My Mom and the Internet

My Mom called, letting me know they were looking at specific dates to come up and see Baby Kaos after he’s born. He’s due at the end of August. They’re looking at coming up the third week of September.

In booking flights for her and my Dad, she did it the old fashioned way: she spent her day calling the airlines.

It isn’t very easy to get to Our Little Town; not like when we lived in Vegas. In order to get here, you need to fly into the Big City, then switch airports (there’s a free shuttle) and fly about 30 minutes to Our Little Town on a little single-engine plane; or you rent a car and drive for 2-1/2 to 3 hours. It takes some work to get here, and that’s something we were conscience of when we moved; we didn’t want to have to run the hotel for a house we had when we lived in Vegas (no disrespect to the friends who came to visit!). So, she needed to contact several different airlines for the flight to the Big City; then she needed to contact the one airline that flies from the Big City to Our Little Town.

But I digress.

After she called the airlines, she called me, because she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

She told me her flight plans, but that she hadn’t booked anything yet because she wanted to double-check that the dates would work for us. The airline was holding tickets for her and My Dad for 24 hours. The dates were fine, just fine.

We hung up so she could book the tickets. Then she called me right back, letting me know the cost of the flights, and that they were going to drive from the Big City to Our Little Town (she doesn’t want to get on a single-engine plane, which is understandable). She wanted to know if I thought she could’ve booked cheaper flights if she had booked it on the Internet.

“Probably,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “we don’t have the Internet, so I guess we’ll just have to live with what we paid for.” My Mother is very gifted at being passive-aggressive. I’ve learned to ignore most of it.

In May, the night before they left for their trip to Hawaii, she called and said, “I tried calling the airline because they said you could check in for your flight before arriving at the airport, but then when I called, they said you can only do that over the Internet. But, we don’t have the Internet, so I guess we’ll just have to live with checking in at the airport.”

I didn’t volunteer to check her in. Partly because of the passive-aggressive thing. Partly because I wasn't comfortable doing such a thing. And, fortunately, she didn’t ask.

“You may want to think about getting on-line, Mom. Zel is planning on doing a web page for the baby and we may even get a camera and you could watch video of him,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know. Your Dad didn’t really like having the Internet before.”

When My Parents had the Internet before, my brother was in middle and high school. He’ll be a college senior this fall.

Every time they would get on the web, they would get pissed off. Then my Mom would say, “Let’s call Amelia! She’ll know what to do!” as if I were a superhero. But, she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

And I would tell her every time, “Mom, you have a slow connection and you need to upgrade your computer.” Really I was telling her in a nice way: “Mom, you own a piece of shit.”

But, she didn’t think she needed a new computer. Why spend the money on a new computer when this one works fine, just fine?

So, she put it off, figuring if you ignore the problem, it’ll just go away. Kind of like if your brakes squeak and you turn the radio up (which is not something I do, but I know some people who do).

“As for pictures of the baby,” she said, “you can just print them off and mail them to us. Or, can you email them to your Little Brother and then he can print them off? Is that even possible? I don’t know.”

“We’ll figure something out, Ma,” I said out loud. “Breathe,” I said inside my head.

My Dad and the Internet

My Parents are not on-line. They were for a while. But they were using a Mac they purchased when My Little Brother was in Kindergarten. He’ll be a senior in college this fall. Fortunately for him on many levels, our parents decided when he graduated from high school that he needed a new computer.

In addition to an antiquated computer, they were on a 56K. Not sure why when they have cable television. So, Dad would get really pissed off because the pages would take forever to load. And then Mom would say, “Well, I don’t know why it’s so slow. Let’s call Amelia!” because she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

Then My Little Brother moved out to attend college, taking his new computer with him. That’s when they disconnected their ISP.

My Little Brother is on-line, and I send him pics of my Bulging Baby Belly and he thinks it’s cool that we can communicate for free. Being Jews, that’s important, yo.

The other day, I had an Internet Lessons from my Dad.

My Dad was telling me about a girl that my Little Brother went to elementary, middle, and part of high school with. She was hiking in the Andes and she and her brother fell into a crevasse and were killed. They were both experienced hikers; they had hiked to the top of McKinley. She was majoring in something to do with the outdoors or environmental issues from my alma matter.

“Not sure if you saw it. It made national news,” Dad said. Zel and I don’t watch much television; we get our news from the web. And, no abc.com and cnn.com aren’t on the list of news sources (and just for the record, neither is fox.com).

“What a horrible thing. I didn’t read about it. Maybe I’ll go to your local newspaper’s web site and check it out,” I said.

“Well, it’s on the Internet. You can go look up Peru and it’ll come up,” he said. “Don’t you guys get a lot of your news on the Web? Well, you go look up Peru and you can read all about it.”

Just what an expecting mom wants to read about: someone’s children who were hiking in the Andes and died.

My Dad continued: “That’s what this guy at work did. He got on the Internet and then he said to me, ‘Well, what do I look up?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know. Try Peru.’ And he typed in Peru and we read all about it,” said my Dad.

Bless his heart. He truly has no concept of how to use the Web. Just for kicks, and because I’m a good kid, I Googled Peru. There were 446,000,000 hits, and the first one was from cia.gov.

And, then I remember that I have the luxury of talking to My Dad. And I remember that I have no idea what she feels. And I remind myself to be patient with him.

I Have No Idea

I have no idea what you’re dealing with.

Or what you’ve dealt with everyday for the last 6 weeks.

Or what you had to handle when you went home to visit. And you went to see your new niece, who is simply lovely.

And you had to leave her earlier than you wanted because you received word that he was sick.

So, you go to the hospital for 16 hours a day. Making sure the nurses are doing their jobs, even though you’re not a nurse, but you could be after the 16-hour shifts you pulled.

I can relate to being at the hospital for 16 hours a day. And being a pseudo-nurse. And how time seemed to stand still.

And the being afraid part; I can relate to that, too. Afraid that the person you love more than anyone else in the world, the person you’ve depended on for forever, is sick and you’re afraid he’s going to die.

And you’re pissed off because you feel helpless. And you question why this is happening; he’s a good person. Why is he so goddamned sick?

I had that experience with my husband. He recovered.

But your Dad died.

And I’m sorry.

I have no idea what it feels like to loose a parent. And the child in me hopes to never know. But the adult in me knows I will eventually.

And I think about how we are at two completely different places in our lives: one of us dealing with death and the other dealing with creating a life.

And I know we’re both afraid of the future.

I send you positive energy all the time. Sometimes, I dedicate my yoga practices to you. I did when your Dad was sick, too.

Sometimes, when I speak to my Dad on the phone, and he goes off on a tangent, and then a tangent, and he keeps tangenting on and on, and it takes him about 10 minutes to get back to the original point, I get frustrated and roll my eyes. I think, How in the goddamn does Princess Diana relate to Hemingway? Where is he going with this one?

And, then I remember that I have the luxury of talking to my Dad. And I remember that I truly have no idea what you’re feeling. And I tell myself to be patient with my Dad. I remind myself that I need to be thankful for the time I have with him; because it may be the last time I talk to him.

I didn’t know your Dad that well; I only met him a couple of times. But he was hott. He was tall, and had grey hair, and a handle-bar moustache, and a beard, and he wore glasses. And he walked with a cane, but it was this cane that was distinguished. It wasn’t one of those canes that you buy at Walgreen’s. It was cool.

I know he would’ve taken me in if I needed a place to sleep. Unless I was on crack. He may have taken me in, but then he would’ve said, “Amelia, you really need to put down the crack.” And I would’ve done it, because I respected him.

And I so appreciate your Dad. Because he created you. And you are truly amazing.

I love you, Mel.

Childbirth Education Class

We started our Child Birth Education Class. It’s actually a series of classes. There are 8 of them. The first four discuss what to expect during labor and delivery, and provides us with some helpful tips.

Yes, there’s that whole “breathing thing”. But, Stephanie the Childbirth Educator said the important thing is to breathe because if you don’t breathe then it takes oxygen rich blood away from the baby and sends oxygen rich blood to your extremities, which is part of the fight or flight response to stress. If blood goes to your extremities and away from you uterus, you have a more difficult labor.

There are 14 couples in the class (Mel, that’s 28 people). That’s a goddamned lot of babies on the way.

A few babies are due in a couple of weeks. There are several babies that aren’t due until the end of August or beginning of September. There’s one baby that’s not due until October. Take it down a notch, Mom. You could’ve started a bit later. Really. Don’t be so goddamned over zealous about squeezing that baby out’cha pussy.

Zel and I are one of two “older” couples in the class. The other “older” couple is…well, she’s probably close to 40, and he looks like he’s about 30. Not sure, but whatever works for them is fine, just fine.

All of the other couples are in their mid-twenties. There don’t seem to be any expecting moms that are in their teens, which is a good thing! (Does that mean our prevention programs are working? Because we know abstinence only programs aren't working. The kids are a-fuckin'!).

There was one dude who had on a General Lee shirt. You heard me. General. Lee.

He clearly didn’t want to be there. I’m not making this statement because he was wearing a General Lee shirt. I’m making this statement because he sat there with his arms a crossed his chest with a scowl on his face for most of the class. His wife seemed kind of into class. But he was forced to be there. Bless her heart. I hope she’s up for the challenge.

"Leaky"

The latest nickname Zel has come up with for me is Leaky.

Because my boobs are starting to leak.

Love and feathers,
Leaky

Deli Counter Girl

“Hiiii!” I heard a female voice say.

It was one of those hi’s that was sung. And made into at least two syllables, maybe three.

“Hi. How are you?” I heard Zel say.

“I’m gooood,” she sang again. Two syllables.

I turned around, because I was curious to see who Zel was chatting with. We already had our freshly cut smoked turkey breast from the deli (which I can’t eat), and I knew we were in a bit of a rush because the England/Portugal game had started about minutes ago. I thought perhaps it was a student. It was Deli Counter Girl.

She was leaning on the counter, and when she saw me, she didn’t lean quite so hard. Her energy changed a bit. We said hello to each other, and smiled at each other. Then I took the cart and walked away.

It was apparent to me that she wanted to try and be a student of Zel’s. Perhaps get an A for anal sex. B for blow job at the very least.

We didn’t say hello to each other like dogs pissing a circle around their territory. We were cordial to each other. But, it was pretty obvious to me that I didn’t need to be in the conversation, so I left.

Zel caught up with me a few minutes later, and I was smiling at him.

“What?” he said. He was a bit concerned as to why I walked away.

I laughed. “Dude, she wants to fuck you so bad it’s sad. You should just bend her over that deli counter and F her in the A,” I said.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But, I don’t think she could handle you. She’s a child.”

We left the store and continued our conversation in the truck on the way home.

Zel said, “A child? She’s gotta be at least 21, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, she’s probably 21. But, just because she’s 21 doesn’t mean she knows how to give a good B for blow job.”

“I could teach her,” he said.

“Yup, you could teach her.”

We drove a long for a few minutes in a comfortable silence.

Then Zel said, “Think she licks pussy?”

“Nope. I think she is a pussy and has never been with another woman. She’s not comfortable sexually around other women. Did you pick up on her energy change when she saw me? She wasn’t quite so gushy once she knew I was there, listening to her sing to you” I said.

“You’re imagining things,” Zel said. “It’s gotta be your raging pregnancy hormones.”

“No, dude. I’m intuitive. Deli Counter Girl totally wants to be your girlfriend.”

"She's cute," he said.

"She's cute," I agreed.

Maybe...

...Just maybe, he was flipping off his mom and dad for making him enter the stupid contest in the first place.

Little Mr. Apricot Flips Off Crowd, Loses Title

Freak accident?

How in the hell does something like this happen??

David Hasselhoff was shaving at a gym in the Sanderson Hotel on Thursday when he hit his head on a chandelier, showering his arm with broken glass.

Was he jumping on a goddamned trampoline?

Turkey Sandwich

I can't eat turkey sandwiches anymore. I haven't had one since I found out I was pregnant.

The problem is that deli meat and unprocessed cheeses sometimes carry a bacterium called listeria. Listeria can cause fetal death, which is something I'd like to avoid.

Last night, I had a dream about a turkey sandwich on wheat bread with mayo and mustard and provolone cheese and lettuce and tomato.

One of the first things I'm gonna do after the baby is born is eat a turkey sandwich.

Stupid Bitch

Does it say “Stupid Bitch” on my forehead?

No.

Funny, because I was treated like a Stupid Bitch today when I went to have another key made for my truck. I have one of those fancy-pants keys that has the plastic above the teeth, but the plastic part broke and I can only super glue that shit so many times before I decide to break down and spend the money.

I went to the dealership where I purchased my truck, and went up to the counter. Nobody was there, so I rang the bell. Waited. Nobody came. Rang the bell again. Finally, Schmoe showed up. I’d never seen him before. Where’s the cute guy who sold me my tires? The one who could sell me a used lollipop stick?

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need to have another key made for my truck, please,” I said.

“We can probably do that,” said Schmoe.

Probably. Nice.

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“Well, if you get the same type of key you have now, only it’s all metal and it has the plastic around it, it’s $7.00,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I’m not loosing sleep. After all, it’s not like I’m drinking lattes right now. But, for seven goddamned dollars, I better get more than "Probably."

I gave him my key and he starts to go to the back, but he stopped, held up my key and said, “Don’t get rid of this key, now.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to.”

I’m standing there waiting for Schmoe to come back up with my both keys, and I’m starting to think, “Does this clown think I’m a Stupid Bitch? Honestly.”

He comes back up and says, “Now, is your car here?”

“Yes.”

“Because we should really check this before you leave. Why don’t you tell me which car is yours and I’ll go check it for you,” he said.

I said, “No thanks, I can do that.” I take both keys and head out to my truck thinking, “What the fuck? Does he treat all women this way? Or just the pregnant ones? And, since you work with the public, you may want to get that fungus on your fingernails taken care of, A-hole.”

The key worked. On my way back in I was thinking, “I should’ve let him do it because the alarm was set and he would’ve looked like an A-hole.”

I go back in and he gives me my receipt, I thank him. I then take my receipt to the lovely woman behind the cashier’s counter. I tend to give her lots and lots of money and she’s always pleasant. Imagine that.

I wanted to ask her, “Does he treat all women like they’re Stupid Bitches? Or just the pregnant ones?”

But, I refrained.

Then, when I got home, I made sure to wash my hands. I'll probably take another goddamned shower. Don’t want a goddamned fungus.

Comment of the Day June 23, 2006

Subtitle: Circumcision

Bumped into a colleague earlier today. She was very excited to see my now bulging baby belly.

She asked the usual questions:
“When’s the baby due?”
“Do you know the baby’s gender?”
“Do you have a name picked out?”

I replied politely to all of her questions.

Then she said, “Are you going to circumcise him?”

I was a bit taken aback by this. The only other people I’ve had this conversation with are Zel and Our Good Doctor.

Not even my Jewish Mother has broached the subject with me. She probably presumes I’m just going to be a wee-wee choppin’ parent.

My colleague said she didn’t circumcise her son and she thinks it’s important that parents don’t make that decision for the child.

I told her we haven’t made a formal decision yet, but as a Jew, I feel the need to uphold some of my people’s practices.

She looked at me over the rim of her glasses and said, “I’m a Jew and I didn’t do it.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s quite a personal decision and Zel and I are confident no matter what we decide, it will be the right decision.”

A great point that Our Good Doctor brought up: we can’t choose our child’s religion. If the kid decides to be a Muslim or a Jew, he’ll need to be circumcised.

Our Good Doctor also told us that the older the baby gets, the harder it is to circumcise him. And, as he gets older, the more involved the procedure is…like in a hospital…with a urologist…considerable time under general anesthesia...and lots more pain…increased chance of complications...increased recovery time...and thousands of dollars.

If we do it pretty soon after Baby Kaos is born, it will be an in-office procedure that Our Good Doctor can do…won’t cost a foreskin load of money (if you will)…a local anesthesia will be used…he’ll have a decreased chance of contracting a UTI during the first year of life…he’ll have a decreased chance of contracting STD’s and developing penile cancer as an adult.

Regardless of our decision, I think she has ovaries the size of coconuts to ask me something so personal.

Comment of the Day, June 21, 2006

Last night, we were driving to our first Childbirth Education class.

Suddenly Zel said to me, “Oh shit!”

“What?” I ask.

“I forgot something,” he said.

I’m thinking to myself, “we have the yoga mat and two pillows and the checkbook and the water bottle, what else do we need?”

“What did you forget?” I ask.

Zel said, “My book.”

Soccer Players

Soccer players are the toughest dudes in the world.

An Ecuadorian player just got kicked in the head.

The docs came out to carry him off on a stretcher.

The Ecuadorian player was like, "Screw you guys. I'm not gettin' on that goddamn stretcher." And walked off the field.

Kicked in the head. Walked off the field.

Comment of the Day June 19, 2006

Since I'm starting to make this a regular thing, I thought I'd better put a date up there in the title.

I was headed in to the office this morning and bumped into the caterer we work with. She talks incessantly. Diarrhea of the mouth, if you will.

And she said, “When’s that baby due?”

“End of August,” I said.

I was being polite, but I kept walking a bit. I was thinking, “I can always say I have a meeting.” What did people do before the spontaneous meeting was invented? What do people who don’t have meetings do to get out of conversations? Do they say, “Well, I’ve gotta go plumb”?

She said, “Well, you’re bigger than the last time I saw you. Pretty soon you won’t be able to drive.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.”

Funny, really, since just last week I was told I wasn’t big enough.

Travel Agent: Update

The travel agent I’ve been making an effort to work with replied to my email. She said, “I think I finally figured out your email and I emailed you the information on your brother’s flight. Did you get it?”

I replied, “I did not receive any information from you via email regarding my brother's trip. Will you please resend it to this email address? Thank you for your time.” This was on Wednesday.

On Friday, she forwarded me the email she had sent to some other Amelia Kaos. When I originally gave her my email address, I spelled both my first and last names for her; she misspelled my first name. Also, I specifically said “underscore” and not “hyphen”.

What should scare us is that she's a trained professional.

From her email, the cost of the roundtrip ticket for my Little Brother to come up is $615. Ouch. Especially considering that on the phone on Monday, she said $500, which was high but doable. Not sure where the extra $115 is coming in.

And that’s for one of the lower-end airlines. For that price, the ride better be direct from his town to my town, and come with strippers and blow jobs.

I've decided that travel agents are a special breed. I considered calling travel agents “Timmy Agents”. But then I decided it would be an insult to Timmy.

Travel Agents

My Little Brother and I are trying to arrange for him to come up here at the end of July.

Our Mother insists on working with a travel agent. “They can get you the best fares. Much better than the internet.”

The web scares the hell out of Our Mother. Computers scare the hell out of Our Mother. (Blog for another time.)

I’ve been surfing the web pretty extensively to get him a decent priced flight from the Desert Southwest to the Pacific Northwest. I’m happy to pay for half his ticket. He’s a starving college student and on a bit of a fixed income. Well, not so much starving because he still lives in the same town as Mom and Dad. And, he works like a dog waiting tables at one of the nicer restaurants in town, and they feed him pretty well at work. And, he makes decent money. But, still, you do that kind of thing when you make more money than him and he’s your only Little Brother. Your only sibling, in fact.

When we lived in Vegas, it was easy for folks to come, so they came.

Getting to our little town is a bit of a pain in the ass. Now, the closest major airport is about 3 hours away by car, including a ferry trip (when you grow up in the desert, taking a ferry is a novelty, so you take it). Riding in the car for 6 – 7 hours isn’t something I’m really going to want to do when I’m about 4 weeks away from delivering Baby Kaos. You hearin’ me?

He can fly here, but here’s how it would work:
Fly from the Desert Southwest to the Pacific Northwest.
Take the shuttle from Airport A to Airport B.
Fly from Airport B, which is in the same city as Airport A, to our little town.

Sounds easy enough.

But then you take into consideration that you’ve got to coordinate times of the flights at Airport A and Airport B. This could result in a major layover…like three hours or so. He’s a damn good-looking 21-year-old, about to be senior in college, so he could probably nail 2 or 3 chicks in Airport A before he catches the shuttle to Airport B. He’s a Creative Writing major, so he could actually nail like 6 chicks if he felt like it.

But, it’s a pain in the ass to coordinate the times and the flights and all that jazz. Especially when you’re trying to keep the cost under $10,000,000.

So, we each called a travel agent in our respective cities.

He called his about three weeks ago. He still hasn’t heard from her. Three weeks.

Hello? I need to put in for vacation sometime soon! Can you pick it up a bit?

So, I called her on Monday. She was out until Wednesday. I spoke with another travel agent at the same office. She was about as friendly as a rabid raccoon.

He’s also trying to book some mega-trip to Vegas and stay in a mega-resort with his girlfriend. They want to go all out, and that’s cool. Our Mother is worried they’re going to get married while they’re there. I’m not worried. The dude has a good head on his shoulders.

She hasn’t called him back on the Vegas trip either.

I called my travel agent on Monday, gave her my email address, no email from her yet.

She did call me on Tuesday, left a message, said she couldn’t get anything to go through to my email address.

So, I went on the web and tracked down her email and emailed her asking her to please email me. She replied back saying she think she figured out my email address and she sent me information on Tuesday. I replied to that and said I hadn’t received anything from her, would she mind resending me the info when she has some time?

My question is: what goddamned school did these travel agents go to? Is it the University of Stupid Bitch? Or is it the School for the Overly Incompetent?

Sweet Jesus, you guys. If I did business like this, nobody would every be educated about their health. The world would be full of smoking, overweight, drug-addicted, alcoholics, that were illeterate. Oh, wait. That's America.

In the words of Eric Cartman, "I...am...so...pissed...off...right...NOW!!!"

Comment of the Day

One of my homegirls, who lives in the Desert Southwest, called.

Wanted to see how the pregnancy was coming; she said felt horrible for not being in contact, blah blah blah.

I told her to not even worry about it…we’re all busy with life…life happens…blah blah blah.

She asked if we’d come up with a name yet.

“No, not yet,” I said. Which is the God’s honest truth. (Does saying “God’s honest truth” make it more truthful as opposed to simply, “the honest truth”? But I digress).

“Why not?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “picking a name is pretty challenging. And, because we have a common last name, we want to name the baby something that’s not quite so common.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I understand. I mean, I’ve had a hard time picking a name for a puppy.”

Comment of the Day

I'm starting a new thing called Comment of the Day. Because everyone has a comment for the pregnant woman. Not sure how many times I'll post a new post called Comment of the Day...we'll see how it goes.

I have a colleague who's baby is due about two weeks before Not John (that's what Zel and I call the baby, because we're not naming him John [no offense to the Johns out there, but there are a hell of a lot of you]).

I was chatting with another colleague, and she said (and I quote):

"Well, for only being two of weeks behind her, you're not nearly as big as her."

Nice.

The “Heat” of Summer

Several times each day, people ask me when Baby Kaos is due to make his entrance into the world.

“End of August”, is my typical response.

To which they say a variation of the following:

• “Oh, you’re going to love the heat!” (in a sarcastic tone)
  
• “What a horrible time to be pregnant. What about the heat?”
• “Why did you choose to get pregnant during this time and suffer through the heat of the summer?”
  

And, my typical answer is: “I grew up in the Southern Arizona, and I’ve also spent several years in Las Vegas, so, I’m not overly concerned about ‘the heat’ of the Pacific Northwest. After all, we live on the coast. And one’s definition of heat is relative.”

This usually causes them to stifle.

Sometimes, when I know the person, I’m feeling particularly surly, or they feel they need to push the issue I'll say: “Well, the timing for my husband and I is actually perfect. He’ll be done teaching summer school, and then he doesn’t report back to school until the end of September, so we’ll have about three or four weeks of the two of us being at home with Baby Kaos.”

What I’d like to say to people is: “Well, the baby’s like his Daddy in that he comes when he comes.”

Other times, especially when I’m super crabby, I’d like to say: “Fuck you for judging me. You don’t really have the right to do that. Are you a conservative?”

But I don’t. I refrain.

Not Making This Up

The following is an excerpt from my local news station's web site. Don't forget that I live in a small town, where a single vehicle accident is big news.

"The truck came to rest less than 20-feet from a small beauty salon. Women in that building two deputies they thought the pickup was coming right into the building."

Perhaps they should consider hiring a proof reader. I'm happy to do that for them if they'll pay me.

Forgot My Panties

This week, I traveled into the Big City for a one-day meeting. I went into the Big City the day before the meeting, because the meeting started at 9:30, and it generally takes about 3 hours to drive to the Big City. No way am I getting out of bed at 5:30, leaving by 6:30, dealing with Big City traffic, sitting all goddamned day in a meeting, and driving home all in the same day. I could fly, but I took my own rig because I needed to do some shopping and I didn't want to deal with getting the playard on the plane.

I was unpacking in my hotel room, and ironing my pants and shirt for the next day. It was around this time that I realized that I forgot a clean pair of panties.

"Sweet Jesus," I thought. Well, I guess that's what I get for talking on the phone and packing at the same time. I'm learning in my pregnancy that I'm not really able to multi-task, which is frustrating on many different levels.

I heard my Jewish Mother say, “Amelia, I have always told you to make sure you pack one extra pair of panties. So, if you go somewhere for one night, you take two pairs of clean panties. And, if you go someplace for a week, you pack eight pairs, that way you always have one extra pair, because you never know what's going to happen. You always want to have on clean underware. And you didn’t, so you won't. Way to go, honey.”

I’m not sure where the idea of packing more than you need came from. Probably from my Jewish Mother’s Jewish Mother.

So, I punted.

I washed my black panties in the sink of the hotel room and hung them out to dry.

I had packed cream pants for the meeting the next day.

Fortunately, I had a long shirt to cover my expanding Baby Belly. So, one couldn’t see my black panties through my cream pants. I tried this before I washed my panties. Otherwise, I would’ve gone without underwear, which really isn’t an option because pregnant women have an increase in the amount of vaginal fluid they excrete. Not cool if you're free-balling, if you will.

When I got up in the morning, my panties weren’t quite dry. So, I blew them dry with the hairdryer that the hotel was kind enough to provide. I stood naked in the bathroom with the hairdryer on high and my panties blowing in the wind. I couldn't help but think of Bob Dylan. I had to laugh at the entire situation, because it really was pretty funny.

I dried them, finished getting ready, and went to my meeting.

In my head, I said to my Jewish Mother and my Jewish Mother's Jewish Mother, “See, I’m not too dumb.”

Fishnet Stockings

Some women look fabulous in a pair of fishnet stockings and heels.

Take these women, for example. They have nice long, slender legs.

They can wear fishnets effectively. Granted, the woman on the right looks like she needs to eat a burrito but she still looks damn good.

And this woman does a garter belt justice, so I thought I’d throw her in the mix.

I’ve worn fishnets, but they don’t look nearly as good on me as they do on these women. I don’t have legs up to my neck. Nor am I as "freak of nature" thin. Which is ok. (Don’t worry! I’m not turning this into a “whoa is me…I’m pregnant and fat” bitch session.) I'm comfortable in my skin.

Point is: I know that I don’t look as good as these women in fishnets, so I don’t wear them.

However, some women think that they do look good in them. Perhaps they fail to look in the mirror before they leave the house. Perhaps nobody has the courage to say, “Hey, those stockings look obscene in a bad way on you.”

I was at a meeting last week, where the woman who makes me want to poke her eyes out with my latte straws was the facilitator.

She had on fishnets.

She’s in her 60’s.

Now, some older babes can wear fishnets and pull it off.

But not her.

It’s not so much that she’s a senior citizen.

It’s not so much that she wore her fishnets with a straight tan skirt that hit her about mid-shin.

It's not so much that she had on a red sweater.

It’s more that she had them on with clogs.

You read that correctly.

Clogs.

What the fuck?

Now, I’m not saying that clogs aren’t comfy. Cause my good friend Melanie says they are. And Melanie could tell me just about anything and I’d believe her.

But, fishnets with clogs?

Sweet Jesus. Isn’t that one of the signs from the Four Horsemen?

Explain Yourself

Why do people feel the need to explain themselves to other people?

Specifically people they don’t know.

Today, when I got home, there was a message on our machine. Some dude called and left a lengthy message about how his vehicle was stolen and then abandoned by the thief. He went on about blah blah blah and that he only has 24 hours to get this done. He asked me to call him back, and remembered to leave his phone number just before hanging up.

If he would’ve paid any attention to the message on our machine, he would’ve heard, “This is the Kaos residence.” He was looking for some auto place. Their number is one off from ours. Granted, the number that is off is pretty big on the touchtone phone he used. The auto place has a 1 and we have a 5 where there 1 is.

So, I decide this will be my good deed for the day. It’s Monday, and I’m trying to not have a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I call.

A chick answers.

“Jesus,” I think. I do my good deed and I get the jealous wife/girlfriend. “Yippee.”

I say, “Hi, I’m calling because Fred called me earlier about his car.”

Pause.

I continue, “He left a detailed message on my machine, and, I’m not really sure what’s happening, but I just wanted to let him know he had the wrong number.”

She said, “Oh. Thanks for calling. He only has like 24 hours to get the title transferred out of his name.”

I said, “Well, I hope that goes well. Good luck.”

And I think that’s it. But, I also think, no way you’re going to get that to happen unless you want to wait in line for a year at the courthouse to get that title transferred.

And she said, “See what happened is that his car was stolen and then it was abandoned and…”

I interrupt. Not one of the “All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten” rules, so I’m not too worried. I probably won’t hear about it from my probably long-deceased kindergarten teacher.

I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a bit of a rush and I just wanted Fred to know he had the wrong number of whoever he was trying to get in touch with. I wish you both the best of luck with this. ‘Bye.”

She said goodbye and we hung up. But, I think she was a bit stumped at how terse I was with her.

Really, I didn’t give a shit. I mean, I hope everything gets sorted out. But, when it comes down to it, I really don’t give a shit.

But, why in the goddamn does she feel she needs to explain the situation to me?

Why in the goddamn do we feel we need to explain ourselves to other people?

I don’t even remember explaining myself to Zel, and I’m legally obligated to him.

I used to explain myself to my mother. Ok, sometimes I still explain myself to my mother. I try not to. I’m an adult. But, I think mothers have this power over daughters that cause us to crumble and explain ourselves. It can suck, really.

Does our need to explain ourselves to other people come from our own low self-esteem?

Does it come from our own guilt?

Does it come from our own desire to feel subservient to other people?

Does it come from the idea that we think the other person gives a shit? Because they probably don’t.

Unless it’s our mothers. They give a shit.

Friday Night at Dinner

Friday night on the way to dinner, a gallon of regular-unleaded gas was $2.94.

We go out to dinner every Friday night. We’ve done so for nearly 10 years. The only thing that prevents us from going to dinner on Friday nights is if one of us is sick or out of town.

I think that after the baby’s born, we’ll still be able to go to dinner. Zel thinks we’ll need to start doing take out on Friday nights.

So, we went to Chinese Friday night. While we were there, there was this couple, and she had just been released from the hospital. I could tell because she had a hospital bracelet on.

She also received three phone calls on her cell.

The first call came in while she and her gentleman friend (not sure if it was her brother or her lover or her husband or what, but there was a dude with her) were deciding what to eat. The waitress came over to take their order, and looked at him and said, “Are you ready?” And he looked at the lady with the hospital bracelet, and she shook her head. He looked at the waitress, and said, “Nope. Better come back.” The waitress said, “No problem,” and walked away.

The second call came before their food came. And the third call came while they were eating. Each time, she was on the call for several minutes, completely ignoring the other person she was with. She also told everyone that she just got out of the hospital.

What I don’t understand is:

• why she still had her hospital bracelet on
• why she received so many phone calls and told each person she was on the phone with that she was just released from the hospital
• why she had to completely ignore the other person she was with while she was on the phone; she didn't ignore him otherwise
  

The only conclusion I can come up with is that she’s starved for attention.

I don’t feel like blessing her attention-starved heart. I’m too crabby right now to bless anyone’s heart.

Friday night on the way home from dinner, a gallon of regular-unleaded gas was $3.09.

Terms for Being Pregnant

Since it’s become public information that I’m pregnant, I’ve had several people refer to me by various pregnant-related names. Some of these names refer to my state of being, while others are perceived in our culture as cute.

Part of it depends on who’s saying the name. For example, a colleague/friend of mine, who is a senior citizen, and I recently attended a meeting. The room was very crowded, and I had a chair, which I was more than happy to give up for my friend. She thanked me, but declined, saying she had trouble taking a chair from a “Preggie.” Preggie is ok, because it came from her. Really, she’s quite lovely, and I’ve known her for several years, so I was not taken aback. I saw it as a term of endearment.

However, we were at the grocery store a few weeks ago, and the stock boy, who for some reason, just kinda gives me a weird vibe, called me “Prego.” Not ok. Prego is a spaghetti sauce. Baby and I are not a spaghetti sauce, thank you very much.

But, if my Dad calls me Prego, it’s ok, but only because he’s my Dad. But, we're still not a spaghetti sauce, Grandpa.

When I was at the National Conference last week, I was able to spend some time with the Biostatistician in the evenings. He said I’m “Up the Duff.” Apparently that’s a British saying. I think it sounds like someone got F’ed in the A.

I’m also not fond of “With Child” and “In a Family Way.” These are a bit to ultra-conservative-Christian-Right for me.

I’m not sure if the Liberals have a term for being pregnant, but I’d probably take that over the above mentioned two.

“Bun in the Oven” is ok, because Baby is cooking…in a sense.

“P-G” reminds me of a time when it was taboo to discuss anything related to sex. The whispers of what happened to girls who suddenly disappeared and went to their “Aunt’s house” or to work in the laundries.

If the current administration stays in control any longer, we may be headed there again. Or, we may be headed to the Republic of Gilead. I’m not sure about you, but I’m not down with being called Ofrandy or anything similar.

“Expecting a Child” or “Expecting a Baby” is ok by me.

Of course, you can always ask the pregnant woman if she has a preference of how one should refer to her pregnancy. Or, you could just say, "she's pregnant." That's a pretty safe one.

Pregnancy Brain

I’ve officially come under the curse of Pregnancy Brain.

My female friends warned me about this. They said I’d get to the point where I can’t remember things.

I was just hoping I’d be in my 80’s when it hit. And then, I’d take a bid dose of Dr. Kevorkian and be done with it. (We do it to our pets, I don’t see why we can’t do it to ourselves; but that’s a blog for a different time.)

So, anyway, I’m giving my presentation at a National Conference last week. I’ve been working on this little project for four years. I gave this same presentation in October at a State Conference. It’s not like I don’t know my shit, yo.

Lost my thought. Mid-sentence, just lost my thought.

So, I said to my audience after I had a longer than normal pause in the middle of a sentence, “I’m sorry. I’m pregnant and my thought completely left my brain.” I even did a little hand gesture, where I touched my head and then pointed at an angle off to the right with my right hand. My very kind audience of about 50 people laughed. Several of them, both women and men, nodded.

Then, on my way home from the National Conference, I stopped at Babies “R” Us. Babies “R” Us is for the Expecting Woman and The Already Parents like what Disneyland is for 9 year olds. Or what a really good porn store is to Zel.

I was looking for a crib, changing table, and a chest/dresser. The furniture babe was fabulous. She answered all of my vast variety of questions with patience and a smile. I’m sure I asked her the same question more than once; perhaps even 12 times. Smile all the while. She understands. She deals with the Pregnant Brain for 40 hours/week while she’s at work. God bless her.

Elves

Zel thinks we have Elves that clean the house.

Granted, I don’t discourage this belief.

For example, the other night, we were getting ready to go to bed. I turned down the covers, Zel gets in and said, “Did you change the sheets?”

I said, “No. The Elves must’ve come out of their hiding place today.” Just for effect, I acted surprised.

Zel said, “Well, the Elves did a great job. I’ll have to thank them the next time I see them.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure the Head Elf would love to have her pussy licked.”

No response.

I mean, who else would change the sheets?

It’s not like Flof can change the sheets. I’m sure he would if he could. But he gives me this song and dance about, “I don’t have opposable thumbs”.

Flof also thinks it’s his job to dirty the house. He’s quite good at that right now: it’s springtime and he’s a shedder. I brush him frequently, but it’s kind of like trying to herd cats.

I get the same question from Zel about vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms. I get the same “no opposable thumbs” excuse from Flof about doing housework.

Well, gotta go vacuum.

An Elf’s work is never done.

The Legend of Fist Shakin’ Fine

They were at one of the bars within stumbling distance to their apartment. Friends of ours who went to graduate school with Zel, before he was my husband.

Luis was there. And the Biostatistician. And their other roommate may have been there, but he may have been in California, visiting his girlfriend.

It was probably a weekend night, because they only really partied like rock stars on the weekend. But, knowing the guys, it could’ve been a weeknight.

As usual, they were checking out the women. What else is there to do in a small college town?

They were trying to one-up each other in what they were saying about the women. For example, at some point, it may or may not have been during this same night, they were talking about Jeri Ryan. At the time, she was playing Seven of Nine on “Star Trek: Voyager”. The Biostatistician said her breasts were Perfect Circles. And, they are. (No word from the band A Perfect Circle if they created their name from this, but anything’s possible.) And, it’s stuck. On the occasion we see a young hot thing with Jeri Ryanesque breasts, “Perfect Circles” comes from someone’s mouth.

Apparently the saying “Fist Shakin’ Fine” came because some babe walked into the bar, and somebody, either Luis or the Biostatistician said, “She’s so fine, she’s fist shakin’ fine!!” Complete with them shaking their fists above their heads (similar to the Fist Shakin’ Fine Bear).

The guys were shaking their fists so hard, they had difficulty staying on their bar stools. At this point, the bartender cut them off and sent them home.

No word if either of them ever saw the Fist Shakin’ Fine Babe again. But, knowing the guys, one of them got her phone number and ended up nailing her.

High School Girls Win Three-Way

Apparently, my local paper thought this was a great headline for the front page of the sports section.

The girls track team beat two other schools. Good for them!

The accompanying picture is that of one of the girls pole vaulting over an 8-foot, 6-high bar. She has both hands firmly grasped on the launching pole, extreme look of concentration on her face.

The image also shows the high bar looking like it’s coming out of her ass. Classy picture to go along with the classy headline.

Fist Shakin' Fine Bear

I just came home from the local adult store. My Little Town only has one. In fact, it's the only one in the entire county (red county; not proud of this).

I purchased a Fist Shakin' Fine Bear.

Melanie bought one about 4 years ago when she came for a visit. I've asked her about it. She said her neighbors sometimes complain because she looses her mind and the walls in her building shake.

"How good can this thing be?" I ask myself.

The Fist Shakin' Fine Bear is the best $12.00 I've ever spent on anything in my entire life. Ever.

Home School Band

In My Little Town, home schooling is a very popular thing.

Recently in our local paper, there was a story about the Home School Band. They’re raising money to go to play in a competition in Southern California. They’re going to check out Disneyland while they’re there. Smart kids, taking a mental health break.

Today, I was out running some errands, and the Home School Band was having a fund raiser. They were selling plants.

The School District Bands raise money through car washes. Even on rainy days in the winter, the School District Bands are out there washing cars raising money.

I was a member of my High School Orchestra, and was frequently subjected to men old enough to be my father checking out my high school ass when I was washing cars. However, growing up in the southwest, we didn’t have to do car washes in the rain. We didn’t really understand the concept of rain.

But PLANTS!!! Can you believe that? I think it’s great! Good for the Home School Band. I hope they have a fabulous time in California.

Chin Hair

Today, I had to meet with the person I'm required to meet with a couple of time a month, in a group setting, and this person has a way of making me want to poke her eyes out with my latte straws (even though I'm not drinking lattes any more!).

She has chin hair.

It's goddam foul.

I had to sit near her. I couldn't help but notice.

I'm not going to get too into it, because I'll start to gag. I'm serious.

I wanted to say, "Tweeze that shit, bitch!" But, I was with my supervisor, so I opted not to get a serious reprimand today.

I mean, how can one not notice that she has chin hair comin' out her chin!?!?

I can't talk about it anymore. I'll puke if I do.

Sexuality Course

“Amelia?” I hear from the other side of my new six foot tall Dilbert wall. I love having a wall that tall. People don’t know if I’m there and I have the option of answering.

I decide to take the plunge. “Hello?” I call in a friendly tone.

The Most Eligible Bachelor in the County steps around the corner. He had on my Favorite Man’s Outfit: button-down shirt, which was tucked in; jeans; dress shoes. Any man can put on my Favorite Man’s Outfit, and there’s an increased chance I’ll drop to my knees and blow him. (Zel wears jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, and Doc boots to work everyday. I used to blow him frequently, but the pregnancy has caused me to have a serious gag reflex, which is just not cool.)

We’re scheduled to have a meeting in 10 minutes. Unfortunately, there are other people who are supposed to attend the meeting, so there won’t be a disco ball and pole dropping from the ceiling.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I’ve been back from D.C. However, we’ve chatted on the phone and emailed. I suppressed the physical urge that washed over me to start stripping, since there is a small disco ball hanging above my desk.

We exchange pleasantries. Then he says, “Are you teaching a course on Sexuality at the college next quarter?” (in the Pacific Northwest, we have three 10-week quarters in the school year, not two 16-week semesters like the rest of the world)

I wasn’t expecting this from him, but I’m pleasantly surprised.

I said, “The course is being offered. It remains to be seen if the course will actually make and I’ll teach it. How did you hear about it?”

“I read about it in the paper this morning. Did you do a news release?” Then he looked at me quizzically.

“The college did a news release to try and boost my numbers,” I said. “As far as it making, there needs to be a minimum of 12 students for the class to go. Right now I have six. Are you interested in registering?”

“Oh. Well, I hope you get to teach it. No, I don’t think I need to take it,” he said.

“Thanks. I hope it does too. You should take it; you never know what you’re going to learn,” I said.

“Well…”

“Well, it’s probably better if you don’t because then we couldn’t hang out for 10 weeks while school is in session.” Because we do so much hanging out, he and I.

He said, “Really? Why’s that?”

I said, “Because I’d be your teacher. I’d be in a power position over you and it can be perceived that we’re hanging out because you want a good grade.”

I tell him this story about how Lee told Zel and Zel told me that there were two young students, male and female, in front of Lee’s office, looking at the flyer the college created for me to promote my course. Lee kept walking, because she wanted to hear what they had to say. The good thing about community colleges is that you can’t tell if the 30-somethings are instructors or students. So, Lee hears the male student say, “This is just wrong.” The girl said nothing. They walked away and Lee went into her office.

The Most Eligible Bachelor in the County asked, “What do you think about that?”

“Well,” I said. “I think that he is a young member of the conservative Christian right, who is a virgin, and thinks that the only way to have sex is in the missionary position, because he hasn’t been properly schooled by the right woman. I think she could rock his world, and wants to take the class, but she’s too meek to stand up for herself at this point in her life. I also think…well, I better quit there before I get accused of sexually harassing the attorney.”

“No, no. You don’t have to worry about that,” he said as he chuckled.

He really opened a door for me. Perhaps he even waved me in.

But, I was trying to maintain a certain level of professionalism. “Well, I also think this is a very conservative county, and I’m not completely sure I’ll be teaching Human Sexuality next quarter.”

“I hope you get to teach it,” he said.

“Thanks. I appreciate the support.”

And then we talked about what we were going to talk about in the meeting, which was not nearly as exciting as the previous discussion.

What's in a Name?

We've been thinking about names, of course. Can't have the kid running around for it's entire life being called, "Baby A" or something of the such.

Melanie said that one of her grade school teachers said, "Be sure to put your names on your papers, class. It's the most important thing your parents ever gave you."

No pressure.

There seem to be a lot of interesting names since we've been paying closer attention.

Like the names where the first name is from the last name:
Andrew Anderson
Becky Beck
David Davidson
John Johnson
Leon Leonard
Pete Peterson
Sam Sampson
Tommy Thompson
Bill Williams

I think you see my point.

Then there are the Biblical names, which Zel isn't too fond of.
Mary
Joseph
Peter
Christopher
Noah
Mary
Luke

He's open to a couple of Star Wars names:
Chewbacca
Han
Not Leia, because Leah is a biblical name, even though George spelled it differently.
Not Luke, either (see above)
Not Anakin (can you imagine the teasing?!)

We've decided no ex-boyfriends or ex-girlfriends.

We've decided no rock stars or poser rock stars:
John
Paul
George
Ringo
Mick
Keith
Gene
Madonna
Britney
Mariah
Celene

And no bad actors:
Paris
Katie
Lindsay
Vin
Russel
Howie

Probably should rule out recent and upcoming hurricanes, too. Bless the hearts of all the little Katrinas and Ritas that were born in the last year.

If You'd Read

The following are blurbs from me to Zel because I'm doing all the reading about pregnancy.

"If you'd read the book, you'd know that it isn't uncommon for pregnant women to either gain a bit of weight or loose a bit of weight at the beginning of pregnancy."

"If you'd read on WebMd, you'd know that this week, the baby is the size of a grape, and that fingers and toes are forming, and that the tadpole tail is disappearing."

"If you'd read, you'd know that technically, baby isn't called a fetus until week 10."

"If you'd read, you'd know that sometimes women eat dirt when their pregnant. If I develop pica, you need to call the Good Doctor and tell him I'm a dirt eater. He'll want to see me right away."

He's busy reading about politics and working on his own blog, The Fall of Humanity. For a good time, click the above link!

Exciting News

I'm 14 weeks pregnant!

It's too soon to tell if we're having a boy or a girl. The ultrasound will be done sometime in April. I'll be sure to keep you all posted.

To those of you that are so dedicated to reading my blog: I'm sorry I haven't been posting that frequently lately. When one feels like shit, one tends to not want to sit in front of the computer. I appreciate your support and dedication! I hope that I start to feel better in the very near future.

Love and feathers,
Amelia K.

I can't tell you how good it feels...

...to sleep in my own bed.

...to take a shower in my own shower. I even shaved for the first time in over a week.

...to not have to decide which restaurant to eat at, which I had to do for over a week. Sometimes, I even had to coordinate this with other people. Not major, though, 'cause the company was good.

...to be in the correct time zone.

...to see Flof and Zel.

Right Now

Right now, there's this Chinese couple doing Launch the Bitch. They're skating to "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin.

Not the original, but the instrumental.

It's hot.

But, they're dressed like they're from KISS. It's not their fault they're dressed like they're from KISS. They probably had no say on what they're music or outfits look like. They're from Communist China, yo.

They did a fabulous job. They're in first place.

Everyone else just needs to sit down.

So far in D.C.

So far in D.C., Melanie and I haven't danced on tables. Apparently there aren't too many smoke-free places in which to behave in such a manner.

We did order pizza. This is a bit of a novely for me, since in My Little Town, Zel and I live too far off the beaten path for Domino's to deliver without charging us $5. We typically get take and bake, but it's not quite the same as having the pizza dude deliver straigth to your door.

We're sitting in Mel's basement apartment listening to the snow fall. We're under a winter storm warning. They're telling us were supposed to get 4 - 10 inches of snow. I didn't pack my Doc's. I didn't have room in my suitcase. I think I need a bigger suitcase, yo. And it's not like you can wear 8-hole boots to the airport. If you haven't traveled since 9/11, they make you get naked and do 12 jumping jacks in order to get through security. When I travel, I wear shit that's easy on-easy off. We may go shopping tomorrow for new Doc's. I'd get a pair of black ones, 'cause I already have brown ones.

We also went to the National Museum of the American Indian. There is currently a display of Native American Tribes from Washington State, British Columbia, and Alaska. Two of the Tribes on display are from my 'hood, so I wanted to check ot the museum, and Mel's good enough to take me.

We also went to the Hope Diamond. I told Mel she need to wear it because it would bring out her eyes. Mel said that the Hope Diamond is just wasting away in that display because she's not wearing it. I think that it would look really hot on her if she had on that, and a pair of dark blue panties.

Learn to do Your own Laundry

I learned today that he Most Eligible Bachelor in the County doesn’t do his own laundry.

I bumped into him in the hall. Literally. Didn’t intend to. Just bumped into each other.

I said, “You’re shirt looks a little stiff. Did you use a bit too much starch?”

“No”, he said. “I didn’t do it.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“The little man at the cleaner’s does it," he said.

I gave him another look. “The ‘little man’?”

“Yeah. He comes to my office and picks up my laundry and does it and then drops it off in my office again when he’s done,” he said.

“Sweet Jesus! Don’t you know how to do your own laundry? Didn’t everyone learn to do that when they were like 10?” I said.

“I’ve gotta go,” and he starts to walk away. He was embarrassed. I learned from the Contract Queen that he does this a lot.

I follow.

“I’ve got this friend who knows how to do laundry. She’s hot,” I said.

He stopped walking and perked up. “Really?”

“Yeah. And she’s single and very intelligent,” I said.

“Where does she live?”

“D.C.”

“My brother lives in D.C.,” he said.

I perked up for Melanie’s sake. “Oh?”

“He’s married with kid number two on the way.”

I was disappointed. “Oh.”

I changed my tune quickly, though. “I’m going to visit her soon. I’ll be sure to mention I know a professional in his early thirties who needs some laundry tips. She’s pretty good at laundry. She used to wash her clothes in a bucket when she lived in West Africa.” I have no idea if Melanie actually did her laundry in a bucket or had the one of the village children do it, but it sounded good at the time.

He was interested, at least in the fact that my good friend was in West Africa. I knew this because he said, “What was she doing in West Africa?”

“She was in the Peace Corps for 2 years and taught English.”

“Wow.” He seemed impressed.

“Well, I can either mention the laundry thing to her or you can learn to do your own laundry.”

“Whatever you want to do,” he said. “But I like to help the little man and the local economy.”

“Super,” I said. "See you later!" And I walked away.

I Must Remember

Before I leave on Thursday for D.C., and spend a week with Melanie, I must remember to do the following three tasks:

1. Wax my eyebrows
In college, Melanie became the Eyebrow Queen. I’d hate to show up with what the Eyebrow Queen may deem bushy eyebrows and she sends me packing for the nearest hotel.

2. Polish my toenails
In college, I was a licensed Nail Technician. (In the 70’s and 80’s term was “manicurist”. I was in college in the 90’s, when we were “Nail Technicians”.) I’d hate to show up to Melanie’s and not have some type of polish on my toes. Even though it’s winter, I can suck it up for a couple of hours to let the polish dry. The sacrifices one must make in the name of beauty.

3. Shave
I sleep naked. Melanie knows I sleep naked. I’ve known her for nearly 10 years. We’ve seen each other naked lots of times (did I mention we met in college?). I’d hate for my leg to brush up against her leg in the night and wake her up. But, given that Melanie can sleep through a hurricane, I shouldn’t be too concerned. However, I’d hate for her to deem my pussy as bushy and send me packing for the nearest hotel.

Pet Name

Sometimes my Pet Name is "Spider Monkey Toes."

Only Zel is permitted to address me in such a manner.

I have the ability to pick things up with my toes.

Zel doesn't find this impressive.

I also shave my feet, so I don't look like Frodo. (Not quite, but you get the point.)

Zel doesn't find hairy feet attractive.

So, when I haven't shaved my feet in a while, and I pick things up with my toes, Zel calls me Spider Monkey Toes.

Why?

Why is there going to be a reunion between Amy Fisher, Joey Buttafuco and his former wife Mary Jo?

That's right.

You probably remember them. Over a decade ago, then 16-year-old Amy had a sexual affair with much-older-and-married Joey. Amy shot Mary Jo in the face (someone was watching out for that woman, that's all I can say about that) and Amy spent some time in the pen.

They're hoping to televise their additional 30 seconds of fame.

They're past their 15 minutes. They're time is up.

Why do we care about this? Does anyone really give a shit?

Is it only in America that things like this happen?

You never hear about shit like this coming out of New Zealand.

Maybe Zel and I should emigrate.

Memoirs

In case you've been living in a cave, memoirs are the hottest thing going.

They're more popular than pancakes.

I recently read Running with Scissors: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs. I am currently reading Dry: A Memoir by the same author.

My Little Brother (MLB) sent us Dry and The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America for Christmas. He may have sent us that one because it takes place in Chicago, and I was just there in May. And I love the Chicago Bears; I've been a fan for 20 years, when they won the Big Game in the 1985 season.

In the package, MLB included a note that said: "I didn't read these. I judged the books by the cover." He's quite witty, that kid.

I'm probably going to read Memoirs of a Geisha: A Novel next. I know it's a novel, but the memoir trend needs to continue. Besides, I'm still considering Geisha Camp.

Then there's A Million Little Pieces. Apparently the author decided to come clean and let us all know he embellished his work. I'm sure it's a gripping story all the same.

I'm taking all of these memoirs with a grain of salt anyway. You never know what's true nowadays.

Zel's pissed off that a person can have like 12 memoirs to their name. He's convinced that nobody's life is that goddamned interesting.

I suggested that he write his own memoir. After all, he's had an interesting life.

We'll see what happens. Maybe someday we'll send you all an autographed copy.

D.C. Bound

In less than 26 days, I'll be in D.C.

I'm going for a conference.

But really, it's to visit my good friend Melanie.

I promised Zel that if Mel and I dance on any tables, it'll be in a smoke-free bar.

Crossword Puzzle

Each night, I work on the crossword puzzle in the paper.

Zel does the Sudoku. He usually completes these within about 3:14. He says my feeble mind can't handle the power of Sudoku.

Please. I don't have to stand there trying to figure out which is the better deal for panties: 2 for $10 or 3 for $15. I know the hottest deal is down at Victoria's Secret: 1 for $15. But, that's for women who are trying to impress someone and in that situation, you aren't frugal, yo. When you're not so old and married, you do the 2 for $10 deal.

So, I do the crossword. I do the best I can do.

I don't make a habit of jumping on the web to look up definitions of words I don't know in order to help me complete the crossword. That's cheating.

Then, when I've completed what I can, Zel takes a crack at it. Says he needs to check my work. To fix whatever's wrong.

Please. I'm a smart cookie.

I know a four letter word for Flight School Final is "solo".

I know that a seven letter word for Shirt Parts is "sleeves".

I know a five letter word for Lubricated is "lubed".

I know that a five letter word for Protein Acid is "semen".

Duh. Everyone knows that!

Paranoia

Does Utah Jazz owner Larry Miller suffer from paranoia? He recently cancelled "Brokeback Mountain" at his movie theater.

Perhaps he thinks that if a movie about gay cowboys is shown, the young boys and all the cowboys in Utah will "turn gay".

Fucking paranoid.

Happy Birthday

“Happy Birthday to you.

Happy Birthday to you.

Happy Birthday, Dear Jesus.

Happy Birthday to you.”

Yes, Zel and I have sung Happy Birthday to Jesus. Funny, really, considering I'm a Jew; a member of The Tribe.

We were visiting family in Oklahoma. The Heartland. The Bible Belt.

Not my family. We Jews don't have great numbers of The Tribe living in the Bible Belt.

We were living in Sin City at the time. Zel, Flof, and I made a holiday road trip: Zel's family in Oklahoma for Christmas; my family in Arizona for New Year's.

On our way, we saw this:
It was in Texas. On I-40.
Note: please notice semi in image just below the cross.

"Christ on a Cross", was what I said. Really, that was all I could say. And I mean no disrespect. After all, Jesus was a Jew. Don't want to dis a fellow Tribesman, yo.

Then we got closer.
Its nineteen stories tall. We didn't stop. I read about the height later. Or, maybe someone mentioned it at dinner. Things got a bit Twilight-Zonish for a while.

We got to Zel's parents on Christmas Eve eve. On Christmas Eve, we went to the Super Evil Empire, (SEE) and got to experience the corporate takeover of America in the Heartland.

Zel's Mom and Dad own their own business. They make pretty cool, very custom stuff for people and corporations. Mom and Dad were busy making gifts that people pay top dollar for, right up until they closed their doors at 5:00 pm on Christmas Eve. So, they hadn't shopped for each other or for anyone else. So, we headed to the SEE. Mom bought Dad a pair of flannel sleep pants and some underwear; Dad bought Mom a lightweight vacuum cleaner. They bought these together; same ticket. Took them home and Mom wrapped up both gifts. They each opened them on Christmas Day at Zel's Aunt and Uncle's house and acted completely surprised at the gifts they had received from each other. I can't make this shit up. Zel's Mom and Dad are absolutely fabulous!

While we were in the toy section of the SEE, because Mom and Dad were also shopping for Zel's young cousins, Zel turned to me and said, "I bet you $100 I'm the most highly educated person in this store."

I didn't take the bet. You don't wager odds with the Math Teacher. He's taught probability for shit's sake.

But, as you, the dedicated reader, are accustomed too...I digress. Back to the story.

On Christmas Day, we went over to Zel's Aunt and Uncle's. Before we ate, we stood in a circle around the food, hands joined, and sang "Happy Birthday to Jesus." It was one of those, "When in Rome" situations. I mouthed it. I couldn't bring myself to sing. Sorry, Jesus.

While we were singing, Zel's Mom and I made eye contact. She knew this wasn't too Kosher with me. But, it wasn't really Kosher with her and Dad, either. And, it sure as shit wasn't Kosher with Zel. He's agnostic.

For food, Mom had ordered a brisket. Funny, because a brisket is a Jewish cut of meat, according to My Mother, Queen of the Jews (for the fans of South Park, Kyle's Mom is not an exaggeration!). Also funny because Zel and I didn't (and still don't) eat red meat. Fortunately, Zel's Mom also ordered a roasted chicken. So, we were ok.

Then we went to Arizona, and had grilled salmon for New Year's Eve dinner. Funny, to have fish in the desert.

At least we didn't have to sing "Happy Birthday to Jesus".

The Schedule

Flof has a regular schedule.

His primary job is to provide us company and protection. But, he really sleeps a lot. He tells me he works 24/7, even when he's napping.

He's a 12-year-old dog, which really means he's like 84 (Mel, I did the math for you; you're welcome). So, really, it's ok that he sleeps about 20 hours/day. No matter how you cut it, he's a senior citizen.

The Schedule usually goes like this:

6:30 am--get up (Human Seniors usually get up early, too) go outside to potty.
Note: even though he's 12, he's still not mature enough to go out and do his business without being supervised and on a leash. We live on 5 acres and we don't have a fenced in yard. So, Zel gets up, gets dressed, including winter coat and hat (even in August, cause that's how it is up here), leashes Flof up and takes him out to potty.

7:00 am--eat breakfast.

7:30-9:00 am--Flof is usually awake, because we're getting ready for work.

9:00 am-4:30 pm--all day nap. Napping usually occurs on his couch. Yes, he has his own furniture. Sometimes, he even falls asleep reading the paper.
We take him out as soon as we get home.
Note: sometimes, one of us gets done with work early and comes home at like 2:00 or 3:00, and we are careful to not disturb the Master Napper. I mean, you come home and disturb a nap, you get in trouble, which includes a snotty attitude and grunting from Flof. Sometimes, he's really out, and gets pissed off if you wake him up. I mean, sometimes, when he's out, it's like he wouldn't hear the UPS truck if it pulled up.

Since we've been on vacation for the last week and a half, we've encouraged Flof to take a post-breakfast, pre-lunch, mid-morning nap. He is usually down with this. We've also encouraged him to take a post-lunch, mid-afternoon, pre-dinner nap. He's usually down with this, too.

5:00 pm--eat dinner (he let's us know when it's 5:00).

5:15 pm--post dinner potty.

5:30 pm--post-dinner half-nap. This is only a half-nap because Flof only half sleeps. I'm usually making dinner and when someone is in the kitchen, that means food, and sometimes that means cheese or bacon or a bite of chicken for The Boy, which means no sleep post-dinner.

6:30-8:00 pm--post dinner/pre half-way to bedtime potty trip nap.

8:00 pm--half-way to bedtime potty trip.
Note: at 8:00, on the dot, Flof will whine at us letting us know he needs to go. If we're watching a movie, we do our best to start it so that it doesn't interfere with the half-way to bedtime potty trip. We've told our vet that Flof can tell time, but she thinks we're crazy.)

10:00--bedtime potty trip.
Note: again, whines at 10:00 to let us know its bedtime. We've mentioned this to the vet, she thinks we smoke crack, which we don't [just for the record, in case I'm one of the tapees, you're wasting your time and I've never smoked crack.].

Flof generally sleeps from 10:00 pm - 6:30 am. And The Schedule starts all over again.

Congratulations, everyone!

To those of you who have recently made it through the 2-month Holiday Season, CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

This is very exciting, because you probably had to endure such questions as:

"Are you ready for Halloween?"
"How was your Halloween?"

"Are you ready for Thanksgiving?"
"How was your Thanksgiving?"

"Are you ready for Christmas?"
"How was your Christmas?"

"What are you doing for New Year's Eve?"
"How was your New Year's Eve?"

Zel and I didn't get too many Halloween questions, since we don't have children.

Thanksgiving was nice and quiet. The Girls came over and we ate and watched "Grease" since they love Stockard Channing.

Christmas day, we didn't exchange gifts. We sat around and watched football (simply because it was Sunday. If Christmas was on any other day, we would've watched movies all day.) Our relationship has evolved to this. It takes a lot of stress off of both of us. We both had last week off and traveled just over an hour to the closest shopping mecca. We bought an iPod, so I didn't have to listen to the "How was your _________?" questions at the gym.

New Year's Eve, we watched and listened as our next-door neighbors try to burn down the forest with the hundreds of dollars worth of fireworks. These explosions lit up our entire living room and surrounding forrest while we were watching "May". These explosions also shook the walls and windows of our home. Lovely. They're selling their house, but their asking for people's souls too, so it may be a while before the house sells.

At any rate, congratulations to everyone for making it through the questions of the holidays!

This year at work, just to be different, I wished people a Happy Solstice and passed out chocolate chip cookies on 12/21, the first day of Winter. The Solstices are kind of a big thing in the Pacific Northwest, especially the Winter one because the very next day, the sun rises earlier and sets later and it means we don't have to get up in the dark and go to work in the dark forever, even though it feels like it.

I wish everyone a wonderful New Year, and hope you thoroughly enjoyed whatever other holidays you celebrate, if you celebrate any at all.