Thursday, April 28, 2011

The End of An Era

My best times during my last year in Liberal Yuppieland were my Thursday night trysts with a beautiful, vivacious brunette.  No, not those kind of trysts you sicko...  My girl R and I would get together at her apartment (I didn't have cable, and something about mine being too cat-centric) with a bottle or two of decent wine, a huge veggie pizza, and enough junk food to take a decade or so off our life expectancies.1
It wasn't just about Michael's familiar stupidity, Jim's vague je ne sais quoi that makes him strangely attractive, or even Dwight's comic weirdness.  R and I had stumbled upon each other while working for The Man, found out we had much in common, good and bad, and it grew from there.  We were both, ahem, unexpectedly forced to move at the same time, by coincidence became neighbors, and became even closer as we helped each other through some icky times.  I miss having someone around who knows me, the good and the bad of me, and from whom I don't have to hide the ugly.  What can I say... even a bottle of mid-range Riesling is still cheaper than the co-pay for a therapist. She's the kind of friend that doesn't come along often, but one I hope will be there for life even if we're never again co-located.

I don't know that I'll ever have the kind of friends here whom I can call crying at 2AM, or to whose house I can bring my knitting without being rude.  It's not just R and all my friends as individual people I miss, but having the comfort and familiarity of that support system. 
So Michael Scott, and most importantly R, I am raising my glass (of tea) to you this evening as I watch the last episode of The Office as we knew it.

1 The one good thing about having a problem with sugar, is the ability to double-dose your diabetes meds when you want/need to pig out.  My theory is, the drugs keep you from getting fat - or at the very least, from going into extreme sugar shock.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Take The Pill and Shove It

Neonatally Induced Abstinence: n. A highly effective form of birth control that prevents pregnancy by using one or more of the following means to prevent sex taking place:
(1) Exhausted parents of a newborn, having gone in some cases as long as their child's entire post-partum life without more than 15 consecutive minutes of rest, always elect sleep over sex due to their extreme exhaustion.
(2) The mom of a newborn's extreme PMS and appearance (including but not limited to leftover stomach flab, stretch marks, stitches from epi or tear) keep both parents from being "in the mood" for the forseeable future;
(3) Friends of the sleep-deprived new parents (particularly those who were on the fence about having kids), having seen the new parents stumble around in a zombielike state unaware that they're covered in drool and spitup, swear off sex for the forseeable future just in case.

This, my lovely OB, in addition to lactational amennorhea, in addition to the fact that I don't freaking ovulate or even have stable blood sugar without the L-1 drug you refuse to prescribe me until I drink your punitive medicine Dr. Moreau Koolaid, stop breastfeeding, and go on the Pill like a good little zombie woman, is why I am confident that I won't get pregnant anytime soon.

Nevermind the fact that the Pill is basically an invention to subjugate women.  Unless you're one of those women who is too lazy to keep an eye on your cervical mucus in which case you're too immature and irresponsible to be having sex anyway,  the only real benefit of the Pill for most of us is that its existence and the presumption that anyone who cares about her career takes it, makes us more marketable to hiring managers.  Employers don't have to worry about - gasp!- our having any priorities or obligations besides our jobs; and lazy boyfriends don't have to worry about the non-disease consequences of sex.  And the Feminazis rejoice. While there are some who do have a legitimate medical need for it, they're few and far between; putting every single non-pregnant woman between the age of 11 and 60 on the Pill as a matter of course is inappropriate.

Now the fact that you're an old-school dumbass who'd rather treat the million symptoms than treat the one cause  we have divergent POVs when it comes to managing PCOS, is unfortunately why I'm looking for a new OB.

Friday, April 1, 2011

April First

As we speak, the cats are right now pulling me and the Pillbug in a dogsled through the Mojave.  We're en route to Vegas to crash Betty White's house party.  Did you hear she hooked up with a transsexual reincarnated Elvis clone in the 70s?

If you don't believe me, check the date stamp on this post!

This morning at about 4 AM, I looked down at Pillbug, who was drifting off to sleep with an adorable smile on his little face, and felt an incredible surge of love.  He is way better than anything I could have ever imagined, and I feel so honored and humbled to be the one to bring this amazing little person to life. 

In my brain damaged stupor induced by no more than 4 hours' sleep in the last 6.5 weeks, I did what any normal person would do:  I updated my Facebook status accordingly.  " I love my little man!"  This got many "likes" from my friends, acquaintances frenemies and family facebook friends.  I checked the newsfeed to see what everyone else had to say, and then it hit me:   Either everybody's off their meds, or it's April Fools' Day.  How mortifying.  I know it looks like I'm just not playing, a first for me, but I know some catty feminine hygiene product is going to bring this up later when talking about what a crappy mom I am.

This is one of the myriad reasons I would love to break up with Facebook.  Why I can't/won't is a different post.

Who cares though.  I am holding my son, which means I should get baptized by a leaky diaper any second now all is right with the world.

So I Married a Philistine

I know Mozart is what you're supposed to play to make your baby smart, but for the sake of my not wanting to cut out my eardrums with a dull butter knife variety, I've tried to expose Pillbug to a variety of genres.  Moms of little kids can do a lot without looking silly, but doing a conga line with a baby to an 18th century minuet just never flies.

As a wannabe ParrotHead1, I made a little dance routine for me and Pillbug to one of the greatest songs ever written.  Yesterday morning, after a night of no sleep, we were in the living room singing and dancing when my husband rushed out of the shower.

CoffeeMan:  Is everything OK out here?
Me: We're just dancing.
CoffeeMan: I thought I heard a faint cry for help.
Me:  I didn't say anything.
CoffeeMan: I didn't mean from you.  Snatched the baby and began to sing Bob Marley.

1No, dammit, I do not smoke weed!  It's just too much a cliche when you're married to a Jamaican. Nor do I sell spliff, nor do I know where you can get the good shit, etc.