six weird things....

I've seen this everywhere, and as y'all know I rarely do memes, because they are everywhere, but after sunShine posted hers twice, I figured the world needed another weird things post. I don't know how weird this stuff is, but I know I haven't mentioned it here before, so have at it:

1. I hate PBJ sandwiches. HATE. But I like peanut butter, and I like jelly. I HATE them together. And heaven help the soul that gets a molecule of peanut butter in the jelly jar or vice versa, I will taste it, I will barf, and I will come after you. We always had to have PBJs for lunch when I was a kid. So I just slathered one piece with jam and the other with PB and got along just fine. So, there.

2. I pass gas and burp A LOT. Like more than a human being ever should. Like I need to seek medical help, but I never would because who wants to tell her doctor she farts too much. So I spend my work days in misery and my evenings and weekends making Steve and Audrey miserable, well not really. They just laugh at me. And laugh. And laugh. Ok, guys, you can stop now.

3. I married the Swine because I didn’t believe in living together before marriage. Holy heavens! I love God and all. I believe that Jesus is my savior, but never ever will I ever espouse that being the driving force for marrying someone you love. Ever. I knew it was a mistake within weeks, but I also didn’t believe in divorce. Nearly four years later and all those tunes changed. I’ll live in sin till the cows come home and the angels sing Gloria from the heavens if I have to.

4. I graduated from high school never having kissed a boy. My pastor said it was because I had “pretty girl” syndrome. Not the kissing thing, but the no boyfriend thing. Why my pastor was interested in my dating life remains an unanswered question. He was wrong, though. Really, it was because I was deathly afraid of boys wanting The Sex. Or really, I was afraid I wouldn’t say no because Friends and my one promiscuous pal, Jacquie, said The Sex is really, really nice. So my first time was with the Swine. Ah, isn’t that special.

5. I have half a middle fingernail on my right hand, and by golly, is it ever embarrassing. It all started with the manicure. It shore looked purdy, but then this little bit of white grew at the nail bed. And then there was pain and swelling, and Steve calling it my “penis finger.” Ha, ha, really funny, Steve. So along with the pain and swelling, came my nail separating from the base, and stuff would get stuck in there, which is just gross. So now I have to keep the right have of my nail trimmed down to the cuticle and all my doctor told me to do was grow it out and paint it. I can’t do that. It hurts and stuff get stuck down there. Did I mention how gross that is? I used to keep a bandaid wrapped around that finger, because it’s so embarrassing when someone notices the nail while I am talking to them and gesturing with my hands. Now I just reserve the bandaid for special occasions like my triple homicide trial when I go down for popping the Swine, the WWN and my doctor, whose ability to earn her MD baffles me. (Disclaimer: To the prosecution, should any of those nefarious people die, I know that I have motive, many in fact, and I just said that I would kill them on my personal website, but please note that this is an idle joke, for the amusement of my readers and not an overture for something I intend to do in the very near future. Thank you.)

6. I am a complete and incurable nerd. I try to elevate myself by reading thick and notable books (like the chic lit I mentioned in my last post), knitting, playing the piano, but by George do I love me some video games. When I first returned from London, I stayed with my mom for a couple of weeks. My sister and I played hours of Mario Cart on the Nintendo 64. Hours. Like, send out a couple resumes, play 4 hours of Mario Cart. It was really kind of pathetic, a 26 year-old playing the same tracks over and over. I’m going to fix that though. I scouring Craig’s List for the perfect deal on a used Nintendo GameCube. I converted Steve from the History Channel to Fox, now I’m going to turn him on to the world of Mario and then my domination will be complete. *Insert evil laugh here* All I can say to redeem myself in your eyes is to inform you that I do indeed play wearing kick-ass jeans and BCBG stilettos. If I’m going to be a nerd, I may as well look good in the process, thank you very much.

stupid, stupid presidents

This morning I woke up all-too-early to the obnoxious morning show on KISS 106.1. I’d set the alarm and hour earlier because I really, really wanted to get up and do my exercise DVD because since summer turned to fall, my exercise regime turned to sleep in late, watch TV in the evening, because it’s rainy and there is no sun. So my fab abs are now flab. I HATE THAT FEELING, but it seems I hate it less at 5 in the morning, cuddled up in my warm bed next to my honey. So when the alarm went off, I nudged at Steve to attend to it, telling him to hit the snooze button while pulling a pillow over my head. Ah silence returned to me. Steve came back to bed and spooned me and I settled in for a 9 minute nap until Jackie and Bender blare from our clock/radio again.

Steve turned the alarm off. He didn’t hit snooze. He turned it off. So I woke up at the exact moment I was to be stepping on my bus. Cue me on the verge of tears, freaking out because I was GOING TO BE LATE! Where are the chill pills when I so desperately need them? I threw on a chunky turtleneck, my lesbian pants and sensible loafers (holy Lord, do I need to go shopping), brushed my hair into a ponytail and raced out the door – to wait. On top of it all the damn buses were running the freaking holiday schedule because my freaking work doesn’t like freaking presidents. So I stood in the freaking rain, freaking out because I was LATE.

Chill. Pill.

When the bus finally came, I sat down and read from my book, The Other Woman, by Jane Green (haha, no, it’s not about me) when the stomach pain wrenched its way through my gut. And that my friends is all I needed to confirm that yes, my freak-out have a cow moments are directly correlative to the kill-me-now torso pain I get.

Great. Now what? Wynn is going in for her stick a hose up the rumpus appointment tomorrow. I’m wondering if it’s time for me to get one of those colo-wha-scopies, maybe to see what exactly happens at the moments when my body and mind are so stressed out that the only thing left for it to do is sic the belly urchins on me.

Luckily it didn’t boil into a full-on episode. Because the second I felt it stirring up I gave myself the “Calm down woman, are you insane?” pep talk and the belly urchins crawled back into their hole to bide their time for the next occurrence of the Rebecca Freak-Out Moment™.

replay

I normally don’t drive to work since I am a bus rider, but Thursday I did, so I could leave early and be home quickly to relieve Steve from sick-Audrey tending. Wind tossed my hair every which way when I walked out on to the streets of Belltown, and as I drove home, waves beating against the 520 bridge splashed water against the Durango. After I got into the apartment, Steve, Audrey and I stood on the patio watching the trees sway with the gusts and branches poke at the window of the spare room.

When I lay Audrey down for her nap, I decided to lie down on the couch and take advantage of my afternoon off by getting a little shuteye myself.

And the wind blew in a great snow. Gusts of white powder built up against the building. I ran into Audrey’s room and it was filled with snow. I grabbed her out of bed, and she was shivering from the cold. I carried her to my room and lay her down in my bed, and I couldn’t figure out where Steve had gone. Frantic that he had left me, I ran into Oliver’s room, relieved to see it wasn’t filled with snow, and I held him close to me and took him to my room. Steve still wasn’t there but his wallet was on the bed. He wouldn’t leave without his wallet.

And the wind blew in a great snow. Gusts of white powder built up against the building. I ran into Audrey’s room and it was filled with snow. I grabbed her out of bed, and she was shivering from the cold. I carried her to my room and lay her down in my bed, and I couldn’t figure out where Steve had gone. Frantic that he had left me, I ran into Oliver’s room, relieved to see it wasn’t filled with snow, and I held him close to me and took him to my room. Steve still wasn’t there but his wallet was on the bed. He wouldn’t leave without his wallet.

And the wind blew in a great snow. Gusts of white powder built up against the building. I ran into Audrey’s room and it was filled with snow. I grabbed her out of bed, and she was shivering from the cold. I carried her to my room and lay her down in my bed, and I couldn’t figure out where Steve had gone. Frantic that he had left me, I ran into Oliver’s room, relieved to see it wasn’t filled with snow, and I held him close to me and took him to my room. Steve still wasn’t there but his wallet was on the bed. He wouldn’t leave without his wallet.

I jolted awake. The dream had repeated again and again. I could still feel Oliver in my arms, smell his little baby smell. I couldn’t understand why every dream I have of him, he’s always alive. Shivering, I called Steve. My dream was so eerie, so frightening, so preferable to the real world if only because it is a world wherein Oliver lives and breathes. I don’t take naps. The rest of the day the dream played again and again in my brain as I analyzed every moment, every feeling.

My desire to have a baby has been so strong lately, almost unbearably strong. I’m sure it has to do with a subconscious desire to suppress the pain of February. My friend Lee had her baby on February 5, but I haven’t been able to call her to congratulate her yet. I haven’t been able to face it, haven’t been able to speak to her, visit her. In all honesty I was waiting for the two week mark, because I needed to see her baby make it more than 12 days, but now that she did, I still can’t call. I’m jealous. I want to be the one who just had a baby. I want to sit on an inflatable pillow because I can’t sit down. I want to have cracked nipples and a puffy belly. It’s not the right time. And that sucks. Planning sucks. If it happened we’d make it work, but right now isn’t the right time if we’re going to plan. So like I said, planning sucks.

Maybe I’ll call my friend tomorrow. Maybe seeing her baby, her beautiful baby girl will give me the right dose of baby to tide me over. Maybe changing a diaper will tide me over or maybe it will do nothing more than feed the fire.

This sucks.

I’ve spent the weekend attached to my laptop, typing and working trying to fix one of the things that are making me miserable. It’s one of those projects that makes all of your insecurities rise to the surface and your love for yourself diminish as you begin to doubt all of your talents and abilities. I pray to God that I am successful.

I discovered that I’m kind of an ogre. And really, I’m not all that funny. I’m the depressing, not funny one. Sure, I can write. I can string a series of words together and make them slide down your gullet, but they are not going to make you laugh. You are much more likely to shed a tear than crack a smile. I’m that not funny person. I’m the one that should something I say actually make someone laugh, I am going to find a way to work that joke into at least four other conversations. I’m the kind of girl that has her comeback two hours later or sometimes never. When I graduated from high school, I still had braces, and I’d had a baby tooth removed so they could pull down the adult, but it was taking FOREVER, so I was forced to go to First Week at Myrtle Beach, SC with metal and a hole in my mouth. Sitting trying to be ultra cool in my friend’s red Jeep Wrangler, a few guys walked up to us, and while chatting up the “fine” guy, he all of the sudden said, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.” I just froze and waited for him to walk away. I still can’t think of a “yo’ mama.” I guess the problem is my sense of humor. I can’t find humor in some of the things I am going through, and they are the things that most compel me to sit at this laptop and write for my blog. So I feel sorry, both for the readers of my blog whom I reduce to tears and for myself, because I’ll never be that hilarious blogger. I just don’t want to depress everyone away from me.

And lastly can I just say STOP! REALLY. I know you’re never going to see these words but where are the people who love you? You look horrible, not that looks are the most important thing, but could you at least put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, cause, Honey, that is not a bikini bod you’re sporting. Oh and the hair! Demi Moore, sure, Natalie Portman, absolutely, you? Not so much. What were you thinking? And doing it yourself? You looked stoned, out of your mind. And all I can think of are those two beautiful boys. Did you know that you were once named the worst celebrity pet owner? They said it was because you were seen with them everywhere when it was cool to have dogs as accessories, and when the fad died, so did your poochie love. I now name you the worst celebrity mother. You were all about having kids when they made you a happy family, but when your marriage died, so did your dreams of the Brady Bunch. You realized that you didn’t want to be a twenty-something stay-at-home mom, you’re single, you’re rich, you’ll stay out all night and party if you want to. Why can’t anyone stop you? What is your problem? Why the downward spiral? Why are people like you blessed with beautiful, healthy children when the last thing you could ever do is appreciate that blessing? That more than anything in the world is the question I want answered.

Can you smell the gouda?

There were no roses, no chocolates, no jewelry. How much thought purchasers of those items must put into it as evidenced by the packed card aisle and picked over florist department at the Bellevue QFC. I could only laugh as men young and old seemed to compete with each other. This man’s basket had a balloon, large card and box of chocolates, and that man’s had card, teddy bear, and plant. Ah how we women treasure the grocery store gifts.

Me, I had my treasure in the car waiting for me as I put the evening’s dinner in my cart. There was to be no candlelit dinner, or bottles of wine shared at a linen-covered table surrounded by the rest of the requisite couples who dutifully made their reservations early enough so as not to be stuck with the 5:30 in and out as my friend Wynn and her fiancé had. No, Steve, Audrey and I were content to be in the company of each other.

We had turkey sandwiches to eat, a race car track to build and an episode of American Idol to watch. Our first evening at home in quite a few days, the ordinariness of our time spent together was a blessed relief from the hubbub of activities that surrounded Dan’s stay in Seattle.

And so it was. Steve is not the kind of guy to surprise. He’s the kind of guy that pitches in at the time of need. He’s home right now with poor, sick little Audrey, who blames the “one who went to Hawaii” (Dan) for her illness. But you know, when it comes down to it, I would much rather have the man that treats another man’s child as his own, that treasures the very sight of me and tells me so more often than I can remember, than the one who stops last minute at QFC to pay Hallmark $3.25 to say it for him.

According to my calendar, we have Audrey for the next four Valentine’s Days, and I’m glad. It will always be the day we spend together as a family – I’ll never get a sitter. Maybe we’ll always have sandwiches and watch American Idol, I’m sure it will still be around in 2010. Why do so many couples have the same Valentine’s Day? I never will. I don’t want the flowers. I don’t want the chocolates. I don’t want the jewelry or the reservations. I’ve got what I want – love, a love that is evidenced in a hundred ways that no amount of credit card swipeage could never show.

Okay wait, did I just read that Amalah's husband gave her a day at the spa? Maybe a little credit card action couldn't hurt. Hint. Hint.

Just so you know...

I love it when you toot and act like it's the first time you ever did in front of me.
I love it when you smile and your eyes go all crinkly like they did just now.
I love it when you use silly voices and make me laugh and laugh.
I love it when you teach me about music and tell the same stories over and over because they never get old to either of us.
I love it when you snore a little, so you wake up and get all embarrassed.
I love it when you tell me I am beautiful even though my hair's pulled back, and I've not a stitch of makeup on, and we both know you're lying but it makes me feel good anyway.
I love it when you grab my hand in yours when we're driving or play with my hair while we're cuddling on the sofa together.
I love it when you wake me up in the morning when you're feeling rather randy.
I love it when you let me hold the remote, which is always, because you know that no one can fast forward through the commercials like I can.
I love it when you make us mugs and mugs of PG Tips because you know that I'll always suck at making a cuppa, but you're okay with that because I make the best eggs Benedict.

Happy Valentines Day, Darling.

not just another day

I awoke Friday morning with the distinct awareness, after I gazed with bleary eyes at my alarm clock on the dresser across the room, that it was the very same minute during which Oliver was born exactly a year before. It had been a sunny afternoon in London at Northwick Park Hospital that he was pulled by a team of doctors from the warmth and safety of my belly to the world that would only harbor him for twelve short days. My mother here in Seattle was just waking up when Steve called her to give her the good news. Her morning a year ago was so different from my morning now.

As I lay in bed, watching Steve mill about in the bathroom, I contemplated the past year and what this day meant to me. My eyes remained dry, and that was a good sign I would make it through the day. So I got out of bed and got ready for work alongside Steve, both of us replaying the same memories of events 365 days prior. We hugged silently. Our eyes said enough.

Steve decided to drop me at work rather than having me take the bus, and when we pulled up in front of my building, he grabbed my hand and asked, "Are you sure you don't want to take the day off? I can stay home with you if you don't want to go in."

And then the tears came because I could tell that he wanted me to say yes. He wanted to stay home. He just needed a reason that wasn't himself. I sighed, quelling the longing to stay in bed with him and reminisce about what might have been, "I can't sweetheart. I just can't dwell on it today." Knowing that the day would become a black progression of hours of sadness that would be so much worse than a day at work, I wiped my eyes and kissed him goodbye.

Once in the office, I pressed into action, willing myself to ignore the tears that hung in my throat. And it wasn't until I sent the email to my boss with a request to get off a half hour early and her reply, "that's fine," brought the deluge. I couldn't stop the water pouring from my ducts, nor could I figure out the reason the exchange set me off. I pinched my finger again and again. My boss walked up to my desk and laughed nervously when she saw my tears, "We'll just have to keep you very busy," she said, putting a stack of paper down with a flourish, "So the day will go by just like that." I made a joke about running out of tissues, but the rest of the day I was fine – at top form, actually, which felt good, like I was the boss of my emotions.

After work, Wynn and I went to Fox Sports Grill to meet her brother and fiancée for Happy Hour. Steve was working late, so he couldn't make it. But I drank three margaritas and toasted my little guy before heading home on the bus bound for Bellevue, a bus driven by a nasty guy in bike shorts who snapped at me both as I stepped on and stepped off. It was probably because I had my cell phone glued to my ear, as I was yet again appealing to the Swine to please be reasonable and not vengeful when it comes to choosing Audrey’s school. Frustration and resentment surged through my every vein and artery. (But my exposition on that will come later.) He didn’t know what the day meant to me and how much pain I was in. He didn’t understand that all I wanted apart from anything else was for him to be genuinely sorry for his responsibility for Audrey missing the birth and short life of her baby brother.

When I finally got home to Steve, it was our peaceful understanding that melted all of the isolation I’d felt all day. Only he knows what this is like. What this day means. My own mother, my own family forgot. They didn’t realize or remember what February 9 signifies. And it hurts so much to realize that his significance to his grandmother was no where near the significance he held for his parents. And I realized that Oliver will have to be memorialized in our hearts, just the two of us, because we are the only ones who can, who will. He’s our little blip in the enormousness of all the seconds of all the hours of all the days the earth has ever been, a blip that will not long be remembered. He didn’t have a chance to have an impact on the world, but the affect of this day will long have an impact on me and on his father.

Happy first birthday, dear Oliver Harry. In my heart you just learned to walk, you’ve cut teeth, you’ve had a haircut, and every day is an adventure of discovery.

I broke Steve

“Did you hear the news?”

“Yes, it’s terrible. I was going to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you at work.”

“It’s so sad. I hope her baby has a good home.”

“Her son just died, too. How untimely.”

“Well, I better get back to work. I just wanted to share that with you.”

And we both hung up. No names were mentioned. No actual mention of the thing we were talking about. And this, folks, this is why I love my man so very, very much.

When Steve and I met for the second time at a friend’s party, we fell in love that night, spending hours excluding fellow party-goers with our discussion about opera and Maria Callas. Very highbrow, no? Fast forward over three years and what do you have? A couple who calls each other when cheesy reality stars collapse and die. Anna Nicole Smith – we will miss your platinum locks, your slurred words and your boobalicious figure. Really. We will.

Steve and I are now the couple that eats up the reality TV world. And the funny thing is, it’s Steve more than me.

When we were moving, we were debating whether or not to continue our digital TV/ HDR subscription.

“Can we still watch American Idol?” Steve asked, brow furrowed in all the seriousness that such a question necessitates. I just laughed at him, guffawing when he continued with the question, “Well, what about Beauty and the Geek?” before noticing my response. “What?”

I’ve created a monster. I took an IFC – History Channel watching Englishman and turned him into a reality show fiend. He doesn’t even get excited about episodes of The Closer or Monk anymore. When he’s had a bad day, I know exactly which show to access to put his mood aright. I might as well be doing something naughty to him for all the pleasure he harvests from these shows.

Last night we were lying on the sofa watching one of the final episodes of Beauty and the Geek. We’d just returned from visiting the school I really want Audrey to attend, and I’d already told Steve that the Swine and the whole school thing was going to have to preempt my planned post on his reality show addiction, but what happened next and the conversation we had this morning (he called me, by the way), ensured him today’s spot.

So anyway, there we were watching BATG, when he got up during the commercial break to tend to his laundry. I hate commercial breaks, and I couldn’t fast forward to the commercials, so I turned off the show and put on the Hills, which we used to watch together, but since he works so much now, I’ve been savoring it on my own. It was a particularly juicy episode of the Hills. Heidi went to dinner with Audrina, who told Heidi to watch out because Spencer was totally hitting on her behind Heidi’s back. Steve came back and I filled him in on all the drama, and just before the commercial break, they teased with Heidi staying home from her planned trip to Colorado and going to the same club where Spencer was hanging with some blonde playboy pinups.

Steve hopped up from the sofa and literally skipped to the kitchen to turn on the kettle for some good ole PG Tips, and then he actually sang a song that went something like “Yippee, yippee, there’s going to be some drama. Spencer’s going to get it.” There was more, but my hysterical laughter kind of outdecibeled his chanteuring. When he returned, he said, “Rebecca, I don’t think we have enough drama in our lives. We need to move LA because we’re missing out.”

See? How can I not love with my whole heart the 44 year-old Englishman whom I’ve converted into a dancing, crap-TV nut?