Monthly Archives: January 2009

the gods conspired against me tonight.

I am sick as a dog. As are Big D and miss poopypants. little d has so far remained unscathed by the scourge that is a nasty winter cold. The snow, freezing rain, slush, and “wintry mix” (who came up with that term? they should go out and eat the wintry mix. blech.) doesn’t help, though it’s pretty out the window when you don’t have to go outside. Thank goodness I work from home a couple of days a week and the crap outside was so bad yesterday that they closed my office.

But! I’ve been abstaining from my little chocolate devil for almost two weeks and have been oh so tempted. Tonight, I thought, I could treat myself. Just get the small size on the way into the grocery store – there’s a place to get it right across the parking lot – and leisurely wind my way through the store for half an hour or so. How pathetic is it that my idea of a good time is hot chocolate and groceries at 9:30 at night just because my kids aren’t involved? Yeah, I know.

Well, it was not to be. I hit the parking lot and plant the car strategically mid-way between commercial enterprises. Emerge from the car at 9:11 and head toward salty caramel chocolate decadence. And try to open a locked door. It appears that two days before Christmas, this particular location decided to change its hours and close at 9 pm. Crap on a stick. Should I jump back in the car, venture about ten blocks out of my way, just to go to the next location which should be open until about 11 or so?

I decided against it. Sick Big D at home on the couch kept flashing before my eyes, making me feel guilty for feeling better than he did and getting some time away from the kiddos. So I was good, flirted with the meat counter guy over a seven-pound pork shoulder (we both go to the grocery store to get away from our kids! I am not alone!), and grabbed some C monstrosity designed to make me feel better. I listened to the gods, this time….

that poor baby’s butt.

I need to know what goes on and in my family’s bodies. While not a militant organic wacko, I don’t see the point in exposing everyone to pretty colored chemicals when they could, in fact, be eating a genuine piece of food. A little extra moolah at the store so little d doesn’t turn into a tower of high fructose corn syrup is worth it.

With that mindset, I’m having a hard time coming to terms with my diapering choices for miss poopypants. I tried to wrap my brain around cloth diapers and failed miserably – even when buoyed by the pictures of me as a tot playing with the mountain of clean diapers and my sister acting the swami next to me. Tried to go the yuppie halfway of gdiapers and those didn’t work either. Found feel-good disposables at the natural-foods store (“we’ll clog up the landfills just like all the other ones but at least we won’t expose your baby’s cooch to cancerous substances!” Um, excuse me? My baby butt is exposed to dioxin so other diapers can be pure as the driven snow? She’s shitting on them. That’s ridiculous.) but they didn’t work. Leaked almost every time she thought about peeing. I figured the budget wouldn’t really support changing her literally every five minutes. So we use the cancer-causing, landfill-filling, cute-as-a-button-on-the-tush disposables. Grabbed the brand I used with little d and didn’t think too much about it.

Except one day, when we were walking through the Socially Responsible Membership Warehouse and found their main competitors. And we needed diapers. Into the plus-sized cart the plus-sized box goes. Two hundred and twenty-four diapers will last us for a good long while – a week, at least. But then the creeping crud appeared on miss poopypants’ lady parts. At first, we figured it was her diet, sitting too long in the diapers, something. Out comes the stinky white cream, which does little to nothing to fix it. But I just bought two hundred and twenty-four diapers! At a great price! It can’t possibly be the diapers…..

It was the diapers. She’s all cleared up after three days of the original kind. Which makes me again feel guilty as a mom for not knowing that she was allergic to something in the Bad Diapers. Oh, and I’m guilty as a mom for wanting to save money, and guilty as a mom for not wanting to admit that I don’t want to stop using the two hundred and twenty-four diapers I just bought. But I’m most guilty as a mom for not really wanting to know what’s in the diapers that makes her break out – is it the carcinogens the feel-goods referred to on their packaging? Something she’s just sensitive to, like perfume? Or something else entirely? Why am I not rising up against the corporation responsible for hurting my baby’s lady parts?

I’m convinced that if people knew how much they second-guess themselves as parents they’d never procreate.

it’s not a drink; it’s a meal.

Googling the evil, tempting beverage from which I’m trying mightily to abstain helped. A lot. Because googling said beverage found its nutritional value.

Damn.

Just the way I like it – as big as it comes, 2% milk, with whipped cream (mandatory on hot chocolate in my world, as it should be in yours) – comes to over 700 calories. Kudos to the establishment hawking the beverage for posting their nutrition information on the web so I could see exactly how much weight I was gaining with each drink I consumed. Most people of normal size are recommended to eat about 2,000 calories a day, give or take. Each of these drinks is a meal in itself. And that’s not counting the pastry you’re also tempted to buy to eat along with your meal-in-a-cup.

This knowledge alone helped me keep walking past the door and on to the trusty, calorie-free water fountain for at least the past two days. Even when the weather was telling me I needed to warm up with some liquid chocolate lovin’.

cynicism needs a day off.

I live with an incredibly cynical man. He won’t tell me for whom he voted, though he did disclose that he didn’t vote for McCain. He loves to rain on the Obama parade, telling everyone within earshot that he hopes Obama will live up to his expectations, and that he doesn’t want to be wrong, but he’s too much like all the others for him to get truly excited about him.

This is getting old. I love the man, but come on, we now have a President who can speak in FULL SENTENCES and knows how to correctly pronounce the word ‘nuclear.’ I am so relieved that the guy with the nuke codes is smarter than I am.

Plus our country voted a man in who 50 years ago might have gotten attacked by hoses and dogs had he been in a protest. Who 100 years ago might have been swinging from a tree by his neck. Who 150 years ago would have been someone’s property. The people who can look past skin color in this country trumped the racist assholes. I can tell my kids that it’s what inside that counts, and believe it when I say it.

Who wouldn’t be hopeful about that?

almost forgot

I need to move Saturday’s money, seeing as though it’s already Sunday. Is it technically cheating if I got a less expensive drink because it was flipping freezing this morning and I haven’t been able to locate my gloves in over a month?

Didn’t think so.

Since it’s 12:22 am, I need to wish a very happy Jesus year birthday to my better half (pictured above with the crazy ear-licking dogs). Also known as my baby daddy, spousal equivalent, significant other, partner, whatever. We’ve lived together for a year as of yesterday (which still feels like today, since I haven’t gone to bed yet). I’ve known him for almost two, thanks to craigslist and a wittily-worded personal ad, if I do say so myself. I’ve lost two parents since then, gained a baby, a house, a fantastic lover, a best friend, a family, and a new lease on life. We knew well before we met face-to-face that we were uncannily, scarily alike, both in the way we think and the way prior relationships have left us damaged.

That’s a good and a bad thing. Good because we now know what’s involved in maintaining a healthy relationship, especially with kids involved – we’re up to two and counting (there was one before he came along, in case you’re doing the math on your fingers). Good because we know what our dealbreakers are and that we can let the little things slide, most of the time. Good because we can appreciate exactly how awesome the other one is, especially in comparison to the past.

Bad because the vestigial tails of the old relationships haven’t evolved out of existence. Specific facets of my self-esteem took a beating in my twenties and I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover; you were beaten down until you couldn’t take it anymore and started dishing it out better than it came at you. In theory, we both know our self-worth – in practice, defensiveness darkens our doorstep regularly. Add our Celtic tempers to the mix and the fireworks can be horribly spectacular.

You once lamented that my innocence was wasted on someone not worthy to have taken it away from me. I am a much more cynical, skeptical person than I was at 21, true. But I also know that had that relationship not occurred, there would have been no lesson learned. I value our communication so much now, even when it’s painful and tearstained and punctuated with metaphorical daggers. Our relationship is not an easy one, but it’s ours. It’s full of chemistry and passion and desire and a firm grounding in the knowledge that we are all each other has, it’s us against the world, and I can’t think of a better person to have my back.

You’re an amazing man, and I can’t believe that you’re mine. But I’m not letting your ass go anywhere. I love you. Happy birthday.