Not today, suckah!

Hello, Peep. My name is Krissy Poopyhands, and I am an overeater.

I know! You must be exclaiming to yourself, “No! Surely not! It’s NOT POSSIBLE!”

Let us examine the evidence, shall we?:

Aha!
AHA!
Not here
But here!
And DEFINITELY here.

I think we can establish with a certainty that I’m well and truly obsessive. I’m also addicted. This is not easy to accept. I walked away from cigarettes and never let booze get a hold on me. I quit Oxycontin, basically a form of heroin, cold turkey and didn’t look back; even through the sweats and the ants under my skin.

What I did with Oxy I cannot do with pizza. Cookies. I can’t do it. I try and I try and I can’t do it.

So I’m back to Overeaters Anonymous, which sounds like a made up thing but isn’t really. My doctor has ordered me on the South Beach diet because I’m carb intolerant and is putting me on some statins for my ridiculously high cholesterol. “Frightening”, I think was the medical term bandied about with wild abandon yesterday.

Luckily I don’t even have the barest hint of diabetes, or even pre-diabetes, something I was very alarmed about.

I hate food, peeps. I really, really do. I’m food’s bitch.

Again, I was going to write a funny post, and maybe I should wait until I can put it together, but I don’t know if you’ll be reading two months from now and the 11 hour workday kind of took it out of me.

Until tomorrow, then.

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Finally, a little sun!

But please do not pass it in the house.

I had a well-written, fully formed post to give you, but unfortunately my brain is on hiatus. Wallace is either going through a growth spurt, cutting more teeth, or slowly being possessed by Lucifer. He is on a sleep strike. Of all the baby insanity, the not-sleeping bits are the hardest for me to adjust to. We’ve had two nights in the past four, including last night, where he was up every half an hour for a five-hour period. Last night I slept in the nursery on the floor next to his crib because he wasn’t staying down long enough for me to make it to the couch, 15 feet away.

Tonight there was impassioned screaming at bedtime, replete with binkey-throwing and banging on the side of the crib. However, if I walked in there he would immediately throw himself to the mattress, curl up sweetly and close his eyes. Little stinker. Then I would wait for a moment patting his back and leave, and lo the screaming would begin anew, as if from a fresh, mountain stream that hath no beginning and no end.

I’m sleep deprived. I’m managing to get by in quantity, but quality leaves quite a bit to be desired. Half-an-hour to two-hour stretches uninterrupted only get you so far.

To add to the insanity, we’re watching the aforementioned BIG DOG, and while I love him and he is sweet, Joey and he have been working out how this is all going to happen and there have been glitches along the way. Tonight both of them were so upset they both shat in the house, something Joey has NEVER done. Meanwhile, Duke shat in the house because when I let him out in the backyard he refuses to crap. He’s used to a city apartment and needs at least the illusion of a walk. But I forgot, and he’s old and doesn’t have great control over his back end anyhow.

It’s all cleaned up now, but when the detritus of dinner was everywhere and dogs were shitting and babies were screaming and soothing music was playing and jangling nastily with my nerves and I stood there knowing that there was nobody else who would put the baby to bed, clean up fucking dishes or dogshit, I did, for a hot second, think I would lose it.

Did I mention I’m not sleeping so well?

It’s nice to know that after all these years, I’m still Krissy Poopyhands (with logo).

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Is out of town

I have been working on a project at my job since I started in this position. Today something went wrong that I could not foresee or prevent, and yet I got a “stiff talking to” anyhow. It’s just not my week. If I hate anything more than getting reamed out for something that isn’t my fault, I don’t know what it is.

So, to take my mind off of the horrid plop of mess that is me until my husband arrives home this evening (because, quite obviously without him I cannot function), it’s:

A PEEPCHECK!

Tell me something about what’s going on with you. How’s your family? How are you feeling? Are you done with winter? Do you have a problem you haven’t told anyone about yet? Are you in a fight? Are you really, really happy?

Let us here at Speckblog know about it!

In the meantime, here are some interesting peepchecks around the web:

FYI, the graphics here were purchased from Cute Colors. Indeed. Come the Rapture, may I have your website?

Julia has been wondering whether to have her son tested. He’s just three and is reading adding and generally behaving as someone who has more than a little bit going on upstairs. The question over whether or not to make a big deal of it is an important one, and sometimes has profound ramifications.

Cancerbaby is coming home and she would appreciate a length of intestine, if you can spare it.

Got Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS)? This One’s for you!

How hard is it to wait for your HIV+ daughter to come home? Harder than you could possibly imagine, thanks to HMOs.

I hope that’s enough to keep you tided over, peep darlings. Tonight a VERY BIG DOG comes to stay with us for two weeks; you know, to replace the rabbit, so I don’t know when I’ll be able to check in. Possibly after my test (BOO) on Monday and after the doctor’s appointment where I find out if I’m going to drop dead of bad cholesterol tomorrow (short answer: yes).

P.S. - The haircut is DIVINE!

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Or: Avoidance is an artform

The night, it did not get better. Andy has been out of town probably five times since Wallace was born, and every single time the baby has gotten sick. Last night I finally fell asleep at midnight and at 12:20 am the crying started. He went back to sleep at 3:00 am. Lord help me.

By 2:00 am I had adopted the scattershot approach:

Or: Possibly the dumbest dumb I have ever dumbed

My day, in a nutshell:

This morning I woke up out of my nice, warm, husband-filled bed late, as I seem to be doing regularly lately. It’s a byproduct of my difficulty sleeping more than eight hours. I got up and took the dog for a walk in what passes for reasonable winter Chicago weather and by the time I got back the unreasonably cheery baby had woken up Andy. I struggled to get everything done and out to my clean, running, handy, insured car.

I got to work but was pretty mildly frazzled by the time I got there. Over the past week I’ve worked on creating a really very cool power point presentation on my state-of-the-art laptop illustrating why people should donate to Young At Heart’s Chicagoland Pet Show appearance. It was a kickass presentation, if I do say so myself. I sent it to the person I was courting at 1:02 and 30 seconds.

I shit you not, at 1:03 and 15 seconds I got a curt “No thanks”. From someone who knows me; who I’ve never made a request of in our five years of contact. Who says hello to me when he sees me. From someone who I’ve been encouraged to talk to. I’m not half as upset about the no as I am about the curt. Jesus, can’t you PRETEND to read it? How about, “It looks like a great cause. Unfortunately I’m strapped at the moment”? How about fucking SPELLING MY NAME RIGHT?

My incredibly supportive and lovely friend agreed with me that it was a reasonable answer given in an incredibly rude way. Most of the day at my well-paid and wonderful job was spent doing reasonable amounts of rewarding work. Enough that I couldn’t study for my interesting and challenging upcoming exam on Monday.

I left work early to get the boy, as my husband is out of town for two days making money to do what he loves and yet pay our bills. I spoke to him on the phone on my way, got Wallace, and on our way back to the car Wallace’s shoe fell off. He said, with perfect clarity, “Uh oh!”, like a real, grownup boy. When I got back to the car I searched briefly for my phone so I could tell Andy. Not finding it, I assumed I’d dropped it into my bottomless yet handy for sippy cups purse. Anyhow, Wallace was slightly grumpy and making noises and I had to get to the store.

I have a cold that is not pox, bird flu or meningitis, and it’s settled into my chest and I’ve been almost out of my affordable $10 inhaler that I get on health insurance in spite of part-time hours. I picked up my disgustingly inexpensive medicine that keeps me alive and was playing with my precocious, easily conceived and delivered child, when he hauled back and smacked me right in the face. Hard. No really, I’m serious, hard. So we had a little shriek fest time-out in the store.

Getting back into the car I looked again for my phone. I turned out my purse and dug through my entire computer bag. No (technically probably entirely unnecessary) phone. I realize that when I got to Wallace’s day care, I must have dropped it on the curb or in the grass. Rather than forcing Wallace to sit in the car any longer, I drove home, arranged to leave him briefly with amazing friends ,who also kindly loaned me their cell phone so I could try calling mine, and drove back to day care to have a look around. No phone.

When I got home again I called and suspended my service which they did without question, checked to make sure that nobody had used it to call Honduras, it probably got pulverized by a car, and was told it would take hundreds of dollars to replace which in a pinch we can afford.

Before I went to get Wallace from yet another sweet and loving caretaker, I decided that I’d go ahead and take the pregnancy test that I ridiculously bought. I have a habit, now that I’ve been intentionally pregnant to be more nervous about accidental pregnancy than I ever was before. I’ve been putting on weight lately and thick-headed and emotional and dropping things. So, even though it’s unlikely because I just had a huge-ass period that could have painted the Sears Tower every now and again I have to compulsively test.

The test… I’m not kidding here… the test FINISHED WITH AN ERROR. That’s right. My idiotic penchant for pregnancy tests can occasionally be expensive, so I got the ones on sale. The digital ones for people who can’t see LINES. Instead of flashing a relieving “Not Pregnant”, mine said “See Leaflet” in what felt like decidedly ominous tones. I saw the leaflet and it informed me that I either peed on the stick too much, or not enough, and in either case it was fucked. And not in the good way.

So, phoneless and still unsure as to the state of a highly unlikely pregnancy, I went and retrieved the boy and started making him a very late dinner. I was chatting with my sympathetic mother, who was making sympathetic mother noises, when Wallace reached up and pulled down the cutting board, scattering the probably not very healthy anyway sausage I was cutting all over the floor.

I threw it all away eeewww dog germs and microwaved him a Boca chicken patty. I myself had nothing, and sat around feeling hungry and sorry for myself , which, at my weight, is fucking funny.

After that, the evening seemed to go alright. It’s been, what? An hour without disaster /inconvenience?

I’m even eating. Peanut butter toast, grapes and a Heineken. Bottom’s up, completely imaginary zygote! Here’s to a first-world tomorrow.

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For those of you following the Norman Saga, it turns out that he’s fourth time lucky.

His first home was wonderful, but full of allergies. His second, he was overly-friendly with their girl bunny. In the third, he was also much too lovey with their girl bunny. But in the fourth home he has found lagomorph heaven and has laid down his rug permanently.

He lives upstairs with all the hustle and bustle of a few adults and two adorable children.

One of Norman’s adorable children

From whom he gets much loving

Norman is permitted large amounts of time outside his pen where he gambols and sits under the television set and grooms himself. He also passes time by bothering the household cats. So not everyone is overjoyed that Norman has come to stay:

GAH! What the hell is THAT?

The rabbit comes out, the cat chooses to go in.

However, the dude, as always, is chill. He’s got his stuff, his people, his kitties and lots of room to be a happy bun.

It’s a fine life.

Congratulations, Dude! And welcome home.

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Are almost never attractive

And yet, here I am again. Once again, dear peeps, life is fine and dandy. School continues apace and I have submitted two of eight small papers due this year, weeks early. There is a program online that is kickass and that may keep me from totally bombing neurology. I have, unbelievably, made real friends there. Friends that smile and wave when I drive up. Dare I say it, I feel included, which is a rare and lovely feeling.

Likewise, work is more than reasonable. I have enough to do to keep me busy, but not so much that I’m overwhelmed. The boss I have is the kind of boss you really want to have if at all possible. Her favorite pastime is buying little gifts for the staff and surprising them. Seriously; get yourself a boss like this if at all possible.

My kid is painfully cute. He’s healthy and growing all the time. Tonight he and his dad were playing and he was tearing around the house with his little walker toy like some sort of crazed tank. He has also started walking over to his changing table when you suggest changing his diaper. The kid, the kid is damned cute.

My husband continues to shock and amaze the world with his unreal jazz skilz. He was the featured artist at a recent jazz festival and taught a clinic. Afterward he was mobbed by people tripping over themselves to shake his hand. He’s a jazz God. In addition to being a God at the jazz, he is also a God in the bedroom. The marriage, it’s good. Really, phenomenally good. For some reason lately we’ve felt like we did when we first met. All giggles and wrestling and snogging. I’ve never been happier in my marriage.

And yet, when I woke up this morning I couldn’t go into work. I like work, weirdly enough, and I couldn’t go. I called in sick and crawled back into bed and slept until 10:30 and could have slept, I think, for years. All day I’ve felt tired and lethargic and terrible. On the verge of tears.

I’m thinking I might be a little anemic. On the other hand I might be dealing with my own stories. It’s amazing how this stuff jumps up out of nowhere.

It’s hard to pull myself out of a downward spiral, but I’m going to try, darlings. Unless I sleep for a million million years instead.

Tomorrow: Norman Update!

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Another helpful Speckblog PSA for parents

We were at lunch a few hours ago at our favorite lunch spot that unfortunately does not have a changing facility in either bathroom. Wallace did what babies do when they’ve been, you know, eating, so I took him into the bathroom to change him.

As my choices were the floor or the counter I put his protective mat down and started to change him quickly on the counter. Suddenly, a four-foot fluorescent lightbulb fell out of its space under the mirror at the sink and shattered on the counter about four inches from Wallace’s face.

I scooped him up and brushed him off. Glass shards falling like snow from your baby is damned alarming, let me tell you.

Eventually I got a new diaper on him and we went home. I called our doctor and poison control and while the doctor didn’t have any good ideas, the poison control center said that one exposure to a shattered fluorescent bulb (which contains Mercury) isn’t considered poison, it’s just an irritant. They said to wash him with soap and water and keep an eye out but that he’d probably be fine.

Wallace had chocolate pudding at lunch, so as far as he’s concerned it was a roaring success.

He and I have had a shower and he’s now sleeping off the day’s excitement. I think it might take a little longer for me to come down.

PSA: Exposure to one broken fluorescent bulb is not dangerous (other than the glass). More than that, I’d call poison control ASAP.

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Serves me right

Both my husband and, if you’ll read below, my MOTHER have scored “English Genius”. I would like to point out that I took the test months ago and didn’t pay proper attention to it. I would also like to point out that if these sorts of excuses do not suffice to explain me being outtested by two individuals in my immediate family I’m sure I can come up with others.

Of course, that has not prevented disgusting and wholly unnecessary gloating in this house. In fact, there is someone here who has just smugly offered to spell-check my blog entry and suggested that there may be grammatical errors.

Excuse me while I go give certain asshole people in this house the ol’ fork in the eye.

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