Showing posts from February, 2009

The words "speculum" and "weekend" should never be used in the same sentence

I had my annual exam today. The stirrups kind. I guess I thought it would be fun to kick off the weekend that way. I peed in the cup, just like every year. I got weighed. Then I got to sit down with the nurse and fill out ye olde questionnaire. Now, why they can't save my responses from year to year, I have no earthly idea. There is one part of the grilling that chaps my ass. Every year, I grit my teeth and muddle through. This time around, I got kind of pissy and complained to the doctor. This is the source of my ire: Nurse (typing away on the laptop): You've had four pregnancy losses? Me: Yes. Nurse: And no live births? Me: No. Nurse: Okay, so no children then. Me: Yes, I have a daughter. The nurse gave me a "does not compute" look (picture her saying it in a robotic voice, cuz it's funnier that way) and kept typing. When Dr. D came in I told him that I find the questionnaire to be a bit insensitive and to my surprise, he said he would look into it. I mean, I

I Spy With My Little Eye

The face that swindled a thousand Meemaws . . . My mom has gone back from whence she came. My daughter apparently thinks that Oklahoma is conveniently located at the local airport where we left her Meemaw on Tuesday afternoon. I guess that would make life easier - rather than all this jetting around, we could just visit my mom on Concourse B from time to time. We could enjoy a four-dollar pretzel from the food court and catch up. We did quite a bit of shopping while my mom was here. She's a shoppin' fool, I tell you. We dragged the kid around from store to store, while the little lass did her best to get abducted by making sure she was always around some corner where we could not see her. On one such shopping excursion, A decided to play "I Spy" in the car. Here's a warning for you if you get sucked into a game with her. The thing she spied with her little eye is usually some object you passed eight miles ago. So, good luck with that. She's wanted to play ever

Like a Kid in an (iTunes) Shop

My fabulous siblings bought me iTunes gift cards for my birthday. So, I had $55.00 to spend. I was excited about it - probably abnormally so. I've spent about half of it so far. I got some old stuff (Johnny Cash, New Order), some new stuff (Lily Allen, M. Ward, Animal Collective), and some weird stuff (Who else but Morrissey would release a song called "Something is Squeezing My Skull"?) I am accepting song recommendations* if you know of a song that will change my life. My friend Leslie told me that the song "Pink Moon" by Nick Drake would change my life and in fact it did not. I had to hound her for the better part of a year until she finally gave me my dollar back. So keep that in mind before you toss some crappy little ditty my way. I promise I'll post a more meaningful blog entry later this week. Right now most of my energy is being funneled into entertaining my mother, who is visiting from Oklahoma (where the wind comes sweeping down the plains). *Unle

The Sign

This sign has been vexing me for a few months now, so I finally had no choice but to take a picture of it (or pitcher, as one of my clients uttered about 50 times during a training session yesterday). The Creative Hair Design joint is right next to the Kindercare that my daughter attends, so I get to enjoy the sign every blessed day. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoy the "WE RENT HARLEY'S" billboard that's been posted off the highway for several years now. The lady who cuts my hair (at a different salon) is named Donna. Despite what you've seen me do to my hair on my own, she is a very talented woman. She has been cutting my hair for something like 12 years. Donna is a nice lady, but if I walked in and said, "Hey Donna, I'm here without an appointment. I'm, you know, a walk-in! You take those, right? Oh, and I'd like 25% off in return for inconveniencing the shit out of you like this." If I did, in fact, have the chutzpah to utter those wo

Something Else

The kid and I didn't have any particular plans for this afternoon. That is, until someone at church handed us a flyer and invited us to a drum circle at a local cafe. A loves to sing and to play instruments (you'll recall that she is constantly complaining about the fact that she does not own a trombone), so it seemed that our afternoon was suddenly booked after all. I was a wee bit hungover after last night's birthday festivities, so of course a room full of pounding drums sounded . . . perfect. When we got to the drum circle, we grabbed a couple of instruments and joined in. I can't sing well enough even to warble "Happy Birthday" in tune, but I guess I can bang out a beat at least capably enough to blend in. The kid was in heaven. There were twenty adults or so and exactly one rugrat. At one point, the leader asked, "Does anyone have a song?" The group was silent and then a single hand shot up. Would you like to guess to whom that hand belonged? G

How you know you are getting old

Giddy and Gretchen and their geriatric owner A few days ago, I was tooling around in my uber-cool mini-van, running errands with the kid. I flipped through the radio stations in search of a decent song. I hit the "seek" button and watched the radio's display fly through a few digits and then stop at the oldies station. Just then, "Private Eyes" by Hall and Oates came on. This, my friends, is how you know you are getting old. See, when I was a kid, the music that played on the local oldies station was recorded in the 50s. We're talkin' Frankie Valli, Dion, and The Chiffons. Indeed, it was OLD. Made perfect sense. Then, as I grew into adulthood, I noticed that songs from the 60s and sometimes 70s made their way into the wayback machine. Still, I thought, those songs are pretty damn old, too. Now, it seems, songs from the 80s are officially moldy-oldies. When I was in sixth grade, my friends Rachel and Sharon and I sat in Sharon's bedroom and sang "

I gotta move to a bigger city

This is a random sort of story, but I thought I'd share it anyway. In a previous blog entry, I mentioned that I spent the night at a friend's house a couple weeks ago. Being the generous sort of friend that I am, I stopped to buy a bottle of wine to drink myself share. On my way to pick up the kid, I pulled up at a liquor store that is near her school (I know everyone around here does it, but I just can't bring myself to take my child into chez de la booze - I stop on the way like the fine, upstanding parent I am). As I stepped into the store, I noticed a man standing behind a table near the entrance. On the table sat a small metal tub with a few beers in it. There was a whiteboard next to him that bore some sort of announcement about "Belgian Beer Tasting with Ralph!" His name may not have been Ralph. I might be making that part up. But it was definitely beer and definitely Belgian. He smiled at me as I walked by and said, "Hey, would you like to sample a B

Meemaw Mail

My daughter made her Meemaw a Valentine's Day card on Saturday. I took her to an art festival (or festibul, if you prefer), and she spotted the craft table for kids immediately. Its glitter and glue called to her like a siren. She descended upon the table before I could steer her towards . . . well, anything but that. A teenaged volunteer came over to help her decorate a card. "Who is the card for?" she asked. "It's for my Meemaw," responded my daughter. The volunteer pulled out a few sheets of small, foam sticky letters. Then I saw her hesitate. I suspected I knew what the problem was. "You don't know how to spell Meemaw?" She shook her head. I bailed her out. A few minutes later, a pink glitter greeting card was tucked inside my purse. The card was festooned with multiple foam stickers and the word MEEMAW, except that one E was backwards and the second A was actually an inverted V (A's were in short supply, it turns out.) I stamped and ad

We're Adopting!

No, not a child, you dolt. I think we've sufficiently proven that we can scarcely handle the one we've got. After a bit of negotiating with my reluctant husband, we are officially adopting our foster dog. I am renaming her - she is now Gretchen. Gretchen and Gideon - tres cute, ne c'est pas? If you're wondering how I pulled off this little feat, here's a little primer for the ladies: Wait until your husband is operating on only three hours sleep. P has a second job and works late two nights a week. Yes, we have 2 1/2 jobs between us and are still broke. Riddle me that, Batman. Tell him that he doesn't have to get you anything at all for your upcoming birthday. He had no earthly idea what to get you, even though he has known you for nearly 17 years, so this will come as a relief to him. Imply, however vaguely, that you might consider fulfilling your marital obligation this Saturday. I also had to wait until Gretchen was at least partly housebroken before I entere

Much Ado About Poop

It's no secret that the average three-year-old's sense of humor leans towards the scatological. Bodily functions, after all, are inherently funny - I mean, a fart is its own punchline. When male kids grow up, they continue to find amusement there. There are days, though, when all the talk of burping, farting, and pooping does start to wear a bit thin. The other night at dinner, our sweet little petunia sang this: Little Bo Peep, she lost her sheep And then Little Bo Peep pooped in Father's butt! [Insert raucous laughter here.] We've tried explaining that such topics aren't really acceptable anywhere, much less at the dinner table. In the car, she holds Minnie Mouse in her lap and then pulls Minnie's tail up so that the mouse can fart. Over and over and over again. That Minnie - she's no lady. I don't care if she does wear high heels and a polka-dot dress. Our daughter is prone to making random comments like, "Giddy has poop in his heinie." Or,

Desert Island Music

Apropos of nothing . . . let's chat about music, shall we? A lot of good music came out in 2008 and I'm excited to see what will turn up this year. Some of my favorite songs from last year: TV on the Radio: Dancing Choose Bon Iver: Skinny Love Mates of State: My Only Offer Thao: Bag of Hammers Fleet Foxes: White Winter Hymnal Vampire Weekend: A-Punk Santogold: Lights Out Sigur Ros: Inni mer syngur vitleysingur The Ting Tings: That's Not My Name Making this list got me to thinking: would any of these appear on my list of "Desert Island Albums?" You know, the music the stands the test of time, that you'd want to have with you if you were stranded on an island and could never again listen to anything else? With the advent of MP3 players and iTunes, it's easier than ever to grab the songs you like and leave behind the ones you don't. Gone are the days of bringing home a $15.00 CD because you like a single track. (What? I'm the only one who did that?) B

I sat on an ice throne this weekend

I just thought you'd like to know. No, I'm serious. Check me out: See? It was a fairly eventful weekend. On Friday, I spent the night at my friend Kathy's house. I took Fritz along with me. I had to be at a pet expo Saturday morning, and Kathy lives about an hour and a half closer to it than I do. So I loaded up a bottle of wine and a chick flick and headed down to her house after work on Friday. Sleeping in a bed by myself every so often is not all that bad, I gotta confess. We drank wine and ate pizza while five fawn Boxers milled about. Generally speaking, the service at Kathy's is pretty good. She will not, however, feed you breakfast. "You didn't want coffee, did you?" she'll ask. I do not drink coffee (one of the few vices I never acquired), so it's all good. I ate the granola bar that I'd tossed into my purse and I was set. Fritz and I arrived at the pet expo at around 8:45 a.m. This was a huge event, with at least a hundred exhibitors.