My advice to the writers and producers of the Sex and The City sequel, because I think I am that important.

Not too long ago, one weekend afternoon I was faced with a mountain of laundry (plus other random chores) and a quiet house (husband was out with the kids).  That's quite a rare occurrence. The raining made it a cozy, stay-at-home afternoon...also rare.

So, I flicked on the TV and checked out the movies I could order from our cable company (again, a rarity). I wanted something mindless as I was going to be in and out of the room and didn't want to be bothered with a plot (I am so deep).

Sex and the City it was!

Despite the fact that I did occasionally watch the TV show, and admittedly sometimes even enjoyed it, I had no desire to go to the theater with my friends to endure watch the movie without being able to openly mock it. I mean, two-plus hours of Samantha's rasping double-entendres in her roller coaster delivery? In fact, double-entendres from all four of them? Hard to take. 

(As an aside, my husband and I often entertain ourselves by lapsing into Samantha's vernacular to make anything sounds dirty, "Oh, you're go-ING to make an OM-elette, are you? Let me HELP you with the SPAT-u-LAH.")

Anyway, this movie fit the bill mindless visual and auditory entertainment.  Sadly, though, after a while I found myself thinking...and remember, I was trying to avoid thinking; it was supposed to be a No Thinking Afternoon of mindless entertainment and laundry folding.

The movie predictably starts (well, after an odd montage from the TV show to bring unfamiliar viewers up to date on it's complex character arcs and plot points) with a voice-over from Carrie, which went something like this, "Year after year, twenty-something women come to New York city in search of the two L's...labels and love,"

Really?  

Really?

Twenty-something women don't move to New York City because that is where their career takes them?  Nor for access to museums and world-class restaurants and Broadway and kick-ass pizza by the slice, and the sheer excitement of living in one of the world's most diverse, fast-paced metropolises...and, and, and?

I shook that thought off, and as I watched the movie I was dumbfounded by that Carrie was so freaking obsessed with labels.  Sure, designer apparel was also revered in the series, but at least Carrie brought her own Molly Ringwald "Pretty in Pink" irony to her wardrobe.  None of that in the movie...it was slathering over labels for label's sake, even to the detriment of the other "L" (Opps!  Sorry!  Guess I should have warned to about the quasi-spoiler there!).

As the movie continued, I was struck by the fact that despite being released less than a year ago, it is horribly dated.  The conspicuous consumption rampant in this movie, I thought to myself, just wouldn't be relevant in this post-October 2008 economy.

Yeah, and then the next day I found out they are filming a sequel.

WWYD?

So, today I was at the grocery store with my four year-old daughter, and my mom. Three generations tooling around the aisles, grabbing at things and yelling at each other to PUT them back!

At one point I was price shopping for cheap selecting the perfect vintage Pinot Noir for our dinner, when this young dude glides past me and scoops up a bottle of Jäger without even slowing down. I smiled, thinking of some (mommy?) blogger I'd read earlier today who'd talked about doing a few too many Jager shots with her husband (Dang? Who was it? Help me out!!!).

It's Thursday night in a college town, nothing odd about someone grabbing some Jäger...what was impressive is that he just stroooooooooooode on while fluidly whipping a bottle from the shelf without disturbing its neighbors.

A minute or so later I met back up with my mom and daughter, and suddenly there was that Smooth Dude walking past us. Chattin' on his cell phone and walking towards the exit. Still sailing smoothly, but his gait was also somewhat less...effortless.

And the Jäger bottle? Nowhere to be seen.

I stopped and watched him and Smooth Dude just continued sailing right out the door. Buh-bye, SD. Buh-bye, bottle of Jäger.

I said to my mom, before SD was out the door, "He is stealing a bottle of Jäger." I thought about running after him. I thought about contacting a Sales Associate. As I stood there I thought a lot of things in a millisecond.

But, you know what? I didn't know for sure he stole anything. For all I know, he's a David Blaine in training and one of his skills is Being Smooth and Non-Bottle Moving Whilst Drifting Through Grocery Store Aisles.

Or maybe he realized he didn't have the cash and randomly dropped the Jäger off somewhere.

Perhaps the person he was talking to on the phone had just told him, "Smooth Dude, my roommate just totally bought some Jäger. No worries. Time to party on and you don't need to buy any Jäger (because in my head Smooth Dudes and friends all talk like characters from Wayne's World)(Party ON!) !"

It could be that elves scurried out from the dairy section and stole the bottle from him and threatened him with a fortnight of bad luck if he didn't vamoose immediately.

Who knows what really happened. It just seemed pretty certain to me that I'd just witnessed a theft.

I looked at my daughter (who had, by the way, been a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I looked at my mom (who probably, by the way, thought I was being a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I thought about what it would entail to chase SD down, accuse him, call the cops, who knows what. Yowsa, but I just thought, "Forget it. It's not worth it if I'm wrong."

Honestly, part of me thought it wouldn't be worth it if I was right. I know that was lame and weak of me, because morally and socially and economically and theoretically and realistically and fiscally and...deep breath...legally it's just wrong to steal. But when I thought of the flipping hoops I'd have to go through, and what if I were wrong (but I know I wasn't)? Forget it.

It didn't seem worth it.

Was I wrong?

What would you have done?

Some things a certain group of moms at my son's school like to do during pick-up

Make off-hand comments about being an 'advocate' for their child.

There seems to be an unwritten rule that the family who has the most meetings with the principal to complain about the teaching staff WINS.

Too much homework? Meeting with principal.

Not enough homework? Meeting with principal.

Don't like who your kid sits next to in science? Meeting with principal.

Feel their child doesn't get called on enough in class? Meeting with principal.

Their child got a C on a test? Clearly they weren't properly instructed on the material in class. Meeting with principal.


Bitch about the parents who run the school's fundraisers.

Mom One, "Can you believe how many fliers come home with our kids about *insert name of school's fundraiser here* asking for help? Enough already!"

Mom Two, "Yeah, no kidding. It's not like *insert name of fundraiser volunteer here* didn't have a huge article in the newsletter last month!"

Mom One,"Pffffft."

Mom Two,"Oh, look, there she is now."

Mom One, "Speak of the devil"

Mom Two, "Crap, she's heading over."

Volunteer Mom, "Hi! How are you two doing?"

Mom One, "Great! How's the *insert name of school's fundraiser here* going?

Volunteer Mom, "It's coming along. Will you be there? I think it will be fun!"

Mom One, "We're going to try." (read: No.)

Mom Two, "I think we're out of town that weekend." (read: Hell, no.)

Volunteer Mom, "Well, that's a drag. We're hoping to make enough money to *insert name of underfunded program*. I do hope to see you there. Gotta go!"

(pause until Volunteer Mom is out of earshot)

Mom One, "She never lets up."

Mom Two, "I know. She's so pushy. No way am I helping her with this fundraiser."

Mom One, "I'm boycotting the event, too. I'm sick of them asking so much of us at this school."

Mom Two, "No kidding!"

Mom One, "Especially when they keep making cuts. Did you hear that the entire district might eliminate the music program because the state is cutting funds? I'm so over this school."



Wear babydoll tee-shirts with sparkly designs on their boobs.

Just an observation. I have a couple myself. I don't wear them anymore, but I have them. Remind me to donate them, won't you?***


Greet their kids while talking on their cell phone.

I want to bitch slap them and yell, "Get off the phone, people! Give your kid a hug and focus on them! Ask them about how their day went and interact with them for a minute or two."

But I'm not 'advocating' for my child because I know he can handle the little things...so my words would fall on deaf ears.

M'kay.

***edited to ad: I actually do love some of my sparkly tees...it's just that I find I am choosing NOT to wear them at pick-up so as not to be associated with the Judgmental Moms. Maybe I need to start a campaign to Take Back the Sparkles.

Tell me it's okay to be Pollyannaish

I had my first mammogram at age thirty-five...partly for baseline, partly because I'd thought I'd felt a lump. It was chostrochondritis (inflammation of the cartilage in the chest)

I had my second at age forty...partly because I'd turned forty, partly because I'd found another lump. I got called back after the mammogram, went in for an ultrasound. They did a fine needle aspiration right then and after some agonizing days the pathology report said, "Benign cyst."

My third mammogram was the following year. The mammogram found a suspicious area (same general area as the cyst), and so again I went back for an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed a shadow; that meant it was a solid mass which is far scarier than a liquid cyst. A fine needle aspiration wasn't sufficient; I had to come back later for a biopsy. The doctor and tech both looked concerned, and tried to be reassuring but kept repeating things like, "No need to worry until we know what we are dealing with." To a hypochondriac like me (or more accurately a permanent medical student syndrome sufferer), that wasn't the least bit reassuring. It over a full month from the mammogram to the results of the biopsy, which was galactocoele (aka milk cyst). Benign.

Part of the reason my post last night was so lame was because I was dreading this morning. Yup, mammogram number four was this morning. I tried to be positive this time, not freaked out, not worrying, not saying to myself, "What if this time...?" I tried to convince myself that this time they'd find nothing, and I could leave the radiology suite smiling naturally instead of forcibly. And I was afraid to do that, afraid that hoping for the best was jinxing me for the worst. Because I learned that's how it works in medical school.

This time they found several little calcifications. "Punctuated calcifications" which is the good kind, the variety "rarely associated with malignancy." In fact, the radiologist recommended that I just return in six months for a follow up. But I dug in my heals...I know me all too well. I'd spend many a sleepless night fretting that perhaps I was the exception. When I was all PMS-y I'd look at my kids faces and tear up, torturing myself by imagining them growing up without me. Every time I'd see a pink ribbon I'd break out into a mini cold sweat.

So I sat with him in his dark office, holding the microscope and looking at X-rays of my boobs, specifically at those punctuated calcifications and he said, "Ninety-nine percent of the time these are signs of benign changes."

I said, "I don't want to spend the next six months fearing I'm that one percent. Nope, I want a biopsy."

So now I wait for the call to schedule the biopsy.

Hello mirror, it's me, Christine

I was looking in the mirror the other day and realized that it was the first time I'd done so in a long time. Oh, sure I give myself a precursory glance several times a day...but it's been a while since I really looked at myself.

I used to be known for being a bit, well...vain. I paid attention to my my hair, my clothes, my face, my body. Not that I was "fancy," mind you; I just spent time on myself and wanted to look good. Looking good made me feel good. I never left the house without showering and throwing on some makeup (the bare minimum was eyebrow pencil, mascara, lipstick, blush). My clothes were casual but hip, and my shoes. Sigh...the shoes. And my mom and husband could attest to the fact that my concern over hair color and style bordered on the obsessive (when you've got fine, straight hair like mine it NEEDS attention).

When did that stop? Sadly, I don't know...was it a gradual thing? Or did I slowly stop paying attention to one thing, then another, then another, till I turned into the me I am today? I can't believe I don't know the answer to that question. I do know most days now I simply throw my hair into a pony, squeeze my body into a velour track suit or something (sorry Fussy), brush my teeth and wash my face, and run out the door. Where am I? This isn't me.

It's been ages since I had a beauty regime. I am lucky if I wash my face twice a day. Where are all the little bottles that used to line my bathroom shelves? I miss them. The cleansers and toners and exfoliators and wrinkle creams and hydrators and skin rejuvinators and moisturizers moisturizers MOISTURIZERS.

I'm done with the frump. I'm taking back my high maintenance self. This month is chock full of changes (moving) and vows to find my soul again (NaBloPoMo and NanoWriMo most notably) and getting in shape again (Mrs. Flinger's Weight Loss Wars). I'm going to start staring at my face in the mirror, examining pores, wondering it that is a new wrinkle, plucking errant hairs and experimenting with new products.

P.S.: Thanks Slackermommy for the motivation.

YAY Boobs!

Since we're in the midst of packing for our move, I couldn't get my hands on a photo of me nursing.

Because I know what it feels like to feel embarrassment to nurse your baby, not to mention shame nursing your toddler. When I had my son nearly ten years ago, I had people start asking me when he was six weeks old if I was thinking about weaning. Ummmm...no, just getting the hang of this breastfeeding thing. Those same people (and others) were horrified that I made it to a year, and stopped asking me when I was going to wean once he hit two. I was thankful; I didn't want to have that discussion anymore than they did.

So when I had my daughter, the whole issue of breastfeeding was no longer secretive to me; imagine that! I wasn't ashamed of using these breasts for their biological purpose! Woohoo! After years of unselfconsciously prancing about in bikinis and tight braless tees, not to mention the occasional topless beach or private lagoon skinny-dip, I was finally not afraid to lift my shirt and pop on my babe.

This video is from the League of Maternal Justice, prepare to be moved; bring out the hankies or breast pads to wipe dry your eyes.

cre8Buzz doesn't suck - or - freedom from 'express' shun

In a wonderfully timely follow-up to my post yesterday about how Facebook sucks, here's one more reason to DUMP them (& Myspace as well)...the social networking site cre8Buzz has publicly given us all a reason to get on board with them

They've announced that they welcome images of women breastfeeding; they aren't just quietly accepting/not deleting such photos but instead are making it a matter of policy. How awesome is that...they are separating themselves from other social networking sites who consider such images obscene. LOVE them.

Their words:

Our official position:

Cre8Buzz is the place where people can be seen, heard and found and interact with communities of like-minded folks. We believe that each community has its topics, issues and means of expression that are unique. Therefore, we at Cre8buzz accept all means of expression, including photos, as long as they meet reasonable standards of appropriateness for that community. For Moms, breastfeeding is part of motherhood like dirty diapers and sick kids. We have no issue with members of the Moms community expressing themselves with pictures of breastfeeding.

Cre8Buzz will go live on October 7th; I was fortunate enough to be a part of the beta site (so I feel more than a bit proud about this announcement).

I have some beta invitations left if you'd like to check cre8Buzz out before they go live; leave a comment and I'll see if I can't hook you up. I'm in the photography community (but zip into the Moms community often, and others as well); you can join any group with an invite, and believe me there are plenty of communities from which to chose.

More like 'mastication', Bill, not 'masturbation.' Just without the teeth and the whole chewing thing.

In case anyone has missed the Bill Maher breastfeeding firestorm, head on over to Suburban Oblivion , Velveteen Mind, and Queen of Spain to get the scoop.

(Yes, that first comment at Suburban Oblivion is mine...and yes, it's totally irrelevant and tangential. Notice the time I posted it...tipsy tired posting.)

A big old blogging hug

My buddy Casey over at Moosh in Indy is asking for support and words of wisdom/encouragement for her friend who recently suffered a miscarriage. Here's the comment I left over at her blog; if you can stop by and help her friend through this by sharing your stories or sending well wishes it would be much appreciated. And a doggone nice thing to do!

-----------------------------

I had two miscarriages in-between my two children.

The first started with some cramping and spotting. I remember the moment I knew for sure that it was serious; I was laying in bed and felt a gush accompanied by horrible cramping. At that exact moment the chimes outside our bedroom window rang, despite it being a totally calm night. I was nearly eleven weeks; we’d seen the heartbeat nearly a month earlier.

The second time I was in the doctor’s office for a routine 7 week vaginal ultrasound. We were so excited…but then the silence in that dark room as my OB tried to locate a heartbeat was overwhelming. My own heart was pounding like crazy, and everything was reduced to the concerned look on my doctor’s face and my thought, “Not again, not again, not again, not again, not again.” Those moments seemed to last forever, until he looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry.”

What got me through those experiences without losing hope was the fact that miscarriages are so common. Painful and devastating and all of those horrible things, but also natural and not something to be ashamed of…the loss of a pregnancy is something women (and men) have been grieving throughout time. It sucked to be part of that group, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

I’m glad you’re doing this for your friend. She needs to feel not-alone. Hugs to her, and to you.

Times When Christine Really, REALLY Had to Pee (A Trilogy); Part I

(This is part one in a three-part series detailing in mind-numbing depth three separate occasions where I, Christine, had to pee very, very badly and managed to inconvenience strangers and family alike)(Oh! I just thought of another...perhaps this shall be a tetralogy).



Picture it, Madrid 1997 (prize of nothing given to whomever gets that reference). It was well after dark and I had just arrived in Madrid. As I exited the train I managed to get myself robbed; I freaked out for a few minutes wondering what I was going to do without cash, credit cards, or the map to the hostel at which I had a reservation. I sort of remembered where the hostel was relative to the train station, so I started walking. Pretty soon I was lost and wandering around a poorly lit warehouse district (yes, not creepy at all). Eventually I stumbled upon my hostel; it was 11 pm at this point, way past their curfew.

As I rang the doorbell of the hostel, I tried to convince myself that the owners would take pity on me; I was a girl traveling alone who had been robbed in their beautiful city. They would understand why I was late and would be okay with the fact that I didn't have my credit card with me; they would take me in, perhaps give me some tea and a warm rag to wipe off my dirty, tear-stained face, console me, and do all they could to help this scared girl.

Uh, no.

I had to beg them to let me in; I started thinking that perhaps I should have taken my chances with the two slimy American guys who had "felt sorry for me" and offered to buy me "some beers" and let me "stay with them." I pleaded over the intercom and explained my story and after many protestations they let me in. Then they wanted payment. Up front. Now. "They took my wallet; if I can call American Express they will wire you the money from my bank account in the morning," I explained. "I just need to make one phone call."

"No. Phonecalls are not allowed after 8pm. It disturbs our guests."

I was beyond on the verge of tears. Ultimately they capitulated; I called AMEX as the two owners of the hostel sat five feet from me sighing and coughing and rolling their eyes. Finally, they got confirmation of their payment and I got to retreat to my room. I have little memory of going to bed, just the recall of a vague uneasiness all night.

In the morning I decided to high-tail it out of Madrid. I had wanted to go to the The Prado, but I was so freaking jittery I needed to get out of a humongous city and into a more manageable small-scale situation where I'd feel safer.

Thus Toledo it was. Less than an hour south of Madrid and home of El Greco, Toledo had been on my itinerary anyway...I was just bumping up my visit.

After leaving my hostel, I ran into a shop and grabbed some bread and a one and a half liter bottle of water. I hadn't eaten since I left Barcelona so I was famished. And thirsty (AHA! YES! Where the pee part of the story starts). I chugged the water and ate the bread as I ran to the station.

Once I arrived, I bought my ticket and located my platform. I had less than ten minutes before the train left...I was starting to feel the urge, but the closest lavatory was a bit of a sprint away. Could I hold off until the train was out of the station to hit the john (in case it was a Hopper Toilet that just dumps onto the tracks)? Yeah, I could make it; I didn't want to risk going to the bathroom then and having the train leave without me.

So, I hopped on the train and wiggled in my seat as I wait for us to exit the station...and when the time came I made my way to the back of the car, full of that feeling that relief combined with urgency that comes as you know are finally going to go.

Nothing. No bathrooms.

I zipped out of that car into the next, and then the one behind it, all the way to the end of the train. Nada. I worked my way back to the front of the train...no bathrooms anywhere. I went back to my seat, wondering what the hell I was going to do? I'd been traveling around Europe for well over two months at this point and I had never encountered a train that didn't have bathrooms. It hadn't occurred to me that this could be a possibility.

The conductor came by and I asked/mimed him how long until we arrived in Toledo. He pulled out a map; we weren't even a quarter of a way there. I was screwed; there was NO way I was going to make it. I tried to explain this to him; he wasn't getting my broken Spanish, my fairly good French, my English. So I used the international symbol for having to piss in the worst way: I locked my knees together, grabbed my crotch, and bulged out my eyes.

He got it. He put a sympathetic hand on my arm; once again showed me the map, pointed to his watch...NOW...pointed to the map, pointed to his watch again to show me the time lapse until we arrived in Toledo. Another half hour at least. There wasn't much between where we were and here; no other cities, no other stops. "Gracias" I said with a smile I plastered on my face. I knew I wouldn't make it.

I hummed, bounced, and squirmed. The minutes elapsed as the crop fields passed by my window. The motion of the train only seems to serve to swoosh the urine around in my bladder; waves of pee knocking against my urethra. I sat on my heal, hoping it would somehow act as a cork. I assessed the seat in which I was sitting; a bowl-shaped resin type thing. I *might* hold *some* pee, at least prevent it from sloshing onto the floor. I wondered what I could pull out of my backpack that would be sufficiently absorbent. Not only did I consider that, I actually thought it would come to that.

Suddenly, in the middle of what seemed like endless feilds, the train came to an unexpected stop. Outside my car there was a little platform, a dock only as long as my car and half the one before it and after it. There were two little buildings on it; the large one had a window covered by shutters. "Great," I thought. "This will help my situation - a delay."

Then right outside of my very window the conductor's face popped up. He waved for me to come down! Come down! He pointed to the little building, and to my extreme joy I saw those wonderful silhouettes of a male and female. BATHROOMS! I looked back at the conductor and he had backed away from the train, continuing to beckon me to detrain. So I did. And I RAN towards those bathrooms, carrying my huge backpack on my back.

"HEY!" I heard. I turned around and the conductor threw a key on a stick to me; I caught it, chucked my backpack to the ground and fumbled my way into the bathroom.

It seemed forever long, that pee. I realized as I was in there that someone could be grabbing my backpack and hopping on the departing train. It's worth it, I thought.

But I didn't hear anyone shuffling away with my bag, and I didn't hear the train chug away. I exited the bathroom, handed the smiling conductor the key and thanked him in as many languages as I thought we might have in common, but mostly with "Gracias, gracias, gracias." He stopped the train for me, a girl who didn't know better than to not guzzle a liter of water before boarding.

I picked up my backpack and as I headed towards my car I thought of how I had discovered a new Walk of Shame. The Ugly American who inconvenienced a train full of people; maybe made some late for work, or for getting home to their families, or disrupted their day's activites because I hadn't bothered to do my homework.

But then I heard a funny noise;I looked up, and out of each train car window were as many heads as could fit through; they were clapping, smiling, and waving.

Within twelve hours I'd experienced some of the worst and some of the best we as humans had to offer each other.

All we want is a pepsi, just one pepsi

There is someone I haven't told you about. I have a daughter who is twenty. I met her dad when she was five; I met her when she was six. The past couple of weeks for her have been laden with major decisions about the path her life will take. They have consumed me. And her.

Us.

I understand her like I understand few. She gets me as well. My FBNOML, which is the temporary pseudonym she and I concocted for here (first to figure out that acronym will win the prize of knocking my socks off, and I will give you the hint that there could be a comma after the "B"), and I can look at each other across the room and *know* what the other is thinking. We can have whole conversations without speaking a word.

FBNOML read my blog for the first time this weekend (and thrilled me to tears when she laughed out loud as she went through it). She had a blog years before I started my first; it would just be wrong for me to write about her in this forum without her being properly introduced.

My friends, this is FBNOML. FBNOML, this is my internet gang.

One more reason to love batteries and hate oil

For too long Mr. Scale has been saying to me, "STEP OFF, bitch! Yeah, I'm talkin' to YOU! Why do you keep coming 'round here looking for something you KNOW you won't find? To quote Albert Einstein (or maybe it is Benjamin Franklin, or Rita Mae Brown, or a Chinese proverb...what do I know, I am a SCALE?), 'The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.'"

But AHA! I have discovered how to make Mr. Scale do my bidding. The other day I tapped it with my foot, waited for the tare function to do it's zero thing, and then stepped on.

It was so lovely. My scale told me, in no uncertain terms, "TOO LOW."

It's been many years since those words have been applied to my weight. I am TOO LOW!!! And I have been every morning since.

I *knew* my clothes were shrinking. Just knew it. My wedding rings being too tight for comfort? Clearly a function of solar flares or some other phenomenon causing them to decrease in diameter.

I really don't want to change that particular battery any time soon.

I'm gonna make it after all

Ugh, I was a wreck of a bitch yesterday. It started with the old woke up on the wrong side of the bed excuse combined with the syndrome of EVERYTHING is falling apart at the seams. Every other moment I felt like I was putting out fires, then turning around and hearing bad news, then being head-butted by the most ugliness humanity has to offer, then finding out that life as I know it is probably crumbling under my feet.

At least, that's how it felt.

So I called my Mommy. She always makes me feel better (belly poking notwithstanding...and honestly I invited it when I asked her, "Do I look like I've gained weight?").

Anyway, today I called her to talk me down, which she did. She always can; no one else helps me like my mom. During the course of our conversation, my daughter kept interrupting (the audacity!) and whining and yelling. Eventually I lost my "cool" and bellowed, "KNOCK IT OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's almost like my daughter didn't understand how badly I needed to talk to my mom. I mean, sometimes a girl just NEEDS her Mommy.

Later that night, as I was putting the kids to bed (my husband still at work, or at a fantasy baseball meeting, whatever) my daughter disappointed me. Out of respect for her three year-old privacy I will refrain from sharing (she peed on my bed) but let's just say she knew better.

I lost it.

I yelled at her, "YOU KNOW BETTER!" then lugged the linens downstairs to the laundry room, cursing myself because I was so behind on laundry that I didn't have enough to scrape together to make my bed properly. I bitched and moaned and complained and blamed everyone I've ever met.

Even as I did so, I knew I was acting like a lunatic. I didn't care. Some weird, primal, reptilian part of my brain actually enjoyed entertaining the thought of punching a hole in the wall. Another part of my brain worried that I had in fact lost it, and that this was The Beginning of the End.

This morning I woke up on the right side of the bed (and no, there is no subtext here). As soon as I opened my eyes I knew I wasn't in the same dark place that I was yesterday...that was certainly a relief, but I wondered what the hell was wrong with me yesterday, and felt heaps of guilt about my inability to keep my emotions in check the day before. I felt great today, except for that guilt.

As the day went on I was relieved to find that little things that would had set me off yesterday I was able to deal with in a rational way. While that was reassuring, I felt the echoes of yesterday tugging at me. You wouldn't have been so level headed yesterday, eh? Why NOT?

Mid afternoon I unexpectedly started my period (Wait! What is that sound? The out-clicks of all my male readers?). OH! THAT is what my deal was yesterday. I wasn't descending into lunacy, I was just PMS'ing.

Since being an optimist isn't my strength, I've come to the conclusion that at the age of 41 (and a half), since my periods are now not following the normal pattern of utter predictably (yes, I have neglected to share with you that my last cycle was nearly a week late) that I have entered perimenopause. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

The (First*) Cable Guy

The other day we switched our phone lines so that we had cable, internet, and phone from one provider (plus it saves money! Yippee!). When the cable guy arrived I opened the front door and was greeted by a lovely plume of second hand smoke so strong I thought for a second he was squirreling a lit cigarette behind his back.

I let him in and lead him where the Ethernet fraternizes with the cable and phone and cap this and thats and say, "Have at it; I will be upstairs with my daughter. Call me if you need me."

Fifteen or so minutes later I hear, "Ma'am?"

Ugh, Ma'am'ed.

I scurry down to see what the matter is, and he proceeds to tell me how our house isn't correctly wired for the job. We'd need to rewire EACH individual phone jack, and he isn't allowed to do that. We'll have to hire an independent electrical company to come in...shouldn't run us more than a few hundred.

Our house is four years old, and we paid a ridiculous amount so that ANY wiring needs we might ever possibly, conceivably, potentially have in the future were already in place. So, I ask him to explain EXACTLY how it is that our house isn't up to snuff. My swell cable guy went on to explain how yadda this wire yadda that wire blah that blah not correct ahem.

What he was saying didn't make any sense to me, but then I not the most fluent in Wiring Speak. So I admitted that I just didn't know what he was talking about (my polite way of saying YOU ARE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE).

He said, "Well, like I tell my daughter, you're beautiful so you don't need to be smart."

I can't tell you how incredibly relieved I felt to hear those words. What a burden lifted off my shoulders. I don't NEED to be smart. I am a female (which is what he meant by beautiful, believe me) and so I'm off the hook.

But wait! There's more!!! Later as he was leaving he felt the need to reiterate, "My wife always slaps me when I say this, but I am going to go ahead and say it anyway. If you're not smart, it's hard to understand."

Inwardly I just rolled my eyes. I didn't care what this guy thought of me and didn't feel the need to defend myself. He wasn't trying to be a jerk and in fact was trying in his ass-backward way to make me feel better about not understanding what he was saying. But my nearly nine year-old son was nearby; I didn't want to leave the impression that it was okay for people to talk to others that way. However, I *knew* the guy was just being folksy in the best way his one and a half standard deviations below average IQ would allow him.

So I just handled it the way I would have if my son hadn't been there. I smiled and nodded, thanked him, and showed him the door. Then I used it as a "teaching moment" (more rolling of internal eyes) and we discussed the difference between the words smart and ignorant, and the irony in the cable guy using the term incorrectly. We also talked about the whole sticks and stones vs. breaking bones theory and when to apply it, and a few other things as well.

I'm glad I didn't alter my behavior because I had my son as an audience. I've always trusted my instincts and they have generally served me well; parenthood isn't the time to stop. At least that is what my gut tells me.

*More irony: the cable guy totally messed up the wires when he as here. He managed to not only NOT install our new phone service, but to disconnect our old one. I discovered within thirty second of him leaving that were left without phone and internet (!!!) service. We managed to get the cable company to come back later that evening and the new cable guy had everything up and running in less than half an hour. Seems we didn't need to rewire EACH phone jack after all.