Bad Trip

I have spent the last week sick as a dog, and refusing to go to the doctor. You know, because that's how I roll. I sounded like the love child of Harvey Firestein and Selma from the "The Simpsons," and had no idea how my body was producing so much mucus when it had so little energy to do anything else. I was gross, I was suffering, and the last thing I wanted to be told was that I had "just a cold." We all know there is a whole aisle at the grocery store devoted to treating those. So, to that aisle I went.

First I tried Sudafed. Nothing. Then I coated myself in Vick's Vaporub. Ryan threatened to sleep on the couch, but I still didn't feel better. NyQuil. DayQuil. Mucinex. Nothing, nada, zilch. I was close to the end of my rope when, on Friday, I pulled a bottle of Robitussin off the shelf on my way to work.

I took a dose in the car as I drove. I waited. Nothing. I got to work. I waited. Nothing. After about an hour I decided to take another dose, and see if that did anything. It did. Suddenly I was high as a kite. A kite that still had cold symptoms. I turned to my friend Irinna.

"Irinna, I am totally high," I said.

Laughter.

"Don't laugh, this is serious."

"Well, don't take any more."

"But I still have my cold."

"Don't take any more."

I'm not quite sure how I go through the rest of the day, but I did. On the way out to my car I started to crash, and by the time I got home I had a hangover similar to those I had in my 20's, only worse, because I had no funny memories to go along with it.

The next day I went to the doctor. Damn it. Well, at least the antibiotics she gave me won't lead me to a 12 step program.

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There's One in Every Family, Er, Music Class

Meg is in a music class. She loves it. We love it. It's all about learning melody, and how rhythm manifests itself in the body, and using music to build intelligence. We LOVE it. Every week we go to class and sing along with Meg, and then we go home and listen to a CD of the songs from the class and prepare for next week.

Well, we listen to almost all of the songs. Not the hello song. NEVER the hello song.

In class the hello song is one of my favorites. We go around the room and all of the parents sing hello to all of the children by name. We sing hello to the moms and the dads and the teacher too. It's a lovely community building time. The song on the CD though, is very different. The song on the CD has "Uncle Jerry."

The song on the CD starts out just like in class. They sing hello to the teacher, then to the Moms and Dads, and then, without warning Uncle Jerry comes in. Now, he doesn't do anything wrong, all he sings is "hello, I'm Uncle Jerry." However, every time I hear it I want to scoop Meg up, run away, tell all kids in the area not to take candy from him, and NEVER, EVER sit on Uncle Jerry's lap.

I know, I know, I'm totally songtyping. I'm sure Jerry is actually a very nice man, who teaches music, who was asked to sing on this record, and who just happens not to have kids of his own. Still, did he have to be "Uncle" Jerry? Couldn't he just be "Jerry"? I mean, "Jerry" is your pal who has an above ground pool, or a playful cartoon cat. "Uncle Jerry" has a black van with no windows, and a mysterious reason for having to leave the boy scouts.

I just am grateful he's not the one teaching our class. Bringing a tazer into a class full of kids, even for a good reason, is never smart.

P.S. I am totally featured at Studio 30 Plus today. So, if you want more logic, head over there...

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The Days of Our Food

This weekend we lived like rock stars and cleaned out our kitchen cabinets. I know, you all wish you were me. Actually, I don't mind the quadrennial cleaning, since it gives Ryan and me time to play the game show that is sweeping the nation: "what food has the oldest expiration date!" This time, our two finalists both came from the soup family.

Obviously we don't eat soup. So, which one was it? Well, the travel soup expired in 2005. And the can?

Yep, that soup EXPIRED in 2004. That means I probably bought it in 2000, which also means it moved from Washington D.C. to Utah with me, and then through three apartments before being stuck in our cabinet. I really wasn't sure if we should throw it out, or throw it a party. Of course, that soup would just be an honorable mention if we included spices. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you parsley flakes from 1996.

How do I know the parsley flakes are from 1996? Because I remember buying them when I moved into my first apartment in D.C., thinking I would make garlic bread. I never did. I just made mummified parsley.

Do you think the Smithsonian takes parsley? Maybe I should keep it around, just in case. If it turns out they don't at least I'll know I have an ace in the hole for the 2015 cabinet clean out...

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The Secret Recipe

The television channel has changed! Hurray! No more learning as I try to work out! Hurray, hurray! Oh, and the new television channel has introduced me to my new hero: Judie Byrd.

Isn't she perky? As you can tell, her show is all about cooking -- and cooking fun things to boot! Truly, I don't think she made a single dish she didn't say was fun. Chicken salad? FUN! Cabbage salad? FUN! Noodle salad? FUN! Now, I have only seen the one show, but I am guessing if she thinks salads are fun she is extra pumped about other foods.

Oh, and Judie is not only perky, but adventurous too! Now, don't be too afraid, but one of the salad dressings she made had -- wait for it -- sesame oil. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? HOW DO THEY GET THOSE TINY SEEDS OPEN? Plus, and this may actually make you quiver a little bit, it had rice vinegar too. THAT'S RIGHT, VINEGAR MADE OUT OF RICE! NOT EVEN KIDDING! I was pretty shocked when Judie pulled out these "ingredients," but luckily she let me know that they really weren't all that odd, and that people all over Asia (her implied italics, not mine) use them every day. Asia? I'm just going to have to take her word for it.

While she may use crazy ingredients, don't fret, Judie is all American. Not one of her recipes included less than a half a cup of oil. She even used it to fry those crazy sesame seeds, because we all know while toasting them might make them just as, if not more, delicious, it would also make her a communist. Oh, oh, oh! She also added salt to a dressing that had a third cup of soy sauce in it! Only in America can you get a salad that gives you hypertension.

Seriously, Mr. T should have been hanging his head in shame when his "fat cutting" oven infomercial tried to follow her show. I pitied that fool.

I might now actually miss learning about WWII weapons.

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Damn

I am writing this on an elliptical machine. No, really, I am. I'm working out, sweating, as my fingers type his. How's that for multitasking?

See that picture? Totally proves I'm working out. It's even shaky because ii am aworking so hard.

I know, I know, you're all thinking "why is she blogging while she's working out?" I would love to say it's because this is the only time in my busy schedule, but really, it's because I am so fucking bored.

See that TV? The one in the blurry, proving I'm working out picture? It's on the History channel. It's ALWAYS on the History channel. And I have no idea how to change it. I have looked all over this gym trying to find the damn remote, and it's nowhere. I would change it manually (I know, how quaint) but it's six feet off the floor. I am five foot. There are no step stools. I am not risking my life, standing on a yoga ball for TV.

I mean, at least not today. Maybe tomorrow. As I said, exercise is really boring.

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I Don't Get It

When I was in third grade I couldn't roll my r's.

Everyone else could do it. They would all happily rrrr their way through "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" at song time while I mouthed along until the "caw, caw" part, hoping no one noticed. I would look at their mouths and try to figure out how they were making that sound while I could not. I asked friends who knew about my plight to help me, to show me exactly what to do. Still, I couldn't do it. I remember how left out I felt, and how thinking there was no worse feeling in the world.

I had no idea about the bitch of infertility.

It has now been two years since we stopped actively trying to have a biological child. Ryan and I both decided we don't want to try fertility treatments again. We both could not be happier with the way things turned out in the end with the adoption of Meg. We wouldn't want it any other way. We are both fine with never having a biological child. Still, sometimes that feeling, that left out, "why can't I do that" comes back to haunt me.

Right now I have two friends that are pregnant. One was actively trying not to get pregnant, and the other had just started trying like five minutes ago. Neither one was taking pills, or getting shots, or monitoring their basal temperature, or peeing on everything for signs of fertility. I am absolutely thrilled that neither one of them had to do any of that, and I look forward to the births of their children. Yet, still I wonder "how did they do that?"

I can go through all the reasons in my head for my infertility. PCOS. Irregular cycles. Too many years on birth control. Still, there are people with all of those things that have had children. My doctors told me I was making eggs. I had no "structural factors." Ryan was not a factor. We are pretty sure we are doing it right. What's the problem?

Honestly, I don't think I want to know the answer, even if there is one. I think that might make things worse, possibly luring me back into the world of fertility nightmares to prove "yes I can." My life is too good to even think about going back there.

At least now I can roll my r's. It gives a certain flair when I talk about being inferrrrrrrtile.

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Nineteen Months

It has finally happened: Meg has reached the age where she wants to do everything by herself.

See that balloon? The blue one? Yeah, that one. That is the balloon I tried to help her hold, but she would have none of it. Wouldn't even let me tie it on her wrist. She had to be in control and hold it herself. She did a good job too. I was sure it would slip through her grasp reducing her to a pile of rage and tears, but she held onto that string tight, looking up at her beautiful blue prize, whispering "mine."

Meg has also decided she doesn't want any help eating any more. That's fine when it's something like crackers, or fruit, but a little trickier when she wants to eat yogurt. So far we've managed that by giving her the little squeeze pouches, which she handles with very little mess, but I know the day when nothing but a spoon will do is coming soon. She's already working with utensils to eat less splattable things -- like peas -- so I am hoping her skills will have greatly improved by then.

Meg's cousin Luke continues to be her hero, and she wants to do everything he does -- by herself. If he walks up the stairs, she wants to walk up the stairs. If he plays the drums, she wants to play. If he is eating a sandwich that isn't cut into pieces, you better believe Meg wants hers whole. Meg also wants anything that Luke has, and will follow him asking for "bites" if it is food, or "have it" if it is something else. Luckily, Luke adores Meg and is always willing to share. When I think him for being so great with her he always shrugs and says "she's my cousin." What a great kid.

The most heartrending sign of independence is that Meg no longer wants me to put her to bed. Now when she is ready to go she let's me carry her into her room, but then points at her crib rather than letting me rock her to sleep. She still let's Ryan rock her though, probably because she still fits on his lap. After all, she is already half my height.

So, today it's climbing up in chairs, and wanting to take off her shoes herself. Tomorrow it will be borrowing the car and picking out clothing that I think is ridiculous, but she says is "cool." I just hope time slows down a little between now and then. I can't believe it's already been 19 months.

Oh, how we love our girl.

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The Truth Hurts

I think we can all agree that sexism is everywhere. No one says anything about it, and we all try to act like it isn't there, but it is -- and it starts early. Kitchen sets have little girls in the ads, while trucks have little boys. The doll isle is all pink and features "little mommy" slogans. The action figures are on aisles filled with blue "tough guy" slogans. Nothing implicit is said about toy only being for girls or for boys, but it's all implied.

Thank God for Fisher Price. They totally cut through the bullshit. Ladies and gentlemen (mostly gentlemen) I give you the hammer...

Yep, this hammer is for boys. BOYS! No girl better try to touch it, even if she is 3 to 18 months. A girl baby wouldn't even know what to do with the power of this hammer rattle, and trying to figure it out could cause serious problems! She might break a nail, and we all know about the problems of baby nails.

Of course, Fisher Price realizes that while girls shouldn't -- no, CAN'T -- play with hammers, they know that they are still at least 50 percent of the toy buying market. They had to create something for them too. After all, girls can be so pouty if they feel they aren't getting enough attention.

BAM! Yep, that's right -- a diamond ring! I mean, come on, isn't that what every baby girl wants? Of course, it would be better if it was given to her by a boy baby, but it's fine as a gift from her parents in order to remind her what's she's reaching for in life: a real ring from a boy, that hopefully knows how to swing a hammer.

I am just so proud of Fisher Price for saying what every other multi-national toy company is thinking: that boys should do things, and girls should stand by and look pretty until boys are ready to pay attention to them. If they get any more truthful they'll have to call their next collection the "fuck you Gloria Steinem, get back in the kitchen" teaching toys.

No, I won't be buying any of them. Probably no other Fisher Price toys either. Regardless, though, I do appreciate their honesty.

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The Suction Shack

No, it's not what you think. Sickos.

Meg has had a snotty nose since January 3rd. I know the day it started, because that is the day we all ended our holiday vacation bliss. The first day Meg was back at daycare she greeted me with a booger filled nose when I picked her up. Her first post-break gym and music classes just multiplied the problem. By the end of that week Ryan and I were armed with tissues at all times, all three of our bulb aspirators were continually in the dishwasher, we had bought enough Vicks products to have stock in the company, and Meg looked like she was sporting a bright red mustache because of all the wiping. We figured once all of the germs were once again acquainted with her body, the snot would stop.

We were wrong.

We went to the doctor. She said Meg just had a snotty nose.

Things continued to get worse and worse, despite our growing arsenal of defenses. In addition to the vapor rub, we added vapor baths and vapor steam at night. We started wiping hands and everything else down with sanitizer at every opportunity. We stopped using normal tissues for lotion ones, and began slathering Meg's face in Aquaphor so the skin would not end up peeling off.

I took Meg back to the doctor yesterday. The other parents in the waiting room looked at me like I had brought really gross napalm in the room. I understood, but having wiped her nose 3 seconds before, and knowing I was going to have to do it three seconds later, I figured they could cut me some slack.

This time the doctor had answers: Meg had an ear infection, as well as a mild case of bronchiolitis. She needed antibiotics, and a trip to the "suction shack." It took everything I had in me not to ask why she wanted me to take Meg to a gay bar. She got the last laugh though when she told me what it really was, and that I was going to have to take my baby -- MY BABY -- to the hospital to have her nose and chest sucked out.

I'm not even going to go into the panic I suffered in the next 24 hours. I worried about how it could scar her psychically if we did it, and that it could lead to pneumonia if we didn't. I called everyone we know to get a second opinion, and my Mom to get her opinions on all the opinions. I monitored everything coming out of Meg's nose, hoping it was decreasing. Then I noticed that while I focused on my suffering, I had forgotten about Meg's -- and the fact she needed this to end -- NOW. I called and made the appointment. Ryan, worried I might pas out, or punch someone, said he would meet us there.

Honestly, the worst part of the "suction shack" was the stupid sign on the door. Apparently "outpatient respiratory therapy" isn't cute enough, so handmade sign with it's nickname and a picture of a "Gilligan's Island" house adorns the door. I was not amused.

The treatment itself was really quick. A tube up the nose, suction, and done. Meg wasn't pleased, of course, but no more upset than when we use the bulb aspirator. The stuff that came out of her was really impressive. I mean, if you are into that kind of stuff.

Oh, and now? She can breathe. We've only wiped her nose once since then.

I don't know if I'm ready to give up the Vicks, though. I've really started liking the smell.

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