mrtl

Holidays

Jesus is jumping for Karla (I need to update my reading links). Bug is safe and happy back at the base daycare, and I'm getting some work done. I'll be writing my Motif Monday post later.

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Update: I can't do this topic justice today. Seems I've gotten some sick in me. My stomach is in knots; I feel wiggy; I've already puked. I'm extending this topic another week so I have time to consider it.

In the meantime, should you choose to post something (or already have), let me know and I'll link up.

Pain

I am a candy ass.

That sums it up. I have no tolerance for pain (except, strangely enough, for head injuries, since I appear to have an extremely hard head).

It is because of this that I am in a way terrified of giving birth here. At a military hospital.

Let me back up a little. A few days after being farted on, I went to the farter's house for a party. There I met a woman -- let's call her Fern -- who was very close to her due date. As is to be expected, we ended up talking pregnancy and birth.

::tangent for the sake of a tangent::
Speaking of Fern, we emailed back and forth last week about getting together sometime for coffee or lunch (she lives here in ER). When I saw a familiar face at the commissary today, I said hello, that I recognized her, but couldn't remember from where. Turns out that it was Fern. You had to be there. It was really quite amusing. She didn't know who I was either (till she heard my name).
::end tangent for the sake of a tangent::

Anyway, Fern had told me about how, at her OB orientation, there was mention of there being no promises of epidurals there if the birth was happening after hours or on the weekend, that an on-call anethesiologist may not be able to get to the hospital in time to administer it. (Apparently some of their doctors chose to live over an hour away from the hospital -- fuckers.)

Let's reflect on this for a moment. While reflecting, keep in mind what I said above, that I am due on a Sunday, and some facts about Bug's birth (quotation marks used to emphasize moments that bring me pain by the memory alone):

1. I was at the hospital at 6am for my planned induction. Bug was born at 10:19pm. That means there were several hours of "pushing," y'all, enticing the stupid idiot nurse to actually suggest that I reconsider my Very Strong Feelings Against Allowing Anyone to Say "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!" which made me instead consider bitch slapping her multiple times for even saying it.

::tangent::
I recently unearthed my birth plan for Bug, which included the line: "I would like the environment to be kept as quiet as possible (with absolutely no one saying, "Push! Push! Push!")." Don't get me wrong; I was in no way going for a Scientology-type birth (I will not use that TC name here as I don't find it in good taste and will not give him press). Prior to Bug's arrival, I had obsessively watched "A Baby Story," and knew that when, in a relaxed environment, that shit grated on every last nerve of mine, so hell if I was going to allow such obnoxious behavior when in a more stressful environment. I gave the nurses plenty of optional phrases to use. All were wonderful about it except one. Bitch apparently had no creativity or self-control, and practically begged me to allow her to say it, insisting that it would help me. Whatev.
::end tangent::

2. Delusional in thinking that it would be "enough" and wanting to "participate" in the birth, I had a "partial" epidural.
3. All was fine until Bug's big "head" got a little "stuck" in my pelvis.
4. The doctor then attempted to "move" her, by putting his "hand" (which wasn't small, if you know what I'm saying) up "there" and manually trying to "twist" her into position.
5. In my desperation to stop the "hand" "twisting" Bug's head, I asked the doctor if he didn't have some vacuum thing he could suck her out with. He didn't, but offered to try "forceps."
6. In my desperation to stop the "hand" "twisting" Bug's head, I readily agreed to the use of "forceps."
7. Bug was "extracted" after two attempts with the "forceps."

How much do you want to bet that I'll be trying to arrange an induction this time around, too?

next week: holidays

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Did you play? Let me know!

Cat, Susie

First Kiss

A Haiku

His name was Billy
I was ten, in the fifth grade
It was early fall

The leaves were in piles
Where I ran in my yard, and
was caught on the porch

His nose was so cold
And my breath gone from the chase
I didn't like it

next week: pain

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Did you play? Comment!

Dima (see comments), eclectic, Hanni (see comments), kalki, Kranki, Sheryl, Susie, Susie's Harem (see comments)

Won

Why was this topic chosen this week? Because I'm bitter. Bitter over Blingo. Left and right, blogger friends are winning, winning winning, over and over again, but not me. Why?

It's curious that what comes to mind is the summer of '85. That June, the family had just returned to the states from a three-year tour in Japan. I hadn't been in touch with many of my old friends...

::tangent::
There's something about hearing a story from your mother, who heard it from your best friend's mother, about your best friend raping a frozen hot dog, only to have it break off while still inside, and she couldn't remove it, so she had her mother (the same one who told your mother) help her out with some hot dog tongs (what? she was a nurse and obviously knew what she was doing)...

::tangent within a tangent::
WHAT THE FUCK was up with her mother telling anyone else about it???? I mean, isn't the whole incident mortifying enough? And cold? Damn, y'all, my cooter would be fah-reezing! Don't try this at home, folks!
::end tangent within a tangent::

...that makes one not so keen on rekindling the friendship after a few years in another country, especially when one is about to start at a new high school, knowing no one really well except "the girl who's mom extracted a frozen hot dog out of her cooter with hot dog tongs" (you better believe that everyone knew).
::end tangent::

Yeah, so where was I? Ok. That summer, I spent the majority of my time in my room listening to the radio (during which time Raspberry Beret got wwwwwwaaaaaaayyyyyy too much airplay) and making my own luck.

Hear me? I made my own luck. Stupid radio contests? Tell me you want the tenth caller, baby. It didn't matter what the prize was, I was all over it. I was the Mad Dialer, and probably had callouses on my fingers to prove it. I can't remember all I won, but I know it included vinyls of Van Halen's OU812 and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I vaguely remember some movie premiere in some out-of-the-way town, too.

Making the connection? I am HIGHLY suspicious that some of these Blingo wins are the direct result of Mad Searching. Am I right? Do tell! Do you search just to search?

Or don't tell. I know I've only been using Blingo when I have something in particular that I need to find. So far no wins. Maybe if I were to make a more concentrated effort to win, I could do it...

Let's see what happens this week, during Operation Win at Blingo (OWaB).

next week's topic: first kiss

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Did you write? Let me know!

Cat, Hänni, Jana

The Boom Boom In My Heart

Note: I'm finding, having the 80's music on and then writing this, I am totally overstimulated and regressing. I'm sitting here sucking on a lock of my hair. Gah!

How does one define fame? What constitutes an occasion worthy of contributing to one's fame? It's certainly not random brushes with celebrities, but situations in which I was in the limelight, where the cameras were on me.

So there's not a whole lot going on there for me, but it involves George Michael, he of the cute butt. (Shit, I think I just gave away the other beta name I had in mind.)

Story Time with mrtl

I first became fixated with George when he was shaking his cute little tush in those teensie weensie shorts in the "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" video back in the mid 80's. I realize that many of my readers were in diapers at that time, and all I can say to that is "IT SUCKS TO BE YOU!" because you totally missed out on the

HOLEY MOLEY LOOK AT THAT!!! Jitterbug ::snap, snap, snap:: If I weren't already sitting down, I'd need to sit down. This was MY George, back when he was mine, and totally straight.

While I thought he was super cute and all -- LOOK AT THOSE DIMPLES!! -- I wasn't a poster kind of girl. Nah, my room was decorated with unicorns and stuff like that. Nary a poster to be found, unless it was of a kitten.

Anyway, George broke away from Wham!, shook his booty some more in some tight jeans ::swoon:: and FINALLY came to the states to tour in 1988. Who knows how we did it, but my best friend and I scored tickets on the floor in the 17th row. Mind you, this was the FIRST US concert he had done, so this was no easy accomplishment. We were giddy. (We were school girls, after all). We bought some matching shirts, his heavenly close up head shot emblazoned on the front, and headed to our seats.

I could embellish this story with some more fun details, but you know how my memory sucks, so you'd know I'm just making shit up. Long story short (and as remembered), once at our seats we were approached by none other than Adam Curry from MTV. Remember him, he of the crazy girly 80's hair?

::tangent::
I couldn't find a picture of Adam Curry's Linthicum bangs. WTF? And this picture was bigger than George's above, so I totally resized.
::end tangent::

Adam Curry called his cameraman over to get a shot of the two dorky high school girls, hugging each other and jumping up and down, excited enough to wet themselves that MTV was taping them.

Friends at school Monday say they saw us. I can't remember if I did, so I only count it for, like, a minute.

next week's topic: won

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Did you play? Mention it in comments for me!

Cat, pea

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Today on "Martha"

Not only does her monkey want a banana, but he also wants to cop a feel.

Worst Date

What a refreshing change! I have TWO bad date stories to choose from, rather than the writer's block that has affected me for a while now. At first I thought I'd tell you both, but one is pretty long as it is.

Story time with mrtl

Eric wasn't someone I knew personally, or was even remotely attracted to. He was a friend of a couple friends of mine. I can't remember which of them set us up for the Homecoming dance senior year, although I'm leaning towards Chris, and it was probably as a return favor for his letting me borrow his letterman jacket for a spirit/ Homecoming week activity with poms (see picture for proof). Chris even acted as our chauffeur that night, but for some reason I remember him coming to dinner with us, too. I'm getting ahead of myself, though.

It was 1988, in a time of big hair and lace-overlay formal wear. My cream-colored dress was backless, which was a HUGE deal for me, since I had boobs, and I was never anything close to being a girly girl. I shopped carefully for just the right, itchy-as-all-hell backless bra to wear with the dress. Not being one to wear makeup EVER, it took quite some time to get ready. After I was carefully coiffured, I sat around, itchily and impatiently waiting for my chauffeur and date to show up. My mother sat with me, ready with the Poloroid to capture the magical moment. (She didn't get to see me in full-on girly mode very often, you see.)

When Eric finally showed up, he was wearing a fucking cardigan and Dockers.

::tangent::
It was at this moment during writing this that I decided to stop and peruse through my box of old pictures. My mother must have the picture. Instead, let me present a fashion moment for me: the Gap employee Christmas party, to which I wore the most unGaply of outfits: An old, thinned out pink sweatshirt, and a pair of Redskins boxers over an oversized pair of (my father's) long johns. I holding the coveted Opus I got in the gift exchange and smoking a cigarette. I know, you envy the girl I was. Don't be ashamed to admit it.
::end tangent::

Looking back, I'd like to refer to Eric as "poor schmuck," but I was the victim here. How dare he show up for a formal dance in a fucking cardigan and Dockers? Mr. Fucking Rogers is what I should be calling him. I had no sympathy for him when my father ridiculed his dress. I can't remember if my brother was around, too. If he was, he got double the taunts.

::tangent::
I was thinking this happened during my junior year, but other details point to it being my senior year. Chris and MFR graduated the year before me. That may explain MFR's disrespect for the sanctity of the Homecoming dance. Whatev. He was still a jackass.
::end tangent::

For a little while at least I though MFR had redeemed himself for the cardigan by his choice of restaurants. He selected The Brass Duck, at the time a -- at least to the high school set -- hoity toity restaurant. As I mentioned above, though, Chris joined us for the meal. He was meeting his date at the dance since she had already promised to go with another guy (her boyfriend -- she didn't have the best reputation).

::tangent::
One of my few memories of Chris's date, Lora, was told to me by a friend of mine (another Chris) who worked as a lifeguard at "The Club" (I have to laugh at the thought of a private country club in a town like Laurel, but there you go) in town. Lora frequented the pool there the summer before my senior year. One day she was tanning and had greased herself up completely with baby oil. Chris described in great detail watching a fly alight upon her bare belly as she lay there with her pasty self. At some point, Lora sat up. The fly, still on her stomach, was trapped in fat rolls. When Lora lay back down, the fly was a bit worse for wear and took a few minutes to gain his composure enough to fly away.
::end tangent::

Still being a little peeved about the cardigan, I ordered a nice steak (after being told to get whatever I wanted, mind you), prompting griping over the cost, and more when when I asked for ketchup with my steak, which was completely dried out and inedible when it got to the table. (I knew even then not to send food back to the kitchen. MFR did not.) MFR ordered a fruit plate, which he shared with Chris.

Is it surprising that, to me, the date ended here? I know MFR went to the dance, but I don't have any other memories involving him after the Steak Incident. (No, we didn't go Dutch. My dress cost more than he spent that night, so I harbored no guilt about not helping him with the bill.)

I do remember the party Chris had after the dance, drinking Kahlua with milk, and Chris hitting on me (Lora left the dance with her boyfriend, too, but I think she ended up at Chris's house later). He was a friend -- not someone I was attracted to -- and it cracked me up that as we sat talking, he tried to set the stage for a later booty call by telling me about a bicycle accident he had as a kid that rendered him infertile. Yeah, we're talking classy here. I got the hell out of there pretty fast.

next week: 15 minutes of fame

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Did you write something? Let me know!

Amy, Cat, eclectic, Hänni, Heathen, Jana, Kalki Kranki, Susie

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Today on "Martha"

"Aaron just brought me this crock, and he said, 'This is if you want to spit.' But I don't wanna spit. I wanna swallow! It was that kind of weekend." (while talking wine with Lorraine Bracco)

Pets

It's the topic that I assigned that I can't bring myself to write about. I feel a little bad about that, unable to gush about my love for my kitty like some people. Animals have always been a part, but never primary, of my life. The house feels empty without a pet, although I've reached a part of life where I'm thinking it would be so much more convenient to not have the added responsibility. (Kudos to mister mrtl for taking over kitty duties while I was pregnant with Bug.)

Part of the problem in writing this post is that I've already talked a lot here about Slava and my general pet situation. What else is to be said? What new angle could I look at this topic to make it new and fresh? Maybe the old trick of writing about nothing to hopefully write about something will work...

Should I talk about Sea Monkeys? Maybe someday (this has me on the idea for next week's topic -- MORE than enough fodder there for a decent, unprocrastinated post).

How about fish? There have been plenty fish in my life. I couldn't name them all, but I'll make an attempt.

My first fish ever was Emily. She lived with us in England, in her bowl with my brother's fish, Charlie. I don't remember much of Emily, but I do know that Emily's birthday was November 2, that she outlived Charlie, and that she died around December 7. How do I know this?

Note my smiles in these.

Note the smile on my brother's face.

I know I had another fish as a kid, after we came home from England; I have a picture somewhere of my cat Socks drinking water out of the fishbowl. I don't remember anything else about that one, though.

The next fish I remember was after I started working at my current job. Having learned a little about feng shui (and thus being dangerous), I decided I needed some Chi on my desk. I decided that I'd get a beta fish and name him Chi, the name just for good measure. A crazy (in a good way; she was a hoot) woman I worked with lusted after a young Navy guy we saw from time-to-time on work-related business. His nickname was Baboo, as in Her Sweet Baboo. One day, as I was telling her about my plan to get a fish, she asked about me what betas looked like. I explained that they looked a lot like goldfish, but they were very colorful and had really pretty tails. She told me that Her Sweet Baboo had a really pretty tail, too. When I got the fish, I named him Baboo-Chi in his honor. Thus started the (short) trend to name betas after guys with cute butts. When Baboo-Chi died and was replaced, the new fish was named Yeurgey, after a guy from high school whose ass my friend and I admired on many trips up the stairs on the way to first period during our junior year. Yeurgey lived for quite some time, being adopted by a coworker when we moved to Texas. He died peacefully sometime in the Spring of '04.

Bug has kind of mixed up the whole beta-butt naming trend. We have replaced Bish with Bubish. Not that I had any other names in mind. Not me.

next week's topic: the worst date

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Someday I'll get back to adding links to those who've participated. I have them all listed. I promise, really. Please let me know if you posted!

Cranky, Kalki, Kranki, Nina, Sharkey, Susie

Personal Theme Song

Since first hearing about this on Ally McBeal (thanks to Kalki who long ago told me that), I've been determined to at some point figure out what my personal theme song was. That time, my dears, has come.

Of course, my brain is heavy after the thorough examination of possible names for the truck yesterday.

::tangent::
Did you know that every day is a holiday? Every day. I have a list somewhere. File that under the list of things to post at some point. I have the list printed out, but would rather be lazy and pull up the file.
::end tangent::

Yes. I'm digressing. Bottom line is that I couldn't figure out a theme song. Not a good one. Not one that I can live with.

In my search, I went to my old friend Google, finding a site that has a "What's Your Theme Song?" quiz. I went through it, and you know what it told me? "Walking on Fucking Sunshine" by Katrina and the Waves. Now wouldn't you know that I HATE that song? If you were to ask me what songs I hate, I'd list three: "Walking on Fucking Sunshine," Prince's " Raspberry Beret" (for the simple reason that it was overplayed the one summer that I did nothing but sit in my room listening to the radio), and "I've Got a Brand New Pair of Rollerskates" by Whoever the Hell Sings That. Oh, and I guess you should add in that horrendous KILL ME NOW song by Rush called "Dog Years" or something like that (which I only heard once, but really, isn't that enough?). Whoever put that quiz together can totally fuck off.

After that failed attempt, I wracked my brain trying to think of a song that really captured me. No luck there, so I wracked my brain trying to think of the albums that really captured me, to try to work down to a single track. It's really too bad my old tapes are all boxed up under the stairs. I'd love to dig through them.

The closest I was able to come was the following lovely from The Underworld. It's called "Original Song." I've taken some liberties here with my interpretation of the lyrics. This song doesn't speak to me so much about the riches of money, but about the riches of memory and my inability to be happy with what I have. (I have severe Ifonliness. Have I mentioned that? That true happiness lies just around the corner, but it's a corner that is constantly changing. This isn't to say that I haven't found happiness in some areas of my life. My true happiness comes with self-fulfillment. If only I could handle this ADD/depression crap, whatever it is. If only I could organize myself. If only I could stick to a healthy lifestyle. If only I could meet people with similar interests. If only I could spend more time focusing on getting shit done on my lists instead of making them to ignore them.)

Update: Adding carriage returns. I can't read this straight, and I know the song.

Original Song
by The Underworld

When I'm alone I try to remember
all of the things I want
I get depressed, but don't give me handouts
everyone loves a trier
I would love to be lucky as you
in with the rich survivors
wouldn't complain if I was a rich man
everyone can can!
An' you want it! An' you need it! An' you love it!
We sing the original song
gimme more!
We sing the original song
gimme more!
We sing the original song
gimme more!
We sing please give it to me! Give it to me!
When I'm alone I talk to myself,
and, don't get the wrong impression!
Don't have the cash, but I got the pride
I never lay down and die
I see the pictures I know the adverts
everyone else got lucky
I got the bad deal looking around me
everyone can can!

And yes, I do talk to myself. I Google myself, too, remember? Got a problem with that?

next week: pets

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I've been horrible about updating the archives. I will get that done soon. Even still, if you played, please let me know. And Susie? The stupid hedgehog pompom fell apart on me and pissed me off too much to try again. I will get that done this week as well. ::smooch::

Daphne, Jana

Money

Ah, to breathe. For now.

It's been some time that I've pondered this post, trying to sort out my thoughts with it all. I'm glad I did this mental exercise, because I'm slowly adjusting to the concepts involved.

Let's back up...

When mister mrtl and I first got married, we were making about the same amount of money. Since we had been living together for about six months prior to getting hitched -- two of them without a third roommate, -- we already had a bill-paying system in place. Everything was split. This worked for us, so we didn't change anything when we got married. As time went on, one or the other would take over bills when they were generally the same. As careers changed and morphed, and mister mrtl began making quite a bit more than I, we adjusted the bills accordingly.

It's still this way. We keep separate checking and savings accounts -- I am listed on his checking account, for those rare occasions when he's away with work and unable to take care of his bills, -- and we have a joint credit account for general shopping, which we pay off each month.

Whenever this topic has come up in conversation, others tend to think it odd. What? Never combined money? It's like a judgment that we don't have a strong marriage. Quite the contrary. It's said that the majority of fights between married couples are over money. We don't fight over money. Never. If mister mrtl wants to drop a pretty penny on a mountain bike or a new golf club, more power to him. If I want to blow all my self-budgeted "play" money on pie, it's on me (in more ways than one). We discuss joint purchases. It's all good.

Now for the wrench: things are going to change for us. Bug is back on the waiting list for the childcare center on base (and has been since the week she started at this new place, but that's a story for another time). Putting her back there adds at least an hour commute to my day, considering that with mister mrtl's current schedule, he won't be able to drop her off or pick her up on most days. This wasn't a huge deal when she was there before, knowing that it was temporary. Two and a half years of it, though, is another story, especially with the upcoming addition. When a spot opens up for her, I'll be dropping more hours with work. We'll see how that works out when Frida arrives, and I'll drop more time if necessary.

How this will affect our happy little financial arrangement remains to be seen. I may be down to the point with how much I'm making to be able to cover childcare with some spending money left over. Things may be tighter than that. This is where I see a change in my thoughts since I first really started considering this topic. I seem to have come to terms with the idea of relying on mister mrtl to support me on bills. That bothered me for quite some time. Now I'm thinking more that it's when we get down to the personal expenses -- basic spending money -- the FREEDOM to buy whatever I want at my leisure -- that I start feeling uncomfortable. It's not that I'm that big of a spender. I don't tend to buy crap that I don't need (although I do have my little project kicks, and sometimes the projects get funded but not completed). It's the concept.

Still more time to consider this, and time to adjust myself to the idea of becoming a more dependent woman. Gah!

next week's topic: personal theme song

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Did you post? Bonus for those who put something up on time. Do tell!

Susie

Road Rage

I drive so little these days, and traffic really doesn't get that bad around here (or where we were in Texas for that matter), so lately the closest I've come to road rage is having Bug underfoot as I'm trying to carry something from hither to thither. Yeah... bad topic for me. I feel obligated to post something, though, but I won't waste your time. I'll give you a funny yet short story from high school. This supposedly happened to my brother's friend's brother. With me? Something was a little off about the guy. If I remember correctly, he was hit by a bus or something when he was a kid. Whatever, we'll call him Harry.

One day Harry was driving around, and decided he was in need of some self-fondling. Apparently not being one to stifle such socially inappropriate impulses, he unzipped and went to work. Stopped at a red light, a guy in a truck next to him honked at him.

As he told the story later, there was no embarrassment over having a witness. Rather he was pissed about the interruption.

next week's topic: money

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Let me know if you played!

Cranky, eclectic, Homestead, Kalki, Susie