that I did take down my Christmas tree(s). Yesterday. We had Big K's dad and stepmom over for a belated rescheduled non-barfing Christmas on Saturday, and I kept them up for that. At least that's what I was telling myself. But yesterday I bit the bullet and de-Christmased the home, finally. The good news is that once you remove two large firs from your house, it feels like you put an addition on the bitch. For free. The bad news is that Phook's toy pile/mountain in the living room now looks like a tacky toy pile again as it is no longer cast in the all-forgiving glow of white Christmas tree lights. Sigh.

As for my mental health salvation plan, I got my sorry ass into water aerobics. It is led by a 300-year-old drill sergeant, and that's cool with me. There is some serious acreage of skirted swimwear. One attendee walks to the pool with a cane and then pretty much just floats around the whole time, but I think it is so awesome that she tries. I'd like to videotape her efforts and broadcast them on those little screens at drive-thru windows to make all of us slothful pigs realize that we really have no excuse. But my hypocritical soapboxery aside, I love it. I think I was some form of sea life in my previous incarnations. And it's actually a real workout. At one point you fill milk jugs with water and use them as weights above your head. For a fairly long period of time. I'm like, "Wait, wait, no fair...I'm not supposed to have to exert any effort you can see with the naked eye!" But it's good. I feel I will stick with it, despite it being 30 miles away. That time in the car by myself listening to bad radio is almost as awesome as the floating about anyhow.

Pregnancy continues to be happening here. At this point, I am much less pukey and much less comatose during daylight hours, but I am dancing with the devil that is insomnia. Oh, that ass. Making up for that slightly is that I can feel this kid rocking and rolling in there. I've actually been able to feel it for weeks, but I didn't want to tell you because you'd think I was lying. But there is definitely a person in my belly, and it is up to some tricks.

I had my 4-month visit the other day. We heard the babe's heartbeat easier this time...it was a solid 157. Big K remains vocal about his sure knowledge that it will be a boy. Meanwhile, in our hearts we both know him to be incorrect, since meatheads of his caliber are simply destined to parent pigtailed girls. Thanks to that pesky stomach flu and my otherworldly pregnancy metabolism (the one completely unlike my non-pregnant metabolism), I weigh 2 pounds less than I did pre-pregnancy. This on the heels of about a 10-day post-flu stretch during which I cooked and scarfed down only the foods that I wanted to house seriously giant helpings of, including things like tacos and spaghetti with homemade sauce. Seriously. The magical mystery metabolism. Good thing my BMI is like 600 and I have enough flesh to carry septuplets and a tapeworm to term. So that is neat.

But don't fear. All the old hens at water aerobics spied my pregnant belly faster than they can spot the "O-68" they need for bingo on Saturday night in the church basement, and were quick to assault my person with questions of due date, gender determination, and the like. So things are proceeding in that department. There is growth. The godforsaken maternity suit doesn't lie.

Another important matter. The Green Bay Packers. Yes, that old bird Brett Favre is one game away from another Super Bowl. Did you fools see the snow-covered awesomeness of Lambeau Field on Saturday night? Probably not. But it was a sweet game. I was yelling a lot. I was baiting Phook with treats so I could watch it in full sloth mode. Hell, I even rolled her high chair out in the living room and fed her dinner there so I wouldn't have to miss any of it. I'm cautiously optimistic. Fine, I'm really excited. I mean, I'm not your standard Wisconsinite who will bash in the hood of their own car with a baseball bat if the Packers lose, but I am a fan. And you can't help but root for that weathered silver fox Mr. Favre. Nor can you help wanting to make out with him, if even just for a minute.

So that is all I have for now. I'm thinking I'll be providing photos of Phook at some point soon, so you can enjoy her awesome charm. Oh crap, now I want to write about Phook. Fine. Her most recent tricks include locating her belly, feet, hands, and hair upon request. The belly is of course the best because when you ask her where it is, she pulls up her shirt and rests her hands on it like an old man who just had a large meal. As of today, Big K reports she can moonwalk. She is into copying what she sees. I vacuum and she gets out a push toy thing and goes around "vacuuming" with it. I sweep and she takes the broom, which is at least double her height, and pushes it around. I comb my hair (once every couple weeks) and then she takes the comb and combs my hair or her father's hair. The list goes on and on. I should probably stop mainlining chocolate syrup in front of her one of these days. Anyhow, evidence continues to point in the direction of her having some undeniable personhood. That continues to knock my socks off.

Now that's really it. Godspeed.

Wait, shit, one more thing. This is totally random and weird of me, but one of the many green housekeeping books I've been consuming lately strongly recommends that you get a rock salt lamp for your home. For some reason, I'm finding myself considering it, but as a result I feel a bit like the kind of person who would refuse life-saving surgery in favor of making a last-minute pilgrimage to a rust stain in the shape of the Virgin Mary on a highway overpass. If by some chance I have any weirdos among my readership who know about the matter of rock salt lamps and want to advise me on whether or not they are stupid, I'd like your opinions in the comments. There, I'm glad I could give you all one final chuckle.

I can't take down the Christmas tree(s)

Man, for real. Can't touch 'em. One reason is that I love plugging them in at night and basking in their warm glow and thinking that even the mountain of toys plugging up an entire wall of our wee living room doesn't look so awful in that lighting. But the main reason is that when they go down, I concede. I concede that the shit-tastic part of the year begins.

People, I live in central Wisconsin. Have you been? Most of the time, it's pretty lovely, in my opinion. But not in January, February, or March. And April kind of sucks too, except by then I at least have hope. Now, don't get me wrong, I love the changing seasons. They mark my life and each has their own eagerly anticipated traditions. I'm not particularly addicted to warm weather or particularly opposed to cold weather. I like snow, when it's actually falling and when it is prettily coating things. I just hate the gray. And after the Christmas tree is down, it becomes gray.

You see, I do not live in the land of extracurricular activities for mom + babe. There is no kindermusik or whatever the hell that thing is I read of people attending. There are no movie theaters with mom/kid friendly showings. There are no YMCAs or local gyms or children's museums or interesting clubs to join. No. There is a convenience store, a post office, and many, many taverns. Now, the majority of the year this suits me just fine and as a whole, I thoroughly enjoy our choice of homeland. I can occupy us out of doors without some annoying leader telling me what to do with my kid. We can take mega super power walks. We can go to the park. We can get dirty in the yard. We can find someplace to pick some produce. People do manage to muster up little weekend festivals and events that don't always suck, and there are things that can be done. But this time of the year is rather dreary for probably the majority of northerners, and it is especially dreary, I suspect, where there are so few diversions. And such a complete lack of excess cash. Sure, I can occasionally bundle Phook up and haul her around on the sled, but it's not the same as being outside 4 hours per day. And, quite frankly, it can be a pain in the ass. Once you start off with the kid on that sled, you had better be prepared to be a sled dog until your spine is shredded, and even then it will be highly "disappointing" when it is time to come in.

So here we are. Phook is a toddler prone to boredom this year instead of a perma-suckling 4-month-old. Now, there are some moms I get together with on occasion and I suspect those activities will pick up again now that we're all going to be hitting the post-holiday skids. So there's that. But beyond that outlet I am really struggling. I suspect we will have to plan some outings somewhere beyond my prenatal visits, but it really is a challenge to think of things that are a) affordable b) reasonable day trips and c) affordable. I think we'll go visit Auntie Hode once or twice just for a change of scenery. But man, I can feel my flu coming back just contemplating February.

On a personal preservation note, I am looking into some exercise class options. I just got myself enrolled in a "gentle yoga" class twice per week that is half an hour away in the evenings for 6 weeks. I also found that water aerobics are offered at this pool half an hour away in the opposite direction, also two nights per week, but I can't get the dicks to return my calls to see what the deal is. I'd really prefer the water aerobics, as water tends to be therapeutic for my various maladies. But yoga starts Tuesday, so if I don't hear back from the water dorks by then, yoga it is. So there is that. I suspect it will help me not go quite so insane. It costs $50 for the class and I kind of want to cry about that, but an insane Big W is one hot mess, let me tell you, and everyone in this house seeks to avoid such a situation at any remotely reasonable cost.

But, hell. I am just dreading the next several months of pregnant supervision of an antsy, opinionated toddler in a tree-less holding cell. Perhaps it is bad form to pre-depress myself like this, but I'm just feeling irritated that once again it is dark and gray and I can do nothing to make the tulips come up. Survival is of course the only option. But I don't have to like it.