"Your blog is dead"

Given that the title of this post is what my husband said to me tonite, I figured I'd better get to it. My primary computing device is on the fritz and it's been messing up my blogging game, not to mention my ability to monitor the activities of every pathetic hog celebrity in Tinseltown. But anyhow...

Auntie Hode and I returned from our whirlwind trip to the big San Diego a week ago today. It was highly lovely. We really, really, really had a fun time. I wept upon leaving the Phook, but had no further meltdowns involving tears, which was positive. I almost lost my nut upon learning that she talked herself to sleep when I was gone by saying, "MaMaMaMa..." but I held it together based pretty much solely on my delirium over my crab cake consumption.

During our trip, I made some observations that I'd like to share:

1) As it turns out, there is a reason clothing manufacturers make a size called "small." I live in Wisconsin, okay? We are a large, large people. Here, I notice fit people, because they stand out in the crowd of beer bellies. In California, many, many people are actually lean individuals. Even, like, moms. It was odd to be confronted with so many obvious waistlines. And overall, people were mighty stylish. Even, like, moms. By and large, people seemed to be rocking some sort of look. Here, people are pretty much rocking some sort of outerwear. I enjoyed staring slack-jawed at the stylishness and fitness of the Californian population.

2) Cars in California are different than cars in Wisconsin. Where I live, you don't see a whole lot of high-end vehicles. In California, it seems like the majority of vehicles are high-end vehicles. But there's something else...they are all so clean! Here, we drive around all winter on roads covered in snow and then all the nasty things road crews put down to melt the snow, like salt and sand and whatnot, and our cars wear that shit. Cars out there gleam. No rust. I found myself thinking, "Wow, what a nice looking car!" and then I'd realize it was just a really shiny Kia. And although I have been to CA twice previously, I still startled at California license plates a few times, because they're like the plate that was on the hot pink Barbie convertible I had as a kid, and it is so very exotic to see them in real life.

3) The mass of stinking humanity that uses public transit is remarkably similar in every town I've ever visited. I find it interesting that hopping on a bus in San Diego is gonna get you the same trainload of weirdos it gets you in Madison, WI. Other than the scene in which I saw that dude grab some whackass sort of talisman out of his interior jacket pocket and start rubbing it oddly, the mass transit situation is pretty similar. Of course, you can't catch a trolley from Madison to Tijuana, but surely you understand my basic point.

4) My capacity for upholding societal norms has fallen off a bit. So Hosedog and I were at this expensive tourist-centric fine-ish dining establishment. We had just finished a very long, very huge meal during which I ate a slab of halibut that cost more than I usually spend on groceries for a week. We had cabbed it to the restaurant on account of my inappropriate shoe choice, and were planning on doing the same to get back to the hotel. So we're fattily stumbling out of there and were going to inquire with some knowledgeable party about the best way to secure a cab back. We were primarily planning to ask either the host dude or a bartender, but the host was M.I.A. and the bartenders were busy, so we were kind of just standing there like goats between their two territories. And then I saw them. Entering the restaurant and taking up the majority of the waiting area was the most disturbingly hot pack of men I have ever seen in my life. It wasn't that any one of them was, like, the hottest guy ever, but they were all totally manscaped, totally wearing expensive-looking and highly stylish garments, totally buff, totally tan, totally using hip pocket-sized technology to text their publicists or something, and totally hot. Maybe these packs are common in California. But where I roll, there is usually an alpha-hottie and then a bunch of wannabes trailing in his wake. This was a pack of bonafide manmeat. I seriously thought it was a convention. And I said as much, very loudly, to Hosedog, as my giant pregnant ass stood there, unable to move in any direction. And then I started sputtering and spinning around between the host stand and the bar looking for any motherfucker who could tell me how to get a cab most efficiently, but mostly just sweating and trying to breathe deeply. It was so weird. I'm not even normally attracted to this type of post-fratboy look, but their sheer numbers made them a sight that reduced me to a permed, bespectacled, brace-faced 7th grader whose friends had all kissed someone when I'd never even had my hand held. Somehow Hosedog got me shoved out the door, and I screamed and theorized about what could possibly bring a pack of males of this caliber together in one place. Hosedog totally agreed with my assessment that they were indeed a spectacle, but she pretty much just kept repeating for the next 2 hours, "Aw, Hode, you totally lost your shit." Dude.

5) Once you've gone and become a mom, I think it's impossible to remove your mom brain, even if you try. Since we went to the zoo and SeaWorld, we were around a lot of little kids. Rather than wanting to brain them if they interrupted an attraction with their noise, I would lean over to Hode and be all like, "Aw, poor little dude, it's way past his nap time." WTF? I used to hate all the sniveling bastards ruining my childlike experiences with their actual childhoods. I also spent a lot of time checking out double strollers, because I'm in the market, big time. I also saw a lot of reminders of what my near future holds. Lots of wee babes around requiring a lot more hands-on care than my current Phook. Again, the parenting amnesia has set in, and one lobe of my brain had sweet talked the other half into forgetting that I will actually be reprising my role as milk cow in about 3 months. And that, buddies, is one unrelenting job. This nursing gorilla reminded me:

6) I don't think I've ever gone on vacation and not befriended a shop cat. I freaking love resident cats that are totally hip with the peeps and allow their royal fatnesses to be scratched by every tool that wanders into their owner's place of business. Exhibit A:

7) My sister is hilarious. She spent a lot of our trip describing things as "ridonkulous." You probably had to be there, but, when you're losing your shit and your sister says, "Yup, Hode, you're right, those guys were ridonkulously hot," well, it's kind of funny. I was trying to remember some of her finer quotes from the trip, but many of the gems have escaped me. At one point on St. Patrick's Day, however, we were riding a trolley and at one stop 3 lovely ladies hopped on, all decked out for some wild partying nonsense. One was wearing a bright green bobbed wig and was otherwise sassily adorned. Hode sees her and goes, "Whoa, she's looking for trouble...and somebody's gonna give it to her." I snorted through my sunburned nose and tried to act casual.

8) I am pregnant. Dudes, we walked like 9 million miles per day on this trip, and my dogs were barking. Bear in mind that the scourge of painful varicose veins is upon me, so I'm schlepping around the San Diego Zoo in support hose. Hode assured me that my delicate condition didn't in any way mess up our vibe (Would she really have told me otherwise though?), but I required breaks like an old lady. If we were in line to see something, I'd dive for a bench faster than you can say "ridonkulous." I actually went against the many position papers I've written (in my head) on the environmental ravages of bottled water and purchased a shit ton of it at something that had to be more than $110/barrel. Here is a shot, albeit from a distance, revealing the formation of Circus Act at 6 months gestational age (which, now that I really observe things closely, pretty much just looks like I'm a lifelong Wisconsite, sticking out my native belly fattened beyond all reason with cheese):

And while we're enjoying that pier, which we did, let us view the slightly sun-kissed and undeniably charming Hosedog Sisters:

9) I had a meal in the big San Diego that cracked my all-time Top 5 meals. We at at this place in Little Italy called Buon Appetito. We started things off with this appetizer called Burrata, which was described on the menu as follows: The first creamy layer in the making of fresh mozzarella; we serve it slightly warmed on a bed of sautéed spinach with seasoned oven-roasted tomatoes. If this counts as a "soft cheese" that pregnant ladies aren't supposed to have, feel free to not mention it in the comments, because I would not care. This was so freaking awesome. Simple, beautiful, oh, I can still taste it. Now, I really would have loved to try a salad too, but there is this stubborn person making my stomach the size of a grape, so I couldn't do it. My entree choice was the Farfalle con Pollo Affumicato, described as: Smoked chicken breast with sun-dried tomatoes and mushrooms in a white wine cream sauce. It sounds so simple and it was so simple but it was just so amazing. I don't know man, it cracked the Top 5. I ain't sayin', I'm just sayin'. And we dined outdoors for this meal. Although it was a tad cool out, the novelty of such an experience for a bum who has been praying for the snow pile in her yard to melt for a good 4 months just so she can SEE THE ROAD cannot be underestimated. Let us look upon the place where it all happened. Our table was just to the right of the entrance aisle thing. Look with me, as I weep:

Now, of course there are many million more joys and meals and hilarities I could yammer on about in regards to this trip. But it's gotta end somewhere. So I'll tell you how it ended. We got home at approximately 2 a.m. after an insanely long day of travel that included many, many, many hours in airports followed by a final 2 hours in the car home from the airport. I got home, came upstairs, and went in to sniff my Phook. She was wedged in the corner of the crib with her knees under her and her butt up in the air, as is her custom. I was so excited to be greeted by that elevated butt. I was also dying of exhaustion. I told myself I'd just pat the butt once and then go crash. But as I patted the butt, and patted the butt, and observed how her head was right up against the crib rails and so accessible to me, I got down on my knees and started kissing her little head through the slats. She stirred a bit and her eyes opened just a crack, and then she saw it was me. She flipped over onto her back, her eyes flew open, and she looked instantly as if she'd seen a ghost. At this point, despite my knees buckling with fatigue, it became necessary to pick her up. Her head instantly crashed on my shoulder and she was back in a coma. Not wanting to waste the snuggle, I trudged over to the rocking chair and sat down with her sleeping deeply on my shoulder. We rocked for a minute and I sniffed her copiously. And then after a few minutes her head snapped up and she looked at me curiously, and noticing that single out-of-place detail, which was the new earrings I was wearing that I had bought on the trip, she pointed to one earring and said, "Dat?" (Phookspeak for "that"). I told her it was Mommy's new earrings, and, satisfied, her head crashed out on my shoulder again. I rocked as long as I could before I thought my heart would actually refuse another beat, and took her to the crib and put her back down. I tucked her in with her blankie and her eyes opened again. I thought I was in trouble and that there would be a scene in which she howled upon my exit. But she actually just looked contented to have me there again, and didn't make a sound when I left the room. It was way cooler than the joyful screaming morning reunification I had been imagining.

To rejoice in this awesomeness, I'm gonna show you one of Phook's more rad capabilities. You see, a few months ago, when she didn't like a food or was irritated or something, she would squinch up her face and bare her teeth in this really weird way. I of course loved it and started referring to it as her "goat face." I added this weird sound effect to the face, and turned it into something of a game, in which I would mimic her, make the sound effect, and say, "Nice goat face" whenever she did it. Amazingly, the goat face ceased to be a face of anger and became a face of charm. She will now bare her "goat face" upon request, and will even do it directly toward certain people as specified. And now, dear readers, since you have been so patient in waiting for my return, I give her goat face to you:

Amen.

Into the Wild

So this movie recently came out on DVD, and we rented it. I had read the book by Jon Krakauer on which the story is based when I was in college, and I was fascinated by the true-life tale. It's a pretty well-publicized story, but basically, this college graduate dude from a wealthy but dysfunctional family decides he's had it with society. He gives away and/or burns all his money, ceases all contact with family and friends, and goes totally off the grid for two years before ultimately going on a seriously under-equipped trek to the Alaskan wilderness where he lives in an abandoned bus he finds out there. And then some moose hunters find his 67-lb. corpse.

People generally fall into two camps in evaluating this kid's situation. Either he was a hero for bucking the system and doing what he wanted to do despite his demise, or he was a freaking moron who grew up with everything and thought himself invincible enough to survive in the Alaskan wilderness with a 10-pound bag of rice, and is therefore the biggest fuckwad on the planet. Either way, the movie has some sweet original Eddie Vedder tunes in it, and it's worth watching just to listen. It's also probably one of the truest true stories you're ever going to see on the screen, since Sean Penn had the full cooperation of the kid's family, despite the fact that the film exposes some seriously heartbreaking badness that went on behind their closed doors, and essentially makes it pretty darn easy to see how this kid could go the way he went on account of it. It does meander a bit, but it's about a meanderer, so you'll have that.

Now, not to get all philosophical on you people when you come here expecting tales about projectile vomit and Big K's most recent mishaps that have landed him in an O.R., but this story blows my mind. As in, it makes my mind spin around until it projectile vomits and then lands itself in the O.R. You see, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about money. Mainly, I'm freaking out about not having enough of it. When I found out we were actually getting a tax return when I'd spent weeks worrying that we'd have to pay in, I stood in the kitchen and sobbed like a bastard for a good 15 minutes. Every time I start my old van, I swear I hear the sound of my savings account diarrheally blowing some of its eternally shrinking contents up towards the mechanic. In short, I get upset a lot, and don't tell anyone about it.

So watching this guy choose to live without anything makes me question myself awfully hard about the way I look at possessions and wants vs. needs. I'm not saying that a growing family can choose to forgo healthcare, grocery shopping, and reliable shelter. But I do wonder why it's so hard for me to make ends meet. It seems to me that some people naturally trend toward frugality...it actually makes them uncomfortable to spend and therefore they find it easy to squirrel away their money. I'm not one of these people. I am a spender at heart. When I made a good income after college, I wasn't a total moron about it. I saved some, reduced debt, and put some in a retirement account. But I also blew absolute shit tons of money on whatever the hell I felt like buying. Lots and lots of sweaters. Many, many restaurant meals. Christmas and other presents for loved ones on an unreasonable scale (although that is not something I can actually claim to regret, even if I try). A general disregard for prices...there was a time I couldn't tell you the cost of a single grocery item, because I just bought whatever the hell I felt like eating. I still struggle with an addiction to fancy bar soap. (One wise friend suggested I start making it myself...so that option is on the table.) Anyhow, I wouldn't say that I was spending money I didn't have, but I definitely misused the money I did have. If I had focused on the matter, I could have pretty easily done away with the student loan I still pay for now; if I didn't have that payment, it would make a significant difference in my family's current monthly financial picture. At the time, it was chump change and paying it didn't phase me. Shit.

I could claim that I graduated from college at age 21, and it takes a special soul to be financially responsible at that tender age, just as you come out of the post-college Ramen era. I could claim that those first years of employment are intended for spoiling oneself, because it's unlikely that such a luxury can last for more than a moment in the grand scheme of a life. But it's not how I feel, because it has been a disgusting challenge for me to reign it in over the past year+ of the experiment known as "Ditching 2/3 of the Family Income, Now with 50% More Human." I remember when Phook became the recipient of Big K's cousin's hand-me-downs. His cousin has a little girl a few years older than Phook, and decided it was time to get rid of the little clothes. She gave me hundreds upon hundreds of garments for free, and said she'd continue to do so as her daughter continued to outgrow things. On the one hand, this was a tremendous windfall for us. On the other hand, I sat there and bawled like an idiot while I sorted the mountains of clothing on my living room floor. This emotion has since waned considerably as I've borne witness to the speed at which children's clothing becomes too small and too stained, but at the time, I just felt like a pathetic bastard charity recipient, and that was a slap in the face to my view of myself as a person who made herself a nice little income for a 20-something with an English degree. It is a revision of self that is not insignificant to transition from a role as the giver of charity to the recipient of charity.

So March 2 was the one-year anniversary of my resignation from my job. One of the major projects I've been working on, far more significant than revolutionizing my housekeeping, has been my attitude towards money and possessions. There have been victories, and there have been defeats. One moment of victory that stands out in my mind is when I had this home party at which I was to earn free merchandise on account of my hostessing the event...you know the drill. I had this catalog full of tons of high-quality items of the houseware variety. I love this kind of shit. Had I simply gone to a party for this stuff in 2005, I could have easily dropped $150 on whatever caught my attention, written a check, and not have ruffled my own feathers in the least. So I was sitting on the couch one night, browsing through this catalog knowing that I would likely be entitled to some of its contents for free. And although I found many things that I liked and wouldn't have minded owning, I just kept thinking, "I don't need that. I don't need that." I wasn't forcing myself through this exercise either; it was just happening naturally. When I got through the book and realized there was nothing in it I could really justify "buying," I had an epiphany and realized what had just happened. I had had what was to me a relatively profound experience in which the angel on one of my shoulders had soundly kicked the ass of the devil on the other. Of course I ended up coming up with some shit for my garden to buy with my fake money, since I'm not the one burning my cash and moving to Alaska to prove a point about consumerism, but it was huge for me nonetheless.

The thing is, although the kid in this story took things to a deadly extreme, I think he was right. He knew that so many things we consider "needs" are actually "wants," and he set out to live that out in its rawest form. In this house, if we evaluated our monthly bills, we'd probably have a conversation in which one of us classified high-speed internet as a need, because we both use it so much and rely on the interwebs for so much of our entertainment, "business" use, and general consumption of the world's information. And that is just fucking hilarious if you think about it, in a laughing-so-I-don't-cry sort of way. Needs are really only the things that are essential for survival, and I'm kind of doubting that the ability to instantly look up weather reports 10 days in advance for any location on the planet is really a valid addition to that category. Just thinking about how far I allow my wants to creep into the needs category makes me feel like a dick. If it weren't for brand preferences, forays into Target when I know it's a freaking gauntlet of disturbingly powerful impulse buys, the yearning for the occasional meal made by someone other than myself, and the godforsaken and seemingly unconquerable urge to have some new shit every once in awhile that I can use or wear or whatever, well, life would be a whole lot easier. What's the deal? Why can't I go all the way "into the wild" myself? Why can't my knowledge that these are just things ever fully beat out my desire to have that lovely new scent of candle my nose just happened to discover while my ass was spending time in a mall on account of me knowingly walking my own broke ass into said mall? Dude, I can really beat my own ass over this, obviously. (Okay, enough about my ass.)

And then there is the anger. For some reason, when people find out I am a stay-at-home-mom, a lot of times other women will find the need to justify their own decision to work to me. I find that phenomenon odd, because I don't really view my own decisions as a challenge to those of anyone else. And yet, a lot of moms feel the need to make their case for working to me. While I am no judge and jury when it comes to the choices of other families, my mind is not a flat line when people choose to tell me their own story of why they work. When people say that they'd go insane staying home with kids, I think that's pretty cool that they can admit that that's the case. It's a lot better to be a happy mom who can enjoy her children in her hours at home than a desperately unhappy one who resents every minute of her existence...quality, not quantity, man. When people say they work to provide healthcare for their kids, I say that's a good call. When people say they know they couldn't be happy living off of one income, I'm pretty down with that too, because it's an honest statement and if you have the capacity to come to terms with that for yourself, it's all good. The trouble I have is when people say, "I have to work," and then go on to list the reasons of the mortgage, the car payments, the kids' high-priced preschool, etc. I'm not saying that everyone who says they "have to work" is lying, but a more accurate statement could often be, "I have to work to afford my current standard of living." It seems to be such a rarity that people actually acknowledge that they are working to support the level of possessions they like to hold. Somehow the need for shelter has turned into a "need" for shelter than includes a bedroom for each kid, a furnished basement, an office, a two-car garage, a full stainless-steel kitchen, and a great location near parks and schools. I don't have a problem with wanting those things...if you want 'em, go get 'em. Seriously. I have a problem with people translating those requirements into needs in their own mind. That, my friends, is a delusion.

The thing is, it's not cool to purposefully throw your own socioeconomic status in the gutter. Your friends go on vacation and send their kids to this or that lesson or class and live in your nice neighborhood and discuss the advantages and disadvantages of various retirement planning strategies...choosing to dial your own life back and opt out of the lifestyle you have come to enjoy is not something that many people do. The real problem, I think, is that this whole system causes so much unhappiness. So many of the people who say they have to work and then list the classic bills that stop them from quitting follow it up by saying, and meaning, "I wish I could stay home." So many people are working themselves into illness and unhappiness in jobs that they hate because they feel that their financial obligations are absolutes, rather than choices. So many people think they are trapped, and suffer mightily for it, when the door is right there. That makes me so sad. And mad.

Man, this has accidentally turned into a bit of a diatribe, and I apologize that this is not your regularly scheduled programming. But, dude. I can get really worked up about this shit. I can get mad at myself. I can get mad at everyone I know. I can get mad at The Man for brainwashing our asses into this mess in the first place. I am not making an argument here for extreme frugality, for disgust in the face of all human comforts, for quitting your job and moving to a shack, or for any change in anyone's lifestyle. What I am making is an argument for honesty. If you are honest about what is really a want and what is really a need, then I think you're in the right place to make sound choices for yourself, whether that is working three jobs to fuel your handbag addiction or investing in a 10-pound bag of rice and going off the grid. It's when we convince ourselves that the homes, the cars, the clothing, and the extracurriculars are necessities that we get all wonky in the head. All of a sudden 20 years are gone and you never sniffed a single rose because you laid in bed at night thinking it an absolute that your child's college fund be plump, regardless of the undying demand for pizza delivery drivers in every college town in America. Where is the comfort, the supposed security for which you are working, in a whole life spent running on a wheel? Dude.

I don't have the answers. My house is decorated for Easter when Easter has nothing to do with decorations. My closet has maternity clothes in it when my husband has plenty of sweatshirts in size XXL that would fit me just fine. My kid does not go without much of anything. I'm going on vacation in 3 days. I will continue to panic on the inside every time I click "transfer" to put more savings into checking, knowing that it is an unsustainable situation and that I will likely be cleaning houses or working in a convenience store on weekends as soon as Circus Act is weaned. I will try to make further improvements in my own quest for frugality. I will try to get even better at walking away from the wants that tempt me. I will try to evaluate my wants versus my needs honestly. But the one thing I know I won't ever be able to do is stop wanting. And that, my friends, is a real bitch.

Have you ever been to San Diego?

I haven't. But I'm going on Saturday morning. Auntie Hode is taking me. We'll have about 4 days to spend tooling around. I won't be carrying a diaper bag. I think I may just stick a lip balm and a debit card in my pocket and call it good, actually, just because I can.

So, I'm guessing that a lot of people have been to San Diego. And I know for sure that people love being asked for recommendations.

So, do you have any recommendations for San Diego goers? I'm thinking primarily of restaurants and cool things to look at/do that are not full day sorts of excursions, since we already have two full day excursions planned. (Those two things would be the zoo and SeaWorld...we're overgrown animal-loving children, and that's not something that is up for discussion, m'kay?)

Yesterday, Auntie Hode asked me if it would be okay if we ate two lunches per day, thereby allowing us to eat four meals per day and really making the most out of our trip. Given that she's a skinny bastard on Weight Watchers and I'm the only woman on earth for whom pregnancy is like a gastric bypass (small stomach/less weight gain than in the average non-pregnant month), I'm not sure if this is gonna really work out as we intend, but we have some pretty major ambitions as far as stuffing food in our grills is concerned. So, yeah, tell me if you ever had a really great meal in San Diego, and then we'll go eat it. And money is no object, either. I just sold some heirloom pearls of my deceased grandmother's in order to pay for incidentals. (Okay, I made that last part up, since I like to try out lying every now and then. But, really, you can recommend something over $6, because I probably won't go on vacation like this again for a couple of decades.)

Dudes, I am excited. In that oh-so-irritating way though, I am worried about being away from Phook for 5 days. I mean, once I slept at my parents' house when Auntie Hode was in town and we wanted to stay up late watching Food Network or something, and Big K brought Phook the long mile home and slept here with her, but that's it as far as overnight Big W/Phook separation is concerned. And of course I leave her for a few hours every now and then to attend to various items of business. But, really, we haven't been apart much since I went and conceived her. I'm sure she will be okay in my absence. But will there be a moment when she is worried I am not ever coming back? Can a 17-month-old have that concern? Or will she just be fine and emotionally unscathed as long as someone is here to give her some snacks, and I'll be the only bastard doing the ugly cry? Hmm. Man. Such mixed emotions about going child-free for such a spell. At least she likes to jabber incessantly into the phone, so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Anyhow, back to the business at hand. Please do advise on the highlights of San Diego if you are keen to do so. Thanks.

You know what I want?

I'm going to tell you. If the world were my oyster, I would go to bed right now. (Well, that is within my reach in like 15 minutes, but that's not the point.) The clincher is, I would stay in my bed for an absolute minimum of 24 hours. I would sleep as much as possible, which I'm guessing would account for about 18 of those 24 hours. During the other 6 hours I'm in bed, I would be alternately staring at the ceiling thinking about miscellaneous meaningless nonsense and reading magazines completely lacking in substance. I would also have a mini-fridge at my bedside, and it would be stocked with at least a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper and a 12-pack of Vanilla Coke. Both would be full calorie and full caffeine. I might also have some pull 'n peel licorice nearby. No one would be allowed to speak to me, but people could probably sneak in and roll me from side to side every few hours to prevent bedsores. That's it. That is the hugest fantasy I can concoct right now. Dude, it seriously sounds like a big old slice of heaven pie, that right there.

The translation is that I am really tired, and I just can't get enough rest/sleep. I am in bed enough, but I am sleeping for shit. I get tired easily at the most pathetic of exertions. Today I went to a nearby town to get my hair cut/colored, and then I ran a few other small errands (including getting my prescription support stockings for the godforsaken varicose vein I have on my beautiful, beautiful calf), and then I went and did some major grocery shopping. Then I went to my parents' house and lazed around for awhile, half-heartedly supervising my kid while doing some snacking. And I feel like I just did The Eliminator on American Gladiators like 9 consecutive times. I might even be drooling right now and not know it. I was telling Big K that I feel pathetic being steam-rolled by a day of out-of-home activity, and said I didn't think I was this tired/pathetic with Phook. He said, "Um, yeah you were. You went to work, came home, and passed out on the couch. Every day." Well, he has a point. But that work involved a 160-mile daily commute and some ass-kicking deadline-centric drama-rama nightmare employment. So it seems like it was a lot harder than a day of hair dye/grocery shopping/snacking on mixed nuts. But I don't know, I have amnesia about so many things related to the Phook pregnancy/labor/infancy at this point that he could tell me I turned purple in my 7th month and I wouldn't really feel confident arguing.

I basically have no point. I'm just feeling like I'd like someone to pack me in like 19 layers of sleeping bags, zip me up, and insert a hose into my mouth from my Dr. Pepper kegerator and let me be. But I know that even that wouldn't fix it. I am too tired for sleep to fix it. It is so deep that my freaking bone marrow is tired. It told me.

Water Aerobics Drama

Dude. There was some insanity at water aerobics tonite. I am not dicking around. I never expected that such mayhem could occur in a setting during which I follow commands including, "Now do the rocking horse" and "Hop like a frog." But it did. So even though I could continue my streak of making all my readers gag by describing in great detail the approximately 400 broken blood vessels I have on my face on account of a migraine/empty stomach/prenatal vitamin-induced party that had me unexpectedly hugging my toilet last night, I will tell you about water aerobics drama instead. I'm gonna cut you all some slack. You can probably even safely eat a snack while reading this tale.

So anyhow, water aerobics. Now, I believe I may have mentioned in passing that the instructor is an older lady. I'd say she's 70, plus or minus 5 years. She looks pretty good for her age. She takes the water aerobics very seriously. She strikes me as one of those tough broads who has militantly eaten a bowl of fiber-rich cereal, half a grapefruit, and half a cup of decaf every morning for the past 50 years, and has forced her husband to do the same, even though he'd probably really prefer a pastry every now and then, and is forced to occasionally "run some errands" so he can get his hands on a bear claw. So, yes, she's a badass.

Now, being a she-beast, I have taken to positioning myself in the way back of the class, in the deepest water, since I have like 9 inches on most ladies, and they of course need to be in the shallow water in order to survive. This means I'm kind of alone and as far as possible from the instructor. So we started our warm-up stretches tonite, and we were stretching our necks. Given that my neck has been flirting with complete immobility since Saturday when my recent bout with migraine hell flared up, I was seriously concentrating on stretching the bastard. My eyes were closed and I was really focusing on my neck muscles. (Yes, occasionally I do focus on things other than screaming and/or swearing.) So I was off in happytown, and all of a sudden I heard screaming. My eyes flew open, and I saw that Instructor Hardcore had her arms flailing in front of her and was violently yelling at the water aerobicizers. She screamed the following:

"Okay, I don't get angry very often, but you've pushed me to lose my temper! I've been biting my tongue for a couple weeks now, but I have to say something! You people need to stop talking! I can't concentrate or hear myself as I try to count out these exercises! You've got music going and you're all visiting with each other. You need to focus on these exercises. If you're not concentrating on this, YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO GET IN SHAPE!!!!!!!!"

She was fucking furious. This was a full-throttle scream, no shit. She had never previously done anything other than scowl and count and command. I didn't see this shit coming in the middle of my focused neck stretching. Woof. You just don't expect to be snapped out of your zen mode and into the world of the red-faced screaming grapefruit eater.

Now, I must back up and provide some information on what I suspect to be the impetus for her rage. The class consists of approximately 5 women who are still pining for Woodrow Wilson. Then there are about 15-20 middle aged ladies, some of whom fly solo and some of whom generally chat with each other quietly in groups of 2 or 3. Then there is another girl roughly my age, and me. This, until about two weeks ago, when a new rat pack of mid-50ish ladies showed up and started spiking the punch with their loud and crazy. These ladies appear to be of a socioeconomic status above the norm in our vicinity, based on the Lexus SUVs they roll up in, the maintenance level required to sustain the hair/nails/makeup/botox they are rocking, and their general discussions of travel/dining/entertaining that I've overheard. These are the type of women who act like they own the place as soon as they walk into it, even though it's water aerobics attended by people with canes instead of happy hour at their usual watering hole. So anyhow, when these broads showed up last week, they took to laughing like hyenas through the entire class. Laughing, joking, singing, mocking the various "moves," and in general fucking around. It's not a really major stretch to imagine that these hot mamas are the source of Instructor Hardcore's angst.

So Instructor Hardcore blew her stack. Apparently this had never happened before, because even the old timers' eyes bulged out of their sockets. Returning to the roots of my academic legacy, I wanted to sheepishly raise my hand and say, "I was taking the stretching of my neck incredibly seriously." But I did not. I just gulped and moved on with the business at hand. The Rat Pack of old hotties, however, did not. No. They commenced acting like a bunch of junior high boys all crazy on pheromones and energy drinks. They essentially started acting out every single expression of water aerobics anarchy they could muster. While we jogged in the water, they acted like maniacs and ran splashing like lunatics. When we did jumping jacks, they clapped their hands as loudly as possible. When we did various exercises with our arms out of the water, they did dance moves with their arms instead. When we passed each other doing various things back and forth across the pool, they mockingly shushed each other. When they mixed shit up on account of their own dickheadedness, they rolled their eyes and muttered, "God, I just did that one!" They giggled and snorted at every possible opportunity. It was really quite a spectacle. I'm surprised no one busted out an armpit fart.

Not to be a stick in the mud, but I found the whole display pretty pathetic and disrespectful. This class is probably the only thing keeping some of the elderly arthritic participants mobile, for heaven's sake. It's not like it's a sacred church service or anything that requires absolute silence, but it is kind of shitty to show up to a place where many others have been faithfully coming for, like, decades, and hijack the whole show with your "Isn't this class fucking hilarious?" attitude. Lord knows I'm not unfamiliar with such social recklessness as uncontrollable laughing jags at funerals, but the atmosphere of this class is just not conducive to this kind of hijinx, and these ladies, although pleasant enough to me, kind of made it clear that they're jerks with their intentional displays of mockery after having been called out on fucking up the vibe for a bunch of sore people.

So you could feel the tension in the joint as these women continued to act like jackoffs and as Instructor Hardcore abruptly switched exercises whenever they started clapping loudly in protest. Finally, we were at the wind-down part of the evening, and the clandestine boom box
(which one participant told me Instructor Hardcore hates, but which another random participant had started bringing anyhow), started belting out none other than everyone's favorite Jimmy Buffett tune, Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw. Of course the Rat Pack started hyperventilating with amusement, snickering loudly, and ultimately singing along. The aged ladies looked like they were going to just let themselves drown on account of their horror. Instructor Hardcore's brow just furrowed to new depths and she pressed on through some hip swiveling. At this point, I was ready to choke out on the tension in the place, and I just focused on the water noisily entering the drain that happened to be in my line of vision. I really wanted to die. It was just so freaking awkward, man. I thought someone would be bloodied before that song finally ended, there was so much water aerobics rage up in that mother. Then the owner of the boom box got out of the pool before class was over, unplugged it, and went off to the locker room. This inspired one member of the Rat Pack to keep loudly singing My Girl, the tune that was playing when the thing was shut off, at the top of her lungs for at least 2 minutes in one final act of defiance. As this was occurring, another member of the Rat Pack noisily said, "I'm done with this," and stomped off to the locker room before we'd done our final stretches. At last, it was over, and Instructor Hardcore just sternly said, "I'll see you Monday."

Oh, shitty. I wonder if the Rat Pack will be returning. It will be interesting to see how this continues to play out if they do. Perhaps there will be chicken fights involved? Who knows. I'm pretty sure that for me personally this can only end with some disturbing pregnant sex dreams involving the pair of alarmingly good-looking 17-year-olds who are our "lifeguards," and who stare at my giant belly every time I enter or exit the pool with these slightly embarrassed looks on their faces that seem to say, "Dude, I bet she puts out." But we won't get into that.

So, yes, there was some water aerobics drama tonite. And if you were wondering, my neck still hurts like a bitch.

I'm not sure our marriage can really be considered a binding contract...

...given that I didn't know my husband had these when I married him. Yeah. The man had, until about two hours ago, five sebaceous cysts on his scalp. I don't know, man.

First off, you people probably don't even deserve to be told this highly revolting story, since you gave me two measly comments on what I considered the most hilariously rendered vomit tale in the history of the written word, but whatever. I need to document what has occurred for my family's personal archives, and you can enjoy it if you so choose.

You see, a few years back, I noticed some lumps on my husband's head. I freaked out and never touched his head again. People who cut his hair have had adverse reactions to discovering lumpy nodules on his gourd as well, as one might imagine. His mom touched his head for some reason awhile back, and just about went into convulsions when she felt one of these things. Basically, they were that weird consistency resting squarely between hard and soft and ranged in size through all your basic currencies of change, right up to the fifty cent piece. And of course they were raised on his scalp to varying degrees. He apparently consulted Dr. Google on the matter a year or so ago and determined they weren't dangerous, but I was pretty sure they were brain tumors that had broken through the skull and were now working their way out into the atmosphere. As it turns out, his disdain for having his hair cut at reasonable intervals stemmed largely (he now claims) from his self-consciousness about these head lumps, and he finally decided a doctor appointment was in order.

So he went, and they were determined to be these wacky cyst things that result from the oils in the skin getting all weird and causing trouble. I of course took the opportunity to make this the subject of personal humiliation for my husband and promptly began referring to them as his "dirt cysts," since indicting his hygiene is up there on my list of favorite hobbies. He loved that.

Today was the big day of the dirt cyst removal. The Family K went over to this surgeon's office, and Big K disappeared into the depths of the place while Phook and I spent two hours in the waiting room. Phook charmed everyone there and generally acted like a raisin-eating gem for the entire time, which is one of those mystifying situations that never really translates to sitting quietly through an entire church service. As we observed trainloads of patients making their way through the small waiting room, I spent my time marveling at how so many people smell bad, and for sundry reasons. Dude.

So finally, Big K stumbled out of the office, seriously looking like he'd done a couple tours in Nam. He hasn't had his hair cut since mid-November on account of these things, so it's rather lengthy. In the five locations of the cyst removal, his head was bloodied and his hair matted. He was pale as a ghost. He looked stoned to the bejesus, and they only numb you locally for this shit. I was like, "Whoa. Phook, get your coat, Daddy's gonna pass out." He then informed me he had 14 stitches in his head and didn't feel real well. Um, yes, that much was clear.

Of course we had to drive quickly to the nearest location where he could obtain a shake, as is his habit when he is surgically altered. We then drove home quickly. During the drive he informed me that, upon removal, one of the cysts looked like a little shrimp, and the others looked like teeth. He had shared the shrimp observation with the surgeon, who inexplicably chastised him for making that statement, not because he would never again be able to bring himself to eat shrimp (as is the case for me personally), but because he now would HAVE TO HAVE SHRIMP FOR DINNER!!!!!!!!! Okay, obviously folks in the surgical field have a strong constitution in terms of their gag reflex, but can you even begin to imagine removing an oil-based cyst from your patient's head and then feeling that you needed to eat something it strongly resembled for dinner? Holy shit. Really. Shit.

Big K also informed me that he is pretty sure he bled a lot, based on all the blood that ran down his neck during the procedure, and the fact that it took two nurses and him holding pads to his head to mop up the spillage as he was being stitched. Given that he looks like he spent the morning running some plasma-donation scam across multiple college campuses and is completely depleted of the essential fluids of life, I'd say that's a safe bet.

So I pretty much spent the drive home gagging wildly and screaming every time I looked at his bloodied head. He took to calling me "Florence Nightingale," and quickly shortened it to "Flo," on account of my terrific bedside manner. This may have started when I told him he wasn't allowed to go anywhere in the house with carpeting until he'd washed his nasty head. Or it may have started when he said, "This is kind of a bigger deal than I thought it would be," and I said, "This deal is exactly as much bigger than you thought it would be as I expected it to be." And then he said, "I should get surgery even more often. We have such a good time with it." And he was serious.

Anyhow, he is now showered and upstairs napping with his head resting soundly on an old towel, or at least it had better be. Since the surgeon will be on vacation for all of next week, he isn't scheduled to have his stitches out until the 18th. I'm not an expert on sutures, but it seems to me that by that point the skin in his head will have completely absorbed them, and he'll need another surgery to get them out. Hmm. I remember my former-EMT father removing stitches from one of our cats post-surgically when I was a kid, so maybe I can get him to do it and save us all a trip to the ward for infected bastards that at this point feels inevitable.

I don't know, man. It seems like this kind of weird medical shit shows up at the House of K at a statistically improbable rate. I need to call someone at the Discovery Health Channel and get us a reality show. Or maybe we could get on some kind of speaking tour at marital counseling retreats and talk about how revolting medical procedures are the glue that keeps our (potentially invalid) marriage together. There's gotta be some further avenue for exploitation beyond this blog...