25 Weeks

I’m tempted to leave you with just this one picture. It about sums up how I’m feeling: big and uncomfortable and taking up too much space.

At 25 weeks, I still don’t look very pregnant. I get the “Oh, you look great!” and “Still so small!” reactions all the time and, just like with Lorelei, it makes me a little punchy. I know that I’m not that big. I get it. It’s just the way I grow ’em, I guess.

I’ll give you a real picture now.

At my doctor’s appointment last week, I was up 17 pounds – to put that in perspective, I had gained about 10 with Lorelei by this point – which means I’m right on track for the normal 25-30 pound weight gain. Baby girl number two also really likes to kick the doppler.

Something else I learned recently, my insurance no longer fully covers what they call “non-essential” services. Do you want to know what they consider “non-essential?” Blood work and ultrasounds. The only thing they cover completely are the 10 minute office visits that I can often spend 30-45 minutes waiting in an exam room for. It was giving me some serious rage issues when we first learned that all those little bills from the hospital were not sent to us in error. Or really, insurance? That extra $12 to pay for my ultrasound completely was too much for you? What annoys me even more is that, with the exception of my first trimester ultrasound, every single thing I’ve had done is required by my doctor. There is no way they would let me skip any of those tests. Tell me again how that’s “non-essential.” What annoys me the most, if I had not gotten an ultrasound, I would not have found out about my placenta previa. What if Brian and I had *ahem* “relations” not knowing that I shouldn’t be doing that? What would have happened then, Mr Insurance Company? It’s not something I like to dwell on too much. I still don’t know what’s going to happen and I won’t know anymore until my ultrasound in January which my insurance isn’t going to cover completely. Awesome.*

Other things going on the last few weeks: I feel like crap. I sleep like crap. I have tension headaches. I can’t fall asleep because baby girl likes to pick the second I lay down to start her gymnastics routine. Yeah, I’m one big ball of positivity over here.

*I would like to state for the record before anyone says anything, I am very grateful that I have insurance at all. I know that a lot of people don’t and a lot of people can’t afford it. I am lucky. I get that. But since this is a new policy, it came as a bit of a shock to suddenly be getting medical bills in the mail when I didn’t get a single one the entire time I was pregnant with Lorelei. So, yeah. And I can still be pissed about it. So there.

My (Non) Apology to an Asshole

Dear Fellow Coffee Shop Patron,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I had the audacity to sit in the only available arm chair. I’m sorry that it happened to be next to you (although it was separated from you by a small table). I’m sorry that I sat quietly by myself, not talking to you or making eye contact or even fucking smiling in your general direction while not bothering you at all. I am a terrible person.

Love,
Me

—

I had been having a wee bit of a rough day. It wasn’t terrible, just mildly irritating. I injured my wrist last night doing god knows what and I’ve had to endure shooting pains up my left arm to my elbow all day long. Fun times. I don’t usually take a lot of time for myself, so I thought a trip out for something (bad for me) to eat and a hot cocoa would be a nice treat.

I was very, very wrong.

I walked into the corporate coffee brewing establishment and surveyed my surroundings. You wouldn’t think that nine on a Thursday night would be a busy time, but the store was full. A large group of people had commandeered most of the tables (and the other set of armchairs) on the right side of the store. But on the left side, I was relieved to see that both of the red chairs were unclaimed. I would have to sit next to the annoying hipster college kids but that would be okay. There was no one in line ahead of me (this almost never happens) so I ordered quickly and handed over my card. Behind me, the door swung open and in came Surly Asshole. Surly Asshole did not even get in line to order, he went straight over to the chairs and put his stuff in one of them.

(Aside: Isn’t it annoying when someone claims one of the last remaining seats in a busy establishment before even ordering?)

BUT, I realized with relief, Surly Asshole was alone. I could still have a comfortable spot to sit and read for half an hour. (Brian practically kicked me out of the apartment, so I was going to take advantage of my alone time.) I finished paying and set my stuff down on the other chair while I waited for my drink. Thus began one of the most annoying thirty minutes of my life.

Surly Asshole sighed loudly and gave me dirty looks every five seconds (slight exaggeration). He scooted his chair away from mine (not that they were all that close together to begin with).  I was not even looking at him except for out of the corner of my eye whenever he made one of his dramatic sighs and he acted like he was dreading the possibility of us exchanging pleasantries. Here’s a hint: I don’t initiate conversations. I will participate if you speak to me first, but I am perfectly happy sitting alone. And then…THEN…I had the impudence to cross my legs and (horror!) my foot came within a foot of his bag. He grabbed that thing and pulled it close to him like I was going to stick my nasty, germy, feet in his bag. Another hint: I’m not!

That was it for me. I finished my chapter as quickly as I could and gathered up my things to leave. I wish I had sighed and been dramatic about my exit but I’m just not that kind of person.

Look, Surly Asshole, I get it if you want to sit and not be bothered and drink your latte. But dude, if you really don’t want someone sitting next to you: put your bag in the chair. It has the bonus of no one’s feet will accidentally come within a mile of it.

P.S. I know I smelled vaguely of roasted garlic, but you, Surly Asshole, needed a bath. I don’t think my feet were the stankiest things that have been near your bag all day.

P.P.S. Low blow?

What to Say?

I want to write something.  I want to be able to share what has been going on today.  But I can’t.

I want to.  I want to tell you that I’m mad.  I want to tell you that I wanted to yell and throw things and punch holes in the wall.

I want to tell you that I’m sad.  I want to tell you that it feels like my head is about to explode from holding back all the tears so that I didn’t break down in front of Lorelei.  I want to tell you that I did cry and it didn’t help.

But what would that accomplish?  Telling you all these things.  I’m mad and sad and feeling so unbelievably shitty, but I can’t tell you why.  I’m not really shy about sharing personal details here – and on-line is one of the few places that I’m not shy – but it isn’t really about me.  The reason for my mood, the reason I’m mad and sad, has to do with Brian.

And just to be clear, it’s not him.

It’s a little bit him, but mostly in the way he handled the situation.  It is not, however, my place to go into details that he probably doesn’t want people to know.  That’s fine.

I have spent all day in this rage.  I want to talk about it.  I want someone to be able to talk me down from the ledge, but I feel like there is no one.  I can’t call any of my friends up in the middle of the day and have them come over and keep me company and talk about this.  I called my mom, but it didn’t do a whole lot to help (actually made me feel worse, sorry Mom).

Then there’s you, dear Internet.  I come here and share my daily life.  My struggles with depression, my struggles with parenthood.  These are all things that you know.  I want to talk about this.  I want to write it down.  I’m trapped.  The words I need to say, I can’t say.

I’m angry.

I’m so fucking angry.

In one day, I have been made to feel worse than I have in a very long time.  I’m sorry, Internet, I’m in a bad place.  Tomorrow will be better.

Thud

After a weekend that was as truly wonderful as this last one, there is always the inevitable crash.

Thud.

I may have mentioned before that my credit card was declined while I was trying to pay for a hotel room a couple weekends ago and that Brian had to book the room on-line for me.  Well, I gave them my credit card anyway assuming that they were just pre-authorizing it for incidentals or in the event that there was a problem with the husband’s card.  We’ve done this before.  My sister, bless her, paid for our room in Branson but we still had to give them a card when we checked in.  So, I didn’t think much of it and went on my merry way, thinking that his card was being charged and not mine and I didn’t have to worry about things like buying gas and food.  But the transaction didn’t clear for days.  We honestly had no idea what was going on until, BOOM I checked my balance on-line and it was negative.  UH, WHAT?

Deep breaths.

Brian immediately got on the phone with the hotel.  There was a certain amount of miscommunication going on which could probably be blamed – at least in part – on the fact that I had a very crabby baby, I was tired and I really just wanted to go to sleep.  The hotel (Holiday Inn Express, in case you were wondering, and they are awesome) was very nice about it, however, and issued a refund to me and charged Brian instead.  The bank on the other hand, was not so nice.

Not only did I overdraft once for the hotel room, but twice more for a couple transactions I made afterwards.  For the record: $15 for gas and $12 bucks at Target for baby food and something else I’m not remembering right now.  Yesiree.  I was charged a total of $99 in overdraft fees because of this entire debacle.  Hilarious considering that I only overdrafted about thirty-five dollars anyway it’s just that it came from three separate transactions.

I will admit that I’m not always the best with money.  But I have only had an overdraft one other time (not counting the three weeks I was in Prague and keeping track of how much money I had in the bank with the exchange rate and the not having easy access to the internet for on-line banking was frickin’ hard).  And apparently, I only get one courtesy refund.  Uh huh.  Well, it shouldn’t have been a “courtesy refund.”  I was mistakenly charged due to a misunderstanding with the hotel.  A misunderstanding which was later credited to my account.  So, assholes on the phone, did you see that the charge that caused the overdraft was refunded TWO DAYS LATER?  Don’t talk to me like I’m some idiot who deserved to get charged A HUNDRED DOLLARS IN FEES because of a mistake.

Fuck you Commerce Bank (that’s right, I’m putting their name out there so that the few readers I do have know what a bunch of complete assholes they can be).  FUCK YOU COMMERCE BANK!  I have been screwed over by you before.  Brian has been screwed over by you.  I’m done.  If I could keep money in the mattress, I would but I can’t.  So, this afternoon we went to a new bank and opened a new account – a joint one so hopefully this shit won’t ever happen again – and I’m going to figuratively flip off Commerce Bank.  FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU COMMERCE BANK!

Phew.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need a stiff drink.

You Can Speak Your Mind…

…but not on my time.

Oh Billy Joel, you talented drunk.

I try not to get involved in debates about how to raise my daughter.  Not with my mother (sorry Mom) or the in-laws or my friends.  And I especially do not want to get drawn into a debate with a relative stranger.

Guess what?  My daughter uses a pacifier.  Big freaking deal.

I will admit that I didn’t want her to use one.  Not because I am morally opposed to them, but I didn’t want to have to deal with the drama of taking it away from her when she got too old.  Would sucking her thumb be any better?  No.  Do you know why?  Because you can’t just take her thumb away from a kid and tell them they aren’t allowed to suck it anymore.  I’m sure that would work splendidly.

Lorelei went through a phase – the same phase that all babies go through I’m sure – when she constantly wanted to suck.  As a new mother who still had no idea what she was doing, I thought maybe she was just hungry.  But no.  I would try to nurse her and she would scream bloody murder after five seconds but then would want to suck more.  I had no idea what she wanted and there I was just muddling through.  I was tired and my boobs were sore (you’re welcome) and there is nothing worse than listening to my baby cry and not have anything to fix it.  So we got her a binky and the relief was almost instantaneous, like a heating pad on a sore muscle.

Sure there are days when she is really dependent on them and (god forbid) if it falls out of her mouth while she’s sleeping it is THE END OF THE WORLD but mostly she does without them.  She is more interested in shoving whatever random thing lying around the apartment into her mouth and pulling books off of shelves and playing with remote controls.

So, lady who I don’t know: you can say that you don’t let your grandkids use their pacifiers when they’re at your house but I really don’t give a shit.  I do what I have to so that my daughter is happy and healthy.  And I’m sure the older she gets the more things that I will discover I have to compromise on.

If I ask for your advice, please give it.  But don’t judge me and I will do my best not to judge you.  No one is perfect.  We are all just muddling through.

Hell. I’m in Hell.

I am so mad right now I’m shaking.  I should be trying to get Lorelei ready for bed, but instead I’m sitting here in the bedroom doing the only thing I know how to do when I am this upset: writing.

Today, as mentioned before is free laundry day.  Also known as the eleventyiyh circle of hell.  I actually had no intention of participating in the madness (except for the much needed boob holders).  However, Brian took Lorelei for a walk around the complex – like he does most nights – while I read a bit of Rabbit Factory (that’s for you Rougie!).  As he was getting her in the bath, he mentioned that the laundry room looked empty and I should maybe take a couple loads over of the stuff I don’t wash frequently and would probably wash less frequently if it weren’t free (blankets, table clothes, etc).

As luck would have it – bad luck that is – all of the washers had clothes in them.  Except, almost all of them were done.  Now, I hate being that deeb who takes people’s wet laundry out but I was in a bit of a rush to get back for bedtime – my boob being an integral part of that routine – and so I investigated although the stopped machines looking for something innocuous that I could remove without feeling bad.  Most of them had delicates of some sort in them, but I did find one with just towels.  I thought to myself, Hallelujah! No one could too upset with me for taking their TOWELS out, right? Especially since I was thinking of seeing if there was an empty dryer and putting them in for them and leaving a note telling the owner of the towels such.

How very wrong I was.

I had barely started putting my laundry in when this big black (detail necessary) guy and his wife comes in.  He starts screaming at me about how I was a fucking bitch and I shouldn’t ever touch his stuff.  I swear, I’m a nice person and I usually never talk back to someone but today I had it.  I told him, “Don’t fucking talk to me that way.”  He goes on and on about he would never dream of taking someone else’s stuff out of the machine and yadda, yadda, yadda.  I was having none of that so I say, “Yeah right.” and then “Maybe you should come back when the laundry is done instead of letting it sit in the machine.”

This is where it gets really fun.  He says, “You people just act like you own everything anyway.”  Excuse me?  Because I’m white?  Because that better not be what you’re saying.  It’s not as if I knew that it was some black person’s laundry that I was taking out and I was doing it on purpose because I hate black people.  I don’t.  I get so frustrated when people do that!  I don’t judge you based on your race, gender, religion, sexuality, etc; I judge you based on the kind of person you are.  And you sir – black, white, latino, whatever – are a complete asshole.

At this point, I was already on the verge of tears and even though I knew there would be another machine free for the load of blankets I still had because they had taken up at least three machines, I stormed out.  I slammed the door as best as I could and flipped him off.  Ran across the lot, up the hill, up the flight of stairs into the apartment and tearfully told Brian what happened.  I asked him to go down there and tell the guy off (also, start the other load) and tell him he wasn’t allowed to speak to his wife that way.  Normally, I don’t want Brian to defend me like that, but today I did.  Today, that guy was lucky – even if he was twice my size – that I didn’t kick him in the junk.

Kicker is.  When Brian went down there, the wife was screaming at him and telling him there was no reason for him to be such an asshole.

Phew.  Calmed down a little now, but just so we’re clear: I am not a racist.

Shaky

Today was one of those days where you start out thinking that maybe, just maybe you’ve got this whole parenthood thing down and then that idea goes straight into the crapper.

Yesterday, we had a really good day.  Lorelei took a nice long nap in the morning, she behaved herself really well while were grocery shopping and then took a nice long nap in the afternoon.  We went swimming kind of late and, as usual, she was having the time of her life.  She pretty much passed out as soon as she was fed and then didn’t wake up until seven this morning (not counting the few times she had binky-related whine issues).  And I had a pretty good night, too.

So, I was feeling good.  Until I’d been up for about two hours and as I was standing there changing her diaper for the millionth time this morning, I had this sudden wave of nausea.  We’re talking food poisoning-level nausea.  I rushed to get her dressed again and down off the changing table so I could dry heave over the toilet for a few minutes.  Now, I know my body.  Sometimes when I don’t eat frequently enough I can get that want-to-throw-up-feeling plus shaky hands.  Just so we’re clear, that was not what this was.  I had eaten (and recently).  I spent most of the day wanting to die, but joy-of-joys I’m a stay at home mom and I got to take care of another person all day.  Did I mention that the husband was teaching his test-prep class tonight?  And that he had the car?  So, there I was trapped at home, feeling like I was going to pass out and so fucking angry at Brian.

I whine a lot.  I know this.  But when I say I feel sick and shaky and then you give me that “Why don’t you have a snack?” line as if that will magically cure everything, I tend to react badly.

I could have done it.  I could have made it through the day but as I was sitting there trying to feed Lorelei her pureed veggies for dinner, I couldn’t stop my shaking hands.  And what was worse, I was afraid that I would end up hurting her.  Unintentionally, of course.  I would lose my balance as I was carrying her back to her room.  And I know that there are plenty of other parents who have to take care of their children while they’re sick, but I already did it for six days while Brian was out of town and I had the flu.  Maybe it’s selfish of me to want him to come home, to want him to find a way to be there for me so that I don’t always feel like I’m doing it all, but today I really needed that.

I don’t like seeing my hands shake in weakness but I like it even less when they shake with anger.  I could feel this rage building up inside of me.  I was so sick of being crawled on all day long.  By the baby, by the cats.  Sick of hearing her whine for no discernible reason.  I was so sick of putting on that happy, everything is fine face.  Everything is not fine.  And I don’t know how to fix it.

Unsent

Do you ever compose mean letters in your head to those people/companies that really tick you off?  Or is that just me?  Anyone?  Bueller?

Dear [Satellite Provider Who’s Name Rhymes with Shmirect MeeMee],

Suck it.

When we first met, it was instant love.  ALL.  THOSE.  CHANNELS!  And you were cheaper than cable – not that I’m calling you cheap – and had the important channels like BBC America and Soap Net (maybe not).  I could record on two (two!) channels and your memory was long and I had more than half an hour to restart a program.

But then we moved.

You got mean.

All I wanted was to cancel service without paying the ridiculous fee.  I couldn’t get a signal at my apartment.  You told me that was okay.  It was supposed to be an amicable break up.  Apparently, you changed your mind.  No signal?  We need to send out another tech before we’ll let you cancel.  Even though he was here approximately ten seconds before he said the same thing as the first guy.

Then you wanted your stuff back.  I understand.  But you gave us no time.  You said send our stuff back or we’ll charge you several hundred dollars and before we could even get to FedEx, you went ahead and took the money out of our bank account.

It still could have been okay.  That is, if you hadn’t decided that instead of just refunding the money electronically, you were going to send us a check.  In six weeks.  I don’t know about you, but several hundred dollars is kind of a lot.  Especially when you have to make it to the end of the month without credit cards.  Wouldn’t have been a problem if it weren’t for the TWO HUNDRED PLUS DOLLARS you practically stole from us.

Was it really worth it to be so mean?  Especially since a call to a supervisor resulted in a refund being issued that day.  Wouldn’t it have just been easier to do that in the first place?

I don’t think there is any chance of us getting back together, no matter how better you are than cable.

Much Love,

Me

Odds and Ends

Overheard in my neighborhood this week:  A small child, maybe four or five, spent several minutes yelling “Mama!” over and over.  What did her mother say, “Stop yelling for me or I’m gonna whup your ass!”  I could not make this shit up.  That is what she said word-for-word.

Why do I torture myself with shows with incredible amounts of sexual tension.  My blogging friend, AndreAnna, already mentioned the Booth and Bones thing.  Why did you turn him down Bones?  Why?  Want to throw things at the TV!  Tony and Ziva on NCIS.  Every time I watch that show I want to scream, “Will you two just do it already!”  Castle and Beckett.  Come on!  I have no idea why I get so worked up about other people’s fake relationships, but there you go.

The other night I had a really weird dream.  It was a bizarre mix of Terminator and Transformers.  Well, Shia LaBoeuf (or however you spell his name) was there, at least.  And he was hiding from the Terminators.  Also, Ahnold was in it.  Although, oddly, he was wearing a helmet that was one part Stormtrooper and one part Cylon from the original Battlestar Galactica.  I swear I’m not on drugs, but sometimes I have really effed up dreams.

WARNING: THIS IS A WHINY RANT

I know you are all tired of hearing me complain about my neighbors across the street (and Sean, I swear to G-O-D, if you tell me that it’s because I live in the “hood” and I should just move, I will punch you in the nose) but it is getting worse.  I could put up with it if it were maybe an hour or two in the evening.  I could put up with it if it wasn’t so loud I can feel my house vibrating.  Unfortunately, the music starts at about 2:30 in the afternoon and goes until six or seven or sometimes even later at night.  Husband and I have called the cops, repeatedly.  This is mostly because I am not comfortable going across the street and asking them to turn it down (when I get mad, I get emotional and that would just make the situation worse).  We were convinced that they weren’t coming, but when Brian went to ask them to turn it down yesterday evening, they asked if we were the ones calling the cops.  (Like we would tell you if we were)  Then, they go on to say that they’ve been doing this for four years and no one has complained before.  BULL.  SHIT.  We have lived here for four years and other than once or twice on the weekends last summer, this has never happened before.  Oh, and they haven’t even lived here four years.

I feel like a prisoner in my own house.  Not because I can’t leave – I can – but because I shouldn’t have to.  I can’t get anything done because I’m so distracted by the music and so mad that they seem to not give a shit about anyone else.  Lorelei doesn’t take real naps anymore.  It is impossible to get her to go to sleep and if – by some miracle – I do succeed, she wakes up after only a few minutes.  I’m tired because she’s not sleeping well at night (stupid teeth) and I would very much like to at least lay down and have some quiet, even if I don’t sleep.

We don’t really have any options right now.  Although our house is worth more than what we paid for it, I get the feeling that selling it would be a major hassle.  And if we did, where could we move to?  Houses in our price range are going to be in similar neighborhoods or ass-far away from Brian’s job.  We only have one car and we can’t afford another one right now, so we have to live near a bus route so he can get to work (I sure as hell am not going to drive him to work everyday, waste of gas and money that is).  I honestly don’t know what to do.  Should I just learn to get over it?  Should I keep calling the cops everyday until the situation changes?  Do we foreclose on the house and try to find an apartment that is big enough for us and close enough to Brian’s job?  I’m barely holding it together right now.  I was just getting to the point where I wasn’t feeling completely depressed and anxious and now I’m back to barely functioning.  Someone please help me.

There.  End rant.

Here’s hoping that I can go back to all rainbows and unicorns and sunshine and puppies sometime soon.

An Open Letter to the People of St Louis

Dear St Louis,

I loathe despise hate have generally negative feelings about you. Well. Not you. I like you as a city. You have such wonderful institutions like Companion and the Cupcakery and Mississippi Mud. My library is in an awesome old building and not old in that built in the 70’s way. And then there’s those Cardinals. I can even look past your pathetic excuse for a public transportation system. But there’s just something about you.

1) You have a complete disregard for traffic laws

Now, I have never claimed to be the best driver on the planet and I do speed and, occasionally, I will run a yellow light. But you seem to believe that 70 is not fast enough when the speed limit is 55. Or that 55 is not fast enough when there is still ice on the roads. You tailgate instead of passing until you can’t take it anymore and then you’ll whip around and cut people off. Or you’ll cut people off because you didn’t see the three signs for your off-ramp and have to triple lane change to make it. You run red lights. Like really run them. Not just it was yellow and then it turned red while you were in the intersection but it was red and the two cars in front of you also ran the light.

2) You think the street is a parking lot.

As in, instead of pulling over to the side of the road to drop someone off or wait to pick someone up, you just stop in the middle of the street. Frequently even if there is a space not ten feet away. And then when you see another car pulling up behind you, instead of moving you continue to have an argument with your baby mama in the middle of the street. You pull up at a stop sign and someone will run up to your car (probably to make a drug deal) and you completely disregard the fact that there is someone behind you at the stop sign. Now, I recognize it may seem like we’re in the suburbs because its mostly residences, but we’re not. This is still the city and the streets are too narrow for you to do that.

3) You honk your car horns too much.

Instead of getting out of the car and going up to someone’s house, you honk your horn. Repeatedly. Over a several minute period. Did you ever thank that perhaps they weren’t home or didn’t know it was them you were honking for? Perhaps you should just knock on their door.

4) You have arguments in the middle of the street.

Sometimes late at night. Like 3 in the morning late. Much like your car honking, is it really necessary to do this outside on your front porch or in the street? Wouldn’t it be better to go inside and fight with your baby mama.

5) You think it’s okay to blast your car stereo late into the night while your friends hang out in their front yard smoking weed.

I’ve told you this before. But not everyone likes rap music and not everyone wants it blasted at them from a car that is parked less than twenty feet from their house. And we especially don’t like it when you do it until midnight or later. And I can smell your weed. Seriously. Go inside and do that.

6) You invented Imo’s.

Seriously. That is the most disgusting pizza on the face of the planet. It is a sin against nature. Why would you do such a thing?

So I hope you’ll understand St Louis that I can only ever consider myself a temporary resident. I don’t think it’s wise for us to pursue a long term relationship since you and I both know I will always be on the look out for something better. I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship.

Love,

Me