I hate January. I know. I have a child and a husband who were born in January. It's the start of the year -- a chance to get drunk and falsely resolve to loose weight and change ridiculous behaviors. January is a time when most people are coming down off of their holiday high and enjoying new computers, cars, or leftover fruit cake. ugh.
It's just that I haven't had a good January in over 10 years. This January was no better. Each sleep deprived week was laced with school tours and interviews for my oldest daughter, because public schools are awful and she's exceptional. My youngest daughter spit up and fussed her way through every food elimination diet that I tried (except for when I solely ate beans and rice, which couldn't keep *me* full). I've decided that she has acid reflux, and I'll discuss it with her pediatrician the next time we visit. In the meantime, I going to be as vegan as I want to be and eat whatever soy I damn well please.
Let's not talk about my body which feels like a combination between flu aches and leprechauns punching me in my mid-section. If I could just get 8 hours of straight sleep. I'm not mad at Fuss. I knew this job was dangerous when I took it.
I *am* angry though. January was not a good marital month either. Many difficult truths surfaced. The last year has been great, but our prior foundation isn't as stable as I thought it was. Let's just say we're working our way through things. I've discovered a lot about myself in the process. Meditation has uncovered that I have a martyr complex. I'm certain to seek the lesson in every hardship. I take responsibility for being willfully in denial to make it bearable. I must admit that this was one of the roughest months that I've ever faced. I've wanted to scream just about everyday. I think some people really get off on glorifying the perception that I'm the bad guy. As sexy as villain is, I'm good to a fault.
I'm certain that this won't break us. We do have some kind of foundation, and when you're wronged by someone, it certainly helps when they're apologetic and willing to atone. That doesn't mean that said apologies and atonement take away the pain, though. *sigh* Grief can have 2010, but I don't know if I can take another consecutive year of grieving after this. This January has proven that the sort of uncertainty and instability that I've faced my entire life hasn't stopped. The things most people write off with a simple, "That's horrible, but that'll never happen to me" have all actually happened to me. My house burned down in the sixth grade and I lost everything. In high school my mom got cancer, and I spent most days not knowing if I'd have a mother the next. I've been raped. I've stared death directly in the face countless times (most of them admittedly due to my own bad choices). I never know what the hell is gonna happen to me from one moment to the next. I think the lesson in that is to *really* enjoy the moments in between and obviously make better choices.
I'm sorry that this isn't one of my normal, funny Marital Mondays blogs. Our life together is full of fun and laughter, but sometimes it just ain't. It wouldn't be an honest blog if I only told you about the happy moments. One of the best things about me is my capacity for love. Even though I'm a woman and I have serious mood swings, I feel resilient today. I'll leave you with this lesson: Never put anyone else's happiness ahead of your own sanity.
Marital Mondays: The Laundry is Trying to Kill Me With a Little Soul
Saturday, we all got dressed -- the entire family of four. I even took a shower. We marched our asses out to the car and got in. Hannibal started driving and then we realized we didn't have anywhere to go. I wanted to play with the Motorola Cliq in person, so we went to some off-brand cell shop in Korea Town. I decided against that phone. The SD card slot is behind the battery and that's absurd. The keyboard feels like sex, though!
We left and drove around aimlessly to keep Fuss asleep in the back. Then Hannibal came up with the idea to go test drive the Kia Soul, because I want one. It has soul in its name and that's freaking awesome. Also, it comes in my favorite color (lime green). I was super excited, because Hannibal's buying me one in March, so I don't have to put a second car seat in a two door Civic. Mooch can't fasten her seat belt on her own anymore, because Fuss's seat is practically on top of hers. It's sad. Anyway, I was supposed to get a BMW, but my readers were all, "Supasista, how can you claim to be eco-friendly and drive a big ass BMW? You should get a Prius." Unfortunately, the Prius is ugly. That ain't gonna happen, folks. Sorry.
Anyway, Google led us on a wild goose chase, and eventually told us that the nearest dealership with a Kia Soul available was in El Monte. I decided to pass on that. Maybe next week. What we should have been doing was laundry. Hannibal keeps bringing it up and asking me if I want him to take it and do it. I guess I feel like I need to be there to oversee it. I don't feel like doing it though, so when he asks, I change the subject.
EVIL BRINGER OF DEATH TO ALL THINGS GOOD AND RIGHT -- THY NAME IS LAUNDRY.
I swear I spend half my life gathering, sorting, carrying, loading, unloading, loading again, unloading again, loading again, unloading again, folding, re-folding, and putting away. I haven't seen my floor in months. It's buried under a never-ending stack of towels, sheets, gym clothes, pajamas, t-shirts, errant socks and underwear.
The Arduous Laundry Process starts Friday night and continues through the weekend, until Sunday around 10pm when I finally finish Load #115, and I cry a little because I'm SO SO SO GLAD that shit's finally over. Not the big Ugly Cry, mind you -- just a few tiny teardrops of grateful-to-be-done-ness that quietly roll down my cheek until I brush them away, ready move on to the next thing. Like, maybe, SLEEP.
And I DO sleep. Peacefully. Totally content in the knowledge that the Arduous Laundry Process has been checked OFF my To Do List. In my dreams, unicorns dance under sparkly rainbows and sweet-smelling babies float on clouds and everyone is HAPPY because I, The Hero, have taken their soiled sheets and pajamas far away to the Land of Bad Things and replaced them with soft clothes and linens that are CLEAN and FRESH and it's like they're brand new, but EVEN BETTER! We all rejoice in the Land of Wonderful Lovelies! Even my superhero cape smells like fresh rain!
But then Monday morning I wake up, and the Wonderful Lovelies are no more. Instead, I face a dark, horrible, epic nightmare. A WHOLE NEW LOAD of dirty clothes and linens has magically materialized overnight and scattered itself around the house. As I rush to get myself and the Mooch ready for work and school, it mocks me from every room -- MWAH AH AH AHH! So naive! You thought you were done! But you will NEVER be done!! You will DIE among a load of unwashed delicates, haunted by the question of Woolite versus Regular Detergent!! HAR HAR HARRR!
I cover my ears and pretend I don't hear it, but deep down inside, I know it speaks the truth. So Monday night it begins again. I faithfully perform my motherly, wifely duty (hee hee! I said "duty"! AS IF!) and not-at-all-cheerfully complete Steps 1 through 157 (or 6 or something) of the Arduous Laundry Process. But when I reach the final step of PUTTING AWAY, I make the extremely unwise decision to walk away -- leaving the beautifully cleaned and folded items there on the futon. They look so pretty. I just want to admire my handiwork for a few moments. IS THAT SO WRONG?
Apparently, yes. The insane people I live with do not see the beauty in my freshly laundered, neatly organized pretty. They only see a big, neat stack of shit that MUST BE DESTROYED, and in those very few moments, before I can reach them to make it stop -- that is exactly what they do.
Mooch thinks it is HIGH-LAAAAARIOUS!!!!!! to jump directly INTO the stack and toss all the individual pieces into the air, like a pile of leaves on a beautiful fall day. But the difference is, it's NOT fall, it's winter, and the laundry is NOT leaves, it's clothing that I painstakingly washed and dried and folded, only to see them thrown into chaos while Mooch screeches with glee and gives me that look -- you know that look, right? The look that says SCREW YOU BITCH. I WIN. And Hannibal? That motherfucker just STANDS THERE and LETS IT HAPPEN. And LAUGHS. As if it was FUCKING CUTE, or something.
Okay, I admit it. It IS kind of cute. Or at least, it WOULD be if it was happening to someone else. But it is NOT happening to someone else. It is happening to ME, and I AM PISSED, and I cry again. Still not the Ugly Cry, but not the grateful happy cry, either. No, these are tears of pure, blazing anger. So much work, so much sacrifice. And do these people appreciate it? NOT ONE LICK.
I used to have a life. Now I just have ... LAUNDRY.
SOB.
Anyway, to make a long story short (ha ha ha hee hee hoo!!), the next day is a repeat of the last, with the Arduous Laundry Process beginning again, yes, again. I get through Step #1 and I'm about halfway through Step #2 when DAMMIT I CAN'T DO THIS AGAIN. I. JUST. CAN'T.
So I stop sorting and haphazardly throw caution to the wind, along with ALL THE LAUNDRY, ALL TOGETHER, into one sack. The rebellion has begun. I take it to the laundromat. As I close the lid, I ask myself -- Really, what's the worst that can happen?
Oh, hello there, FAMOUS LAST WORDS. I was wondering where you were. Of course, I don't realize right away that I'm back in the Land of Bad Things. Oh, no. I live in ignorant bliss (I'm living proof that there IS such a thing) until about 45 minutes later, when I step over the ever-present stream of leaked machine water to open the lid and face both SHOCK and HORROR as I stare into a tub of PINK.
And THAT'S when the Ugly Cry starts.
So it goes. On and on and on and on. Another phase of the eternal battle between Good and Evil. An infinite descent into the dark abyss of pain, drama, futility and desperation. Each day brings more of it -- LOADS and LOADS of anguish and injury and despair.
The Laundry is trying to kill me. And so far, it's doing a pretty good job.
I couldn't think of anything to blog about last night despite the fact that at least 4 funny conversations have happened this week, where Hannibal said, "Is this gonna be for Marital Mondays?" Each time he said that, I shrugged, hoping something funnier would happen.
This morning, I sat down to write again, but I couldn't remember anything prior to the elaborate slumber party we had Saturday for my daughter. I went into the office to ask Hannibal if he remembered anything funny from this week, because I couldn't. He said, "I told you to start jotting that stuff down in your smartphone." Then I said I didn't feel like it, so he was all "I guess you don't want to blog then." I made my pouty face, but he had a big 'you're interrupting my Kaiser telecommuting work' grin on his face. Then he said, "We *could* sit here and try to pick my brain, or, conversely, you could write about your coming in here to bug me. This is Marital Mondays right here."
"This isn't even funny!" I retorted. Then he made the 'I don't care, but I don't want to hurt your feelings face.' I left. To be fair, I had a good night of sleep while Hannibal stayed up all night with the baby and a pacifier (not as effective as a breast). He's hopped-up on the 8 bags of Winchell's donuts on the desk, but that just keeps him awake. It doesn't necessarily help his attitude.
I know you're wondering why I stay with him. Sure, he's a total jack ass most of the time, but he makes me laugh at least 20 times per day, so for now I'm keeping him. He's kind of like a crushed ice machine. Crushed ice is so awesome in juice (especially grape juice), but you don't really realize how much you loved it until it's gone. Hannibal's never left, but I'm theorizing that if he did, my juice would taste weird.
I should start by saying that I had no idea I'd be typing another grief blog about something completely different a year and a half after my mother died. I've only spoken to two people outside of my home in the last 24 hours, and neither of them had anything to say that I actually needed to hear. When most people think of grief, they think solely of death. It is as though if no one has died, the stages of grief shouldn't be taking place. It actually applies to a myriad of things -- divorce, illness, death, or anything else where a person is let down. When I say, however, "I just need a moment to grieve." People say, "You're still going to have your baby, girl. Stop tripping. You'll be fine."
Yeah, all of that is easy to say when you're not the person going under the knife for a second time. I've read hundreds of women on the internet say, "The doctor cut my bladder trying to get through the scar tissue from my last c-section, so the urologist had to repair. The whole surgery was 2.5 hours." So, no matter how many women say, "Girl, I had five c-sections, and I'm fine." The fact is: that surgeon doesn't know what my last incision looks like until he gets in there. Though I feel slightly powerless, I still have a choice, and I'm choosing not to worry.
I also had serious bonding issues with Mooch after I had her via Cesarean. Plus, I just went through a grieving process that took a lot of work, energy, and therapy. Now I have to go through it again while trying to connect with a new baby. A new baby that I won't be able to hold as soon as she comes out. They won't place her on my chest, so the natural love hormones can flow. They'll be stitching me up, and she'll be across the room some where. I'll be full of drugs. She'll be full of drugs. You'd think after a 3 week long prodromal labor, replete with contractions and everything, I'd just want to get the baby out. I don't. I want my chance. My spiritual path teaches patience. I'd labor for another week to get it! My non-stress tests and biophysical profiles all came back with flying colors. I've been going every 2 days to be checked. There's tons of amniotic fluid, the baby never showed signs of distress, I don't have gestational diabetes or high blood pressure. We're both fine! There are women who went to 43 weeks and 5 days, and had perfectly normal deliveries. If one of us were unhealthy or showing signs of distress, I could understand rushing, but other people are the only ones worried -- mostly about covering their asses legally. If I'd at least gotten a chance to go into labor on my own, give it the old college try, and it just wasn't working, I wouldn't feel so bad. Since my feelings are something that I get to choose. I'm going to choose to feel good about all of the "labor" and patience that I have put in thus far. I'm going to choose joy.
Even when my whole birthing team let me down with cell phones ringing during my labor, loud shouting, a painful unnecessary castor oil induction, and sharing stories during my contractions about their own births (and how quick they were), I still continued. I've been having violent contractions all week. My cervix feels like someone chewed it up and put it back (Men, imagine someone cutting your balls to pieces and putting them back in your scrotum. Ladies, imagine the worst bladder infection you've ever had multiplied by 800.). This is all because of other people's attempts to rush the process -- blue cohosh, castor oil, and black cohosh. All of these herbs are great if labor has actually begun, but when used to induce labor, they can lead to a condition called Irritable Uterus (excruciating irregular contractions that don't dilate the cervix at all). I was told to begin them this past Saturday. It's like I've been in active labor for 48 hours (most people only endure 2-6 hours) knowing that it wasn't going to result in a baby. Each check showed very little dilation. I even went to Mooch's show Tuesday night while having the violent contractions. I smiled, gritted my teeth, and ignored people's "You're *still* pregnant?" comments. I wanted to do this so badly, but when even the midwife said she couldn't back me past 43 weeks for legal reasons, what else was I to do? I wasn't going to have Hannibal deliver the baby on the kitchen floor unassisted.
So here I am left feeling defeated. I feel like my vagina is only good for one thing. I've gone from, "I don't even want the baby anymore" to "I feel like a failure" to "I can picture us in 10 months happily planning her first birthday party." It's all part of the process. These feelings have all transpired in 48 hours. I've cried more from the loss of the natural experience than I've cried from the contractions. My face is red and puffy. I'd post a pic, but I don't want to scare you. Feelings are real. I have chosen to speed up this emotional process for the baby's sake. By the end of the experience, both of us will have faced so much trauma that the last thing she needs is a mommy who is angry with her. I still have a choice. I won't choose anger.
I haven't slept in two days. When I roll over I have a contraction. When I sneeze I have a contraction. If someone touches my stomach, I have a contraction. When I blink, I have a damn contraction! They are often one minute apart for an entire hour. We're not talking Braxton-Hicks either. Hannibal has been great for the past few days. He's rubbed my lower back literally all night, done all of the phone/email communication, and set up three different sitters for Mooch during our hospital stay. I packed all four of our bags between contractions and limped around clearing the house of anything that reminded me of homebirth. I even had Mooch deflate the birthing ball. I ignored my midwife's text messages all day. She was very sweet. I'm not mad at her. She just doesn't really have any answers at this point. I don't even think she'd heard of an irritable uterus until I diagnosed myself online (I'm truly my mother's child. Give me a Merck Manual, and I'll run amok). The midwife just stared at us Tuesday night. Plus, just talking to her reminds me of the loss. As with all things, I have a choice. I'll choose not to blame.
I give birth Friday (Yes, being cut is still giving birth. I give much respect to all of the c-section mamas out there). Later today, I have a pre-op exam, where I get to bank my own blood and discuss how I want things to go. You'd think after three weeks of labor and 8 million contractions, I wouldn't have to fight anymore. Guess again. Now I have to go in and fight vaccinations, Erythromycin (antibiotic eye goop), routine pitocin, and all the other "protocols" that protect hospitals from lawsuits. I figured I've come this far, the least I can do is pick her birthday. I think 1/1/2010 is a cool birthday. Plus, now we'll have three January babies in the house if all goes well. Mooch is 1/10 and Hannibal is 1/20. That makes me smile past the pain in my cervix a little. The lessons, at this point, are patience and choice.
Thank you for all of the supportive comments, texts, donations and messages delivered through Hannibal. I get them -- even if I don't respond. He's just my filter. Your love has gotten me through this.
Hannibal and I were supposed to go on a one hour walk on Saturday morning while Mooch was at rehearsal. We drove to a nice neighborhood with lots of hills to walk up and down. Hannibal found a nice shady spot and parked the car. We had water and snacks. The only problem was that we never got out of the car. I said I needed a minute to catch my breath (from the ride over, I guess), so he might as well just eat the raisin bread and orange juice he brought. He ate. We ended up sitting in the car talking until I got hungry again myself.
We had conversations like this:
Myshell: If you get out of the car first, then I'll have the motivation to get out. Do you feel like walking?
Hannibal: Not really. No.
Myshell: Me either. We could just sit here and pretend we walked.
Hannibal: I'm okay with that. Wait. Pretend to whom?
Myshell: The walking gods.
Hannibal: That's insane. Plus, everyone knows I've never had the power to motivate you to do anything. Myshell does what Myshell wants.
Myshell: That's not true. You've motivated me to do lots of things.
Hannibal: Mmm hmmm. Like what?
Myshell: Like *blank stare* ... and you also *ponders a bit* ... and there was the time you *scratches head* ...
Hannibal: See! You've got nothing. You can't come up with anything I've motivated you to do.
Myshell: Now we have to sit here in this car until I figure this out. I know you've motivated me to do something. Damn it.
Hannibal: *taps knee impatiently*
Myshell: You've motivated me to write everyday.
Hannibal: I didn't ask you to do that!!! You came up with that idea on your own.
Myshell: But, it was because your writing was so good, that I wanted to get better. Therefore I decided to write everyday. See. You motivated me without even trying.
Hannibal: Let me get this straight. You're saying I motivated you by doing absolutely nothing outside of the ordinary crap that I always do?
Myshell: Yep. It's called indirect motivation.
Hannibal: *sigh*
Myshell: You also motivated me to use the calendar on my phone instead of writing in the cute little Hello Kitty one I used to carry in my purse in 2006.
Hannibal: I didn't tell you to do that!
Myshell: But I saw how effective it was for you. You were on time, you remembered shit, and you even added in a few thoughtful things just for kicks.
Hannibal: You're confusing motivation with inspiration.
Myshell: I'm sure they're synonyms.
Hannibal: *face in palm of hand*
Myshell: All this "walking" has made me hungry.
Then we started the car and ended up at the Grove. I ate crepes at the Farmer's Market, and we did our walking there. It was much more interesting than walking past houses in suburbia.
Hannibal's mom is in town this week, because she's expecting her first grandchild. Yeah ... hopefully that happens while she's here. She leaves Friday. I'm not making any promises.
Anyway, she's awesome! I mean I met her at our wedding, but you can't get a full read on a person when you're chasing bridesmaids and getting your weave sewn in. She's a Libra just like me. She's crass just like me. I don't have to be fake, sugar coat anything, stop swearing, or stop saying balls all the time. It's all about bonding with the in-laws. Much like Mooch's other grandma, we just sort of click. We're both stark raving nuts!
Needless to say, the two of us in the house together is probably driving Hannibal nuts in small doses (he was already half the way there anyway, though). For instance, yesterday, Mooch was playing a Dora the Explorer video telephone game on the television, and when Mooch picked up the phone, I broke into a full out gospel rendition of "Jesus is on the Main Line," but I replaced the name Jesus with Dora. His mom joined right in! We were foot stomping and hand clapping. Mooch was cracking up. Yeah ... Hannibal left the room.
The best parts are our conversations after dark about Hannbal's teen years (specifically his dating experiences), their crazy family, and Brazilian waxes. Don't ask. She's definitely like a homegirl. I've got to admit it was fun to trick her with kamut pancakes, veggie sausage, and scrambled tofu. She thought she was eating eggs. LOL! I was gonna tell her, but Hannibal said to wait until she finished eating or she wouldn't even try it. She threw down, and then I told her. She was shocked. Funny. He was right though, because when I offered her Tofutti Better Than Cream Cheese (which isn't cheese or dairy at all) for her bagel the next morning. She said, "No, I'll just have some muffins and a banana." I started to tell her it wasn't a real banana and that Trader Joe's makes their blueberry muffins from shredded paper, but I decided against it. It's probably best.
Vomiting often means labor is imminent. Since my due date is this coming Friday, it makes sense that I spent a lot of Saturday with my head dangling in the commode. I guess. Or, conversely, I may have just had some really bad oatmeal Saturday morning at Colburn before I taught classes. It's hard to say.
Anyway, the baby has dropped a lot, but sporadic contractions indicate that she isn't quite ready to join us. I'm fine with that. The only problem was that I was so weak all day on Saturday from not being able to keep anything outside of apple juice and labor-ade down that I couldn't nest. I finally had the urge to scrub baseboards and detail blinds with a toothbrush, but I could hardly move. It also worried me that labor could start soon and I wouldn't have the strength to endure contractions let alone push an eight pound sack of baby through my hoo-hah.
I was encouraged to rest. Well my family encouraged me to rest -- not my neighbors, who were playing the Sponge Bob theme song on repeat until 1am (I'm not making that up). My loving husband nursed me through the night -- filling Dora cups with crushed ice and apple juice and spreading thin layers of sunflower seed butter on wheat toast. He even cut it into little squares like my mother used to. I think he would have fed them to me, but I didn't want to push it. At 3am, he was sleeping so soundly that I got up and made my own red raspberry leaf tea with peppermint and honey. I probably got an hour of sleep that night with the body aches and contractions.
The next day, Hannibal did all of the nesting for me. He took all of our laundry down to the laundromat on the corner while Mooch and I walked to return a book at the library and get a pedicure a few blocks away. The walking was good for me, but it only produced two contractions. The pedicure was only mediocre. My eyebrows look great, though! We walked back to the laundromat and hopped in Hannibal's car to go have Indian food, because I've heard spicy food can get things going. I had some super spicy Chicken Tikka Masala. Still nothing.
When we came home, I set up the bed for home birth. I made the bed as usual comforter and all but no pillows. Then I put a brand new shower curtain liner over the comforter to protect what was underneath. Lastly, a fitted sheet is placed over it. The pillows are placed in trash bags and then into sterilized pillow cases. While I did this, Mooch folded all of her clothes and put them away. Meanwhile, Hannibal was removing everything from every room, dusting, sweeping and then mopping. The house looks and smells Pine Sol fresh. This hardwood is shining! We have a bowl for the placenta and herbs for the perineal bath. We're just waiting for Ella.
To top off all of Hannibal's support, when I woke up this morning at 10:45am, he was still here. I was confused. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" I asked.
His answer was, "I didn't want to leave you here in the rain without a way to go and get things if you needed them." So, he is telecommuting today.
Hannibal and I have developed a routine. It's not a dance routine, but it is a belly routine. Since I started showing, which feels like a gazillion months ago, people feel like they have the right to just come up and touch my stomach. Would they invade my personal space and touch my stomach if there weren't a baby in there? Sadly, in America, probably so. You see when my hair was locked, people would just come up and put their grimy fingers right in my hair. I don't care if it's accompanied by a compliment! Keep your paws off of my pelo (that's hair in Spanish -- I couldn't make the alliteration work in English. Sorry.)! Americans feel entitled to just about everything -- even touching people.
So. This routine. When a person, that hasn't asked permission, comes up and tries to touch my stomach, I hiss at them like a cat and stick my arm out abruptly. If they persist (and they have), Hannibal puts his hands on his knees and lifts his lip growling. He then proceeds to bark canine-style at the person until they either think we're both wierd and leave me alone, or run screaming (if it's a child). Yes, we do it to kids, too. People need to learn early. That's what's wrong with America.
Sunday, we were at the Westfield Shopping center buying some last minute things for our homebirth. A strange lady decided to try to accost my belly while Hannibal was doing a price check on some desk chair that I wanted. What was I going to do? My guard dog was at least five aisles down running a barcode under a probably defective scanner! I grabbed onto the cart, hissed at her and pushed the cart running like a mad woman. She got the point fairly early on. Luckily, the place where I stopped the cart, two aisles down (because I got tired), had the listed price of the desk chair and like six other chairs in different colors. It was $29.99. Unfortunately, they didn't have the aqua blue color that matches our office, so I got a crock pot instead.
The moral of the story is: Stop molesting me! It's almost over. We have approximately 12 days until Ella Simone arrives, and sorry, you won't be allowed to touch her either.
Exactly three years ago there was a knock at my front door. It was a knock I'd anticipated since I was seven years old. Those three quick knuckle pounds sent me hustling to put away the vacuum and shove several tons of freshly cleaned laundry into my closet. A pair of lime green Pumas fell from the top shelf and hit me in the shoulder. I tossed them back up. Small beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. I almost never sweat. I tucked my dreadlocks behind my ears and glanced at the mirror. I wasn't happy with what I saw. Two rapid knocks at the door reminded me to hurry. Quickly applying lip gloss, I cleared the bath products from the lengthy marble counter that framed my sink.
When I checked on Mooch, who was fast asleep in her room, I had a brief moment of fear. I was about to let a complete stranger into my home with me and my two-year-old daughter. What was I thinking? Visions of Amber Frey, the single mother who got tied up in an affair with the lying murderer, Scott Peterson, began to swarm in my head. There were three more knocks at the door. I talked myself down off of the ledge. My boss knew this guy, and I was familiar with at least three of his friends. Sure, we had met on MySpace, but we had spoken on the phone, I knew where he lived and worked, and I had warned at least five people (including my mom) that he was coming over. I went to open the door.
"Hello." I said, as I opened the door. "You're tall." I could have kicked myself for stating the obvious. Plus, he wasn't even that tall. He had to be roughly 6'2". I just didn't know what else to say. I'm a bit socially awkward.
"You really are breathtaking." he replied, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. I thought he was clearly just being nice, because I was wearing huge light blue house cleaning sweats and a red and white vintage t-shirt that clung to my frame.
"Thank you. Come in. You can put your shoes under here." I gestured toward the long wooden bench near the front door.
"I have similar shoe rules at my place." he responded. I smiled and headed toward my room.
"We're going to come back here, because my daughter is sleeping and with the living room being right off her bedroom, I don't want to disturb her."
"Okee-dokee." he said, following me. I sat on my bed.
"So how was your Thanksgiving? I mean was the food good?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Aunt Elzater throws down for Thanksgiving. I'm stuffed. I'm just surprised that the kitchen at my karaoke gig caught on fire tonight. Sully's is one of my favorite shows to do."
"Yeah, that sucks." I said. "Hopefully, everything turns out alright." What I was really thinking was: If that fire hadn't happened tonight, I would have had to wait all the way until Saturday to finally meet you in person. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Naw, I'm good." he nodded the way people nod when there's awkward silence. That made my brain hurry up to find something we could do. Since he was a writer, I suggested playing Scrabble. His whole face lit up, so I went to find the Scrabble set that had been in my family for two generations.
Once the game was rolling, we both loosened up a little. Well, he did. I was still full of butterflies, fear, and scattered brains. Our game eventually had a theme. We put down words like "like," "cuddle," "love," and "lube" (Don't ask -- and yes, we know abbreviations aren't allowed.). We bent the rules slightly. He put down the word "kiss." Then his bold ass asked for one, and laid back on the bed like I was supposed to climb on top of him to give it to him. I wasn't really ready to kiss him. He had only been there for an hour. This made me very nervous. I was certain he was going to rape me at this point. I started conjuring up ways to secretly call for help. I sucked in a breath and smiled sheepishly.
"No, I'm not coming over there to kiss you." I said. He sat up. I sighed relief. He was very friendly and gentle. I assumed he was halfway joking but would have taken the kiss if I gave it to him.
"It's your turn." He said. I was saving my letters to put down the word "embrace," because it was going to score me a lot of points. I asked him if I could use onomatopoeia. He approved, but I put down "hope" instead. Then I suggested we make a story out of all of the words on the board. "Stop saying things that are totally hot." he said.
The evening was beginning to seem like the perfect romantic comedy. I didn't want it to end. He smelled really good. I think he was wearing Axe body spray. He smiled at me a lot and his eyes were warm. We did end up kissing in exchange for my putting down the word "embrace." It was slow, gentle and passionate, and he knew exactly where to put his hands. We kept it at first base, I think. I'm not really sure what first base is actually. Anyway, he was going to leave, but I asked him to stay for ten more minutes. We sat on the futon in my living room and quietly discussed the Smurfs, politics, and stem cell research. He never left, and we were engaged in nine months.
Today is the three year anniversary of the day we met. Three years ago, today, three knocks at the door changed my life completely.
I stayed in the house most of the weekend except for going to work Saturday morning. I guess this thrusted me into a bit of a nesting phase, because Sunday I decided to rearrange and dust the office. I also took on the project of filing a big gray cardboard box of papers that has been on the office floor since we moved here.
The problem was that the office chair and all of the lovely Ikea stools (read: crappy stools) we have in the house don't support my back properly. Theoretically, I should have sorted the papers in bed. When Hannibal proposed this idea, however, the conversation went like this:
Me: I can't keep bending over like this. Hannibal: Honey, I can move the box into the bed, so you can sort there with as many pillows as you'd like. Me: No. No. Hannibal: Why not? Me: Every time I get to the middle of sorting through a box of papers, I see a spider. If I see one, I'm going to freak out and fling the spider off of the paper into the bed. Then I'm going to say, "Baby, I can't sleep in this bed." Hannibal: Then I'll say, "I'm more than happy to move to the futon with you. Me: But, then I'll say, "The futon is on the floor!" It's too dusty to sleep on the floor. We have to go to a hotel. Then if we ever come back from the hotel, I'll say the spider probably had babies in the bed, and I never want to sleep there again." Hannibal: We are NOT going to a hotel when we're paying to stay here, and one spider can't make babies on its own! Me: Hey, you're supposed to be speaking in future tense.
None of this has happened yet! Hannnibal: Mmm (continues) typing.
Three hours later, my back and butt hurt like hell, and I didn't even see a damn spider. Grrrr!..
(Hannibal then later reminded me that he didn't actually say anything after "why not?" I actually said all of that in one long breathless monologue. "You don't seem to need me for most conversations," he said, "so you don't need to pretend like I participate." I reminded him that people would think I'm crazy and that all these conversations are happening in my head. He said, "I'm willing to take that risk.")
Update from Thematic Thursdays (last week): So, the person I was advising on long distance relationships decided to send her guy a pair of crotchless panties through the mail. That's sexy and spontaneous, right? The only problem was that his sixty-year-old secretary turned beet red, and several women were laughing at him when he entered the office. Folks, please save the kinky mailings for your man's home mailing address. Sorry for any confusion this may have caused. :)
Sunday is quite often the day for marital work in our home. It's definitely work. It's grueling. The talks often go on for two or three hours. Hannibal always quotes Red Foreman saying, "If it wasn't work, they'd call it 'Super wonderful crazy fun time.'" Sometimes we leave the conversations depressed and ready to go drown in a 50 foot pool of mustard, and other times we're re-energized and happy to start our week or our next project together. The good thing about both of those situations is that we're actively improving the relationship -- and ourselves.
Last night, the focus was on Hannibal's ego and its need for constant stroking. We also discussed the fact that I'm a militant homemaker. Let's just say those two factors make a concoction for catastrophe. For example, when I sigh and say "Why the hell are there crumbs on the counter? I thought you cleaned the kitchen last night." It makes my little Hannibalito feel under appreciated. After all, he saw that I was tired, offered to do the dishes, and cleaned up to the best of his ability, right? My nitpicking about one filthy counter our of four clean ones undermines his entire gesture. He wants to feel like he's awesome! He didn't leave the crumbs with malicious intent. Women just clean kitchens better than men -- straight ones at least. We decided that I should make a list of everything involved in cleaning the kitchen after dinner -- from mopping the floor to tying up the trash -- and post it on the refrigerator. He's super excited, because he has incorporated lists into almost every area of his life. He's very efficient. Marsha, his boss at the Sentinel, would give him a list that she thought would take him all day, and he completed everything in an hour. Since he only has to do the kitchen like twice per week, I'm sure it'll work out fine.
*Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!*
(We interrupt this blog for a brief urination break. Hannibal had to wheel me down our lengthy hardwood hallway in my daughter's pink desk chair, because I was convinced that if I stood up, all the pee would fall out. Yup, that's 36 weeks pregnant for you! Thank you Hannibal for your majestic, exalted, supernatural solutioning capabilities. Now that I'm completely embarrassed and his ego has been stroked -- yet again -- we return to your regularly scheduled blog programming.)
Hannibal diagnosed cancerous growths on his ego that have poisoned areas of his life in a prism-like fashion. He says they've been there for years, but he's just now figuring it out. He plans to go through some laser-like surgical removal of these growths in the near future. I'll let you know how that turns out. If you read last Thursday's blog, you'll recall that I spent the past week and a half calling Hannibal a moron. That probably didn't help with his ego issue. This week, he's agreed that I can call him Memphis (What? We haven't settled on pet names yet. You gotta problem with it?). I'm also coming up with a No-More-Nagging potion for newlyweds that will keep neophyte hubbies feeling 100 percent awesome 80 percent of the time.
We're aware that during this first year (even though we've been together three), we're giving birth to a couple. Before marriage, he could wipe his balls on hand towels and I focus on my own damn external validation issues. As with all labor and birthing processes, there will be pain. We're getting to know each other more and more each day. He likes a bendy straw in every drink. I like my feet rubbed almost daily. While each of us painstakingly learns the other's quirks, our vibrant sex life is that placenta that keeps us thriving.
It must suck a little to be a celebrity who grows up famous -- like Drew Barrymore, Macaulay Culkin, Danny Partridge. It has got to be awful to be judged at 40 by the dumb things you did when you were 20 (Lindsay Lohan, I hope you're reading this). Blogging is sort of like that, too -- there is all the crap you wrote three years ago on display for everyone to see. It may not in any remote way reflect the larger part of who you are -- it is only a reflection of something you were processing at a specific moment in time. Like writing a letter on Sunday stating that you have the stomach flu, sending it hundreds of miles away, only to be perfectly fine by the time the recipient reads it.
This is precisely why I'm not going to write a blog about the time when I was 8, and I put peanut butter on myself to try to get my German Shepherd to go down on me. If I write that, then you'll all remember it and taunt me for the rest of my life. I don't want to be running for senator one day and have the peanut butter blog resurface. Wait a minute, I think I just *did* (not run for senator, but post a blog about peanut butter). Luckily, I'm not going to run for any office, because I think most elected officials are morons.
I've been really getting a kick out of saying the word moron this week, but Hannibal is very offended by it (probably because he graduated from USC), so I tried to work the word into a blog. He'll probably be offended that I even mentioned it, because now you all know that I've been calling him a moron all week. It's not because he's stupid or anything. I just really like the sound of the word. I was going to switch to calling him Enron, and he was actually on board for that. I think it's because Enron has become an icon for corporate fraud and corruption. Hannibal is evil. Anyway, that didn't work, because I stopped liking the sound of calling him Enron after about 30 seconds and went back to moron. Hopefully, I latch onto a new word by next week.
Speaking of latching on ... nevermind ... I should probably stop typing this now before I get myself into trouble. I'm going to pick up Mooch.
Hannibal was getting some water out of the faucet to go with his sandwich and shook his head. Normally he drinks juice with his food, but we're out it (and he needs to drink more water anyway). Plus, we were both at home by ourselves (my daughter was with her father) lounging, and I didn't feel like going grocery shopping after trick or treating Saturday. So I asked him ...
ME: Why are you shaking your head?
HANNIBAL: (sighs) No reason.
ME: You have a reason, Hannibal! Just tell me!
HANNIBAL: There's no reason.
ME: Tell me what you were thinking about when you made that face.
Hannibal: I was thinking of justice.
ME: Hh. I did think you were thinking about something that started with the letters "J" and "U," but I didn't think it was "justice." I thought it was "juice."
HANNIBAL: If it helps, it has the same last letter as what you were thinking of.
ME: Hmph. You want me to make some juice for you, baby?
HANNIBAL: I'm good.
ME: Don't be that way, Hannibal! I'm your wife, I should be able to make juice for you! You should let me make some juice for you, because if I don't and you go out and cheat on me, you'll say "It's because you wouldn't make any juice for me!"
HANNIBAL: (sighs and eats his sandwich)
ME: I'm just kidding, lemme make you some juice. I can't guarantee what it'll be made out of ...
HANNIBAL: I can't guarantee I'll drink it either.
ME: Hey!
HANNIBAL: (smirks)
ME: I was just gonna give you one of these (pulls Minute Maid Frozen Juice Bar from freezer) and say "Take a bite of your sandwich and lick the popsicle. Then repeat it -- bite, lick, bite, lick ..."
HANNIBAL: Yeah, I'm not doing that.
ME: Why not?
HANNIBAL: (grunts)
ME: I'm just kidding. I was gonna chop up this pineapple and squeeze it and make some juice for you. But I knew you would say, "By the time you get done with all that, I'll be done with this sandwich, so I won't even want it."
HANNIBAL: Actually, that sounds pretty good, now you say that. Okay, you can make some juice for me.
ME: Yeah, I'm not gon' do that.
HANNIBAL: (sighs)
(Hannibal later noted that the real reason he was thinking about "justice" was because he was thinking, "My life has come to my drinking LA tap water, after all my mother's admonitions against it. Where's the justice?" But of course, he couldn't tell me that like a normal person, he just wrote it in the document, where I was writing my blog, because he is a weirdo. Anyway ...)
"...it's hurtin' so deep. I've got my pride. I will not cry, but it's makin' me weak. I'm not your super woman." --Karyn White "Superwoman"
Okay, so I haven't been so good at posting regularly lately. It's not that there's nothing to blog about. I am just incredibly lazy sometimes busy lately. Once it's been a week or so, I start thinking, "Ooh, I have to come up with something really kickass to make up for taking a long break." Then I start obsessing about that and psych myself out and before you know it, it's been two weeks since my last post!
Anyway, welcome back. I'm going to start blogging everyday starting next week. Really! I promise. See, I even made banners:
Each day has a theme. There's no need for me to repeat them here, because you can just read the banners for each day. I also added share links beneath each blog, so you can share all of my knowledge, expertise and wonder with your friends and Facebook family.
Everyone at Hannibal's job is knocked up or has a wife who is due within the next month. They had a baby shower Tuesday for all of the pregos, and they gave us a gift card to Babies R' Us. So, of course, today I went to Babies R' Us. I asked the first red shirt I saw whether they had the motorized shopping carts that old people ride around Target in, because my hips felt like two pinky toe muscles holding up a bowling ball. I rolled my eyes when she said they didn't have those. I don't understand how a store that thought of "Stork Parking" (close parking for expectant mothers) didn't think to have motorized carts for when we reach the weeks where we have triple chins and swollen ankles.
Anyway, I picked up a few things pertaining to breast milk storage, hoping that this baby won't suck me until there's nothing left to pump like the last one did. I also got one of those little gum brushes, so the kid's first teeth don't come in brown and require an iced grill like Lil' Wayne. Despite the fact that all Mooch wants for Kwanzaa is a compass (nerd) and more Junie B. Jones books, I bought a stamp set and a Harumika Style Starter Set, because she's taken an interest in fashion design. Hannibal also plans to buy the family a Wii, and I've been buying little stuff here and there all year that's hidden in the back of my closet. Shhhh! Don't tell her. She'll be ecstatic. I've been homeschooling since 2pm. It's almost over. Thank God, because I'm tired. Luckily, I don't have to teach today, which means I don't have to drive again. Anyway, that was my day. I'm going to try to put my feet up for a bit before figuring out dinner. Peace!
Hannibal is telecommuting today, so he's here at home. It's interesting, because you'd think we'd be cuddling and boning or something. I, however, am in our living room and he's in our office. I'm working on an evaluation for Colburn and he's doing whatever he does for Kaiser's website. We're literally Facebooking each other from two rooms away.
It's almost like he's in Pasadena. There are only a couple of differences. We ate lunch together, he's going to go pick up Mooch instead of me, and if I wanted to, I could go kiss him right now. Oh, and he can hear it when I sneeze.
I can see this telecommuting thing coming in handy after the baby is born, though. What if I can't take Mooch to school one morning? What if the baby is driving me nuts? I can just dispatch Hannibal or put the baby in the office with him. It also means more Baba time for Mooch in general. She gets home at 1:30 or 2pm, and she loves to have his energy around. Hannibal also plows through work when undisturbed, so who knows? We may be able to squeeze in a few quickies. :)
There are two kinds of marriages: those with farting and those without. After trying the first, I happen to have opted for the latter. Call me kooky.
When my friends hear this, they're probably going to say that they don't understand how one of the most crass people on earth finds this disgusting. They'll probably say it's "really unhealthy" as if Hannibal (my husband) and I have each been clenching 24/7 since the moment we met. We've actually let many rip, but I've decided as of last night (when I planted one right on his thigh), that we should probably do that in the bathroom.
People act like not ripping f-bombs in front of each other all the live-long day is somehow less than honest. I couldn't disagree more. It's not like I'm not being myself. I'm just choosing to not be the grossest possible version of myself. Is that so wrong? I mean, is farting in front of each other or peeing with the door open (which I actually do) really a sign of love and affection? Pretty much the last thing I think after Hannibal blows up the bathroom is, "Mmm, sexy."
I don't want to be down there thinking about the last smell I remember wafting up my nostrils.
When it comes to bathroom habits and the like, I say familiarity breeds contempt. What do you say?
My husband asked me to write about how awesome he is, and at first I thought, "Yeah, right. I'm totally not going to do that, because it's corny." Then I realized that today is our six month anniversary! Yippee! I know it's nothing to all of you people celebrating silver anniversaries, but I do know a few couples who were divorced within two months. It happens. I will, therefore, celebrate our love and our milestones no matter how small they seem -- even if it's only with a blog.
Hannibal and I have gracefully endured a 15 mile move across the city, more than half of a pregnancy, and a lot of mariachi music (Don't ask.). Are there times when I want to pick up a remote control and throw it at his head? Not really. We don't get down like that. Our life experiences have led us to place where we'd rather have a three hour conversation about our issues. Sure, his snoring is the most annoying thing I've ever had to sleep through, comic books are invading our house, and his chest hair sheds in clumps near the bathroom sink. Those things are insignificant compared to his pleasant disposition upon entering the home everyday, his excitement over new ideas, and his relentless focus on everything he's trying to accomplish -- writing five novels, raising a wonderful family, and pan-galactic domination.
His laser-like intent is slowly rubbing off on me. I admire his ability to churn out copy at the speed of a South African hermaphrodite track runner. I hope one day I can churn out something as fast as he does -- choreography, designs, nuclear weaponry -- I don't know yet (We'll talk about my lack of focus in another blog. Stay focused!).
Anyway, Hannibal is certainly awesome. My daughter and I adore him. Does he make mistakes? YES!!! It takes a real man to admit when he's wrong and do something about it. His ability to swallow his pride, apologize, and atone are definitely worth noting. Oh, I forgot to say that, in the bedroom, he's really [redacted] [removed] [explicit content]. *smile*
Please enjoy our wedding video (posted above) in honor of our six months together.
