What I Wore (aka narcissism, but I pretend it isn't)

So today's Memorial Day here in the states (though I think most non-state readers either are ex-pats or just totally knew that already kthx). As usual, it was grey and actually pretty chilly - it reminded me of last year when I wore a fleece jacket and sweater to the 4th of July party I went to. So, so sad. You see advertisments on tv where everyone's rocking out at this great, sunny bash, drinking beer, wearing swimsuits (in May bahahahahahaaaa), and being all cute and summery.
Yeeeeeeeah... that's obviously not the lovely PNW. It's probably 55F tops. I had to layer. I LAYERED. It was slightly upsetting, but then today was kind of upsetting anyhow.
I went to Playboy of the Western World's grave site finally - I haven't been there since my "Last" (dundundunnnnn) post here, which would be Grandpa's funeral in 2009. I brought out some of our lilacs and some insane tropicana-melon colored azaleas, in a nice glass jar. Except when I got out there, I remembered, right... no glass allowed, and had to dig out a powerade bottle. Lovely! Gah. I hope PoTWW would've laughed. I think he would've liked the flowers and been proud of my garden.
I brought some lilacs over to his brother's headstone too, which is one of my favorites. I know that sounds macabre  but it is very, very sweet. My grandpa's brother E had Down's, and lived to only be about 35 at the most, I think. He was the apple of everyone's eye and my great grandma loved him no differently than any of her other kids (and this is in the 30's when he was born, and waaaaaaay rural). When he died, after a much-longer-than-anticipated life, they planted these two beautiful shrubs flanking his headstone, which itself reads "Darling E____" and is one of the prettiest engravings I've seen in a graveyard. The two shrubs have grown together and the effect is beautiful.
So anyhow, I opted not to wear makeup today, but that's not particularly unusual. I thought I'd play it safe, I'm feeling beyond sentimental and my heart is pretty raw. I really miss PoTWW. I think Rockmother referred to him once as a "gem of a man" and I couldn't find a more appropriate phrase for him.

And this is what I wore...

Hoodie: Obey

Blouse: Target, more likely than not

Skirt: Old Navy circa '05!

Tights, socks: unknown, mysteriously appeared

Shoes: goodwill, brand worn off!

I can't believe I've had that skirt so long! I guess it stayed nice because it sat in my closet being too small for 4 years or so. I'm pretty excited that it fits again. Not so excited that my wedding band is falling off, but hey, that's life. Stuff is fixable, or barring that, replaceable. Weight loss is weird, though.

And you'll have to excuse my dorky faces, I get really nervous when someone takes my picture and make goofy faces like Calvin. It's just because I feel really awkward and embarrassed. Hopefully I'll get over it!

edited: removed image that kept popping up on german google searches for weird reasons YEAH NO THANKS

Because Growth is Important

Growing is important, admitting you were a shithead and incredibly unpleasant is too. I've been thinking about this, especially in regards to restarting this blog. I'd abandoned it for a while because it'd gone of the rails - the rants were mean, not smart or cute, they were shitty and angry and just generally made me sound like this frothing Glenn Beck type of ladyperson.
Which, you know... I can def go there, but I am not that person. I'm not even "drama". I hear tell that I'm (somehow, somewhat mysteriously to me) the level-headed friend who won't feed you a line of bs, someone who can put things in a way that is straightforward but funny. But here, on this blog, it got gross. It got nutty and ugly and it wasn't funny, it was mean and angry and sanctimoniously shitty. Prepartum depression had a whole shitload to do with this, I'm not even gonna lie or dick around veiling that right there. And everyone now is all... "yeah, no shit, Miss Thing". I know. Hey, I didn't even know it was a thing, you know?
Rest assured my baby Tupperware days are over.
So yeah, I've gone back and deleted the grossest, ookiest, and most awkwardly heinous stuff on here. I didn't want to start entirely over. As I read through things here, I actually remembered some stuff I'd forgotten about! How cool! But then, as the pregnancy wore on, so did the shittiness. The "I know it all, fuck you" doctrinaire bullshit started much earlier though, and I want to put an apology and an acknowledgment out into the ether and vapors that is Bloglandia for whatever that is worth or affects.

The best thing, for me, about being a parent and writing and communicating with people as much as I can is that my compassion grows. My capacity to be righteous and stand in someone else's shoes grows and I like that. I can look at things that would just out and out enrage me back in the hormonal psychosis and see where I was coming at things wrong. My big resolution this year was to be more upright and come correct as much as I possibly can. Being judgmental is useful, but being married to those judgments or using that to make value assessments of someone as a whole is not. And mostly, it isn't my thing to concern myself with.

I'm not trying to get up my ass or holier than thou here. I'm not.
But the thing is... hm. The longer I parent two small humans who have their own travails and needs that are occasionally beyond my personal capacity to fulfill, the less apt I am to have a strong opinion about any one way to parent or any one way to be a good person. I have less of a strident political opinion, I have less of a tendency to think someone's trash or stupid or fucking up.
Let me explain how I'm getting to this slightly less awful state of being.
My kids are both extremely challenging. Saderator is a dismantler of anything in her grasp, and a scary, parrot-level problem solver. She's TWO. To watch her during the day, I pretty much have to sit in a central location and keep one eye on her continuously, because otherwise tears, bodily harm, broken glass, cat scratches, bloody noses, or dishsoap in my dvd player WILL occur. I go to bed at night and feel like I've run a marathon, no lie. Mr Man is pretty rough to run himself, but in an entirely different way. Squidge was recently diagnosed with *extreme* Attention Deficit, which we've been half-unknowingly but occasionally suspecting and continually coping with for four years now. It's all been rough. The roughest part is accepting that his brain simply doesn't work like mine, and that when I ask him to engage in the real world and focus that not only is he incapable, he feels worse for my confusion, frustration, and yep, occasional anger. Having a kid who spaces out so hard that he literally wanders into traffic is incredibly difficult, and gives you perspective even on kids who are the opposite, those "monster" children that jump around like holler monkeys and the parents we scorn for their inability to get their damn shit together and punish them accordingly. You don't know their shit. You don't know how often they go to bed late, thrashed, drained, and crying because they feel like they are continually fucking their kids up. You don't know how hard they try the best they know how to help their kids. Sometimes, the kids need help, and sometimes, hard as it may be to believe, the parents are NOT clued in. Denial and butthurtism go a long way when it's your baby. And no, you don't just "get over it". It's a process, sometimes it takes an outside impetus, and sometimes it happens organically.
Not often organically, though. Something about being a protective parent makes you pretty blind to when your kid is wired different, especially if it's harmful. Assbackwards, but pretty true from my (anecdotal to y'all) experience.
My good (dear, sweet, lovely and insanely intelligent) girlfriend has a sweet little boy who is currently being helped with some of his own challenges, and she and I had a good chat about being completey butthurt about not being able to be SuperHumanParent and fix all your kids' stuff on our own, kind of insomuch as it's a phase YOU go through. Talking to her about her experiences and her process helped me define my family's and my personal experience with Squidge's issues. When you have any sort of hiccup that turns into a Big Effin Deal, you get mega butthurt, you have an acceptance period, then a long adjustment period. If you try and work it out you're doing better than so many people, is what you have to remember. Introspection is tough, and it's rare. It's like a mantra: "I'm not fucking this up, because if nothing else, I am TRYING" because that whole process is harder than childbirth itself.
If you can surrender to the fact that no, you are mom but you CAN'T fix everything, you're superhuman. If you can surrender to being human and being flawed and still be able to have faith in what you're doing, you're astounding and I want to be your friend even if I don't agree with your path.

To put your ego aside, to do the absolute best and to try and do the absolute most RIGHT by your kid is the most righteous thing anyone can do. It applies to more than parents and children, it applies to your relationships with anyone, it applies to how you lead your life.

I get a lot of uppity posts on my facebook feed condemning each other for their choices - people who eat "clean", nonparents who want to get up their own superior butts about cloth diapering (get it, pun) and breastfeeding, people who make condescending, classist comments that start with "I don't see how ANYone with HALF A BRAIN can...." yeah. It gets on my tit, man. And I want to open my mouth and be an asshole right back, but then I remember the blog here, the shit I've come with that was so far from correct or righteous or compassionate, and I stop. I've been that asshole, in longer forms. With paragraphs. With judgey shitty statements. With absolutism. So I try to think of my journey here, to being calmer, to being more accepting, to be more willing to slow down and stand in another light and look at things from that angle and see if my bullshit still holds water. I try and be calm, and I try to offer my experience or food for thought from a standpoint that only asks for an effort in the direction of that mentality. Maybe just in the neighborhood of it. Maybe just the same county. But it matters. It matters to not be a dick. It matters to be kind, it's important to try and come clear and correct and from a *truly* righteous heart, not a self-righteous one.
I tell you what, though, it's hard as shit to grow up when you get older. And I wish someone would've mentioned to me that the growing up doesn't start or stop or have a direction. I thought I would've been done eating crow and looking back while cringing by now.
So. You know. That was a lot of brain spew, and touchy feely and awkward for me, but I really feel deeply about it and about what I'm doing here now, so it had to be put out there and established. I love you all, I love writing, and I want to be happy to do it again. But it's all kinda different now. So hopefully now that I've worked that one out and gotten it all out, I can get over my stupid shit tiptoeing around here and get back to it.

Love!

Ms SSA, Deebee, Toadhead, Ms Thang, The Amazon, and always the Squid.

All About the Ol FamDamnily

So bear with me, I am at a loss for really interesting or sparklingly witty quippy bitchiness to post today, but I am (trying to be) very up on posting regularly - hopefully every day, just to get my chops... um... up to chopage? Sure! There might be some self-indulgent stuff or things that are really only interesting to me, but I think that's okay. So let's start with...

The Dudes and Little Boss dying eggs. She supervises.

There is my lovely, gorgeously long haired, delightfully goofy and all-around wonderful Husbandman. He is also known as Manwife and Professor Husbandman around here. He's not a professor, he just tells terrible jokes like a 70 year old math prof and it makes me cry.

Well, no, I just groan. But it sounds like I'm dying, it's awful all around. 

I mean, he gardens. And bakes! Happily. I can forgive a lot of bad puns for that sort of thing.

I've already done an entire post on the wonders of his awesome awesomeness that is awe-inspiring here, so we'll let you get caught up and then move onto...

Hikin'! Next year we try Squidge out on snowshoeing, yay :)

The two little pixies gnomes! Squidge/Sweetbean/Tatopie on the right. Saderator/Little Boss/Jellybean (known as Bumblebee in her fetal stages) is the small lady there, looking very burglar chic. Squidge is 7, and has recently lost his two bottom front teeth and learned to read - it's been a big year! I still see him as a tiny carrot infant in the hospital billirubin bed, squalling and being  a hellion, or as a poofy, Michellan Man lookin' little toddly man, yelling at the stove and running around nakey butted. Sigh. I do like that he can wipe his own ass now, though. I'm a big fan of that. I like that he can read now, he's always loved books, but now he has this look in his eyes like, "AHA! The mystery, she untangles. Excellent" and it really is. Very excellent.
Little Boss there has just turned two (I know, it's been a while, blogland, I apologize) and has been acting it for months now. She's wonderfully willful and independent, which can be a struggle but ultimately worth it. She's going to be an ass-kicking wonder woman of immesurable strength, I can tell... now if only I can get her to come and get dressed when I ask... and to stop licking the dog. I mean. Really. 

They're both a little odd, but that's pretty great too.

This is my family. Well, when I say my family, I mean just the four of us, plus three dogs and a cat who thinks he is the lord of the dogs, nay, a canine ninja...

Abbot and Costello (yes, seriously)

Jett! She's 17 and a lot like Big Edie.

James Kitty!

I've never been much of a cat person, and still don't consider myself one (though I've met some nice kitties here and there), but James Kittyman there is pretty much the coolest dude ever. I think I like him so much because he's got such a good personality. He's social and friendly without being smothery or gross, and he is one useful damn cat - dude catches about three mice a day, that I see, anyhow, at the height of summer mousieness. It's amazing and well worth the deworming bills. My favorite part of his Jamesness is that he thinks he's one of the dogs.
No lie. He even wrestles with Costello (cute tiny black and tan Chiweenie/Puggle on the far right).
Jett, the old lady on the far right, is my first dog I've ever had in my family. I got her when I was 10! She's never been the friendliest pup, but she is definitely the Doggiest of Dogs, especially in her energetic youth. She used to go camping, hiking, and wandering around the Cascades with my mother and me. I have a lot of excellent memories of feeding her ice cream cones after a long day hiking at the Nooksack River. Now that Jett is almost 17, she mostly hangs out on her special rug by the fire, or in a sun beam, and eating lots of table scraps (yeah, I'm awful, whatever). I'm pretty sure her big joy in life is being the grouchy old lady, yelling at the much younger Abbot and Costello to get off of her lawn.
Abbot is our giant Lab mix, he's about 1 1/2, but he's already about 90lbs. My husband always tells me, "Just wait til he fills out a little" while I look at both of them in horror. I got him thinking Labs were a bit smaller than that, but... well... he's a lumox and my best buddy. He's a sweetheart and a total mama's boy. He tries to sit in peoples laps and knocks things (and children) over with his gargantuan beaver tail. Abbot was the runt, and the fattest puppy in his litter (What's fatter than a friar? His Abbot. HAHA get it? no? that's ok it's silly), I guess I thought he'd stay smallish and fat, but I like having an energetic hike and walk partner. He's also the gentlest dog I've met, he and the tiny 12lb Costello play for hours and lay all over each other and even play tug of war! I've seen Abbot stop and adjust his grip softer, or his jumping lower, or slow down for Costello. It's amazing to see two dog buddies who are the best of friends and really hilarious looking together to boot!
Costello was an impulse addition - my parents had bought his sister (Cujo, who is half his size but lives up to her name) from a neighbor and we had to get one of her siblings. We were lucky, Costello was the last puppy left! He is a snugglebutt, with all of the gawky clumsy goofiness of a kid aged dog. He loves to battle James and annoy Jett. His new favorite hobby is climbing up on the dining table and "cleaning" it. Sigh. Yeah. He's definitely Husbandman's dog, haha!

I may spend the rest of my life chasing animals, cleaning up shedded fur and occasionally eating it, picking legos out of my heel and vaccum, yelling at kids to get their asses outside and stop pestering me, and listening to terrible, godawful puns for the rest of my life, but I think the life we have made for ourselves in the little yellow bungalow in the foothills is a pretty damned good one. In my youth, I was a pisspot and fancied an adult life with no children, no spouse and no permanent residence to tie me down. Shit happened, things shifted, I rode the waves and here we are. I'm happy with how things shook out and glad that I trusted the ride.

Well, I Totally Suck and Blow Simultaneously at That Thing That is Bloggin'.

Ok, so... two years of neglect. Oh blog. I am sorry I abandoned you. You see, I squoze out a baby almost exactly two years ago, and she is what is referred to as a Trouble Baby (TM my mom). She takes things apart. She removes garbage from the bin just so she can throw it away again. She chases the dogs and cat and eats their food. She climbs. She stomps around the house doing funny dances and yodelling. She gets in the middle of the dining table and eats the pepper.
All in all, she's pretty excellent.
Just, you know... spirited.

 See, she's very happy. About being evil.

She has really gnarly fashion sense, though. And loves shoes. Hell yes.

I mean, basically life stuff has happened, we bought a house down the road from our old rental, Sweetbeanboy started school (ending 1st grade now) and all of the excitement that sort of thing entails, Professor Husbandman has had all sorts of crazy career moves and shizz going on, and I am basically trying to keep the ball rolling more or less forward in a sane and fairly orderly fashion. 

The house we bought needed (and still needs) lots of work, it had sat empty for the better part of a year through pretty much all of the rainy months here - all nine of them... ahem. Prior to that, it was occupied by hippies who put the dirty in Dirty Hippie. Really, really scuzzy and grotty. So we had to do all sorts of crazy crap I had no experience with, like doing new drywall and mud and using that fun texture spraying thingie, tearing up carpets and doing glossy plywood floors (very Mo-Dern looking, until the Giant 90lb Labrador Incident) and tearing up counters and backsplashes and UGH. That was last year, right when we bought it.

This year - we are landscaping. I hurt every single day, I go to bed sore and my hands look terrifying, but I wake up feeling great and my guns would put Thor hisself to shame. So, you know... good times.

Any how, the kids have become more self sufficient and less clingy, so I'm capable of taking some time out to write again. I've over-pondered what kind of direction I want to take blogging for a while now - I read lots of fashion blogs, "lifestyle porn" blogs, cute tattooed ladies in sundresses (I think they have a secret club that I need to somehow wrangle an invite to... I have tattoos! I love sundresses! I am just maybe too foulmouthed to join), and honestly, the thought of pigeonholing myself or changing my tone really stresses me out. I may be branching out from straight up ranting or charming cusses, maybe some crafty crap, cooking stuff, trips we take, house progress snaps, maybe even some of that super awesome see-what-I-wore-because-I-am-hell-of-cute-and-have-rockin fashion-sense sort of thang. I'll still talk about feminism and idiots and why I think Brak should be president, though.

And cusses. There will always be some goddamned cusses.

ready for it to be April, or Wherein I am sick of my life being dadaist film.

At my grandpa's funeral, my father and I stand holding hands, watching an eagle swoop down and tear a small bird to bits. It flies off with two halves, one in its beak and the other in its claws, and three crows fly off with it, attacking it repeatedly. My dad looks at me and points beyond the casket, while the eagle cartwheels off into the pines.
I think that this scene should be poignant somehow, or have some vast karmic meaning, but mostly I am amused to see the crows lead a full-on assault of a bird five times their size. While staring after them all, I see my grandpa's best friend, in his Hawaiian shirt, looking very small and ancient despite being over 300 pounds and 6 feet tall. It's plain his heart is broken, and all I can think of when I see him is that it's still hard to reconcile this big old man who is a kind old uncle of sorts to me with his other life, where he sells midget porn and butt plugs the size of table top christmas trees.
I feel this way a lot about a good portion of the people here.
My friend-slash-hairstylist, a former boarder at my grandpa's house, whispers to me about various liasons and scandalous acts committed by any of the older queens present, and while I'm not surprised, it's strange to think about your elderly fairy godfathers still getting ass. Lots of it. In various manners and places and....
I'll think about Thanksgivings, having olives pulled out of my ears, eating whatever bread or cookie Grandpa whipped up in his kitchen, and all of that family-ish sort of jazz. I'm ok with sexual lives, but I'd prefer to stay insulated the way they all worked to keep me. I'm cool with being the sassy, smartassed little girl with sticky hands and a big round tummy to them still.
Well, my belly's still round, at least.
I am wearing my grandpa's onyx ring. There is a big chip in the corner, and it is beat to hell. If I saw it on the side of the road, I'd probably keep walking despite being a crow like my mother who wants to put everything shiny in her pockets. My dad is wearing a much prettier ring, it's tiger's eye, I think, but it has gold ticks around the square face and I think that it looks like a ring watch. Over and over I have to swallow down my urges to collect everything here of my grandpa's, I have this deep need to "keep" everything for him. I don't want it, I just don't want to see things spread around. You don't loan jewlery and hats and things like that out because you've gone on vacation. You leave those things to people when you've died. And I still am pretty not alright with that concept.
Earlier, while the casket was open and my mom, dad, cousins and I stayed in the funeral home's foyer to greet people, I walked by an open door and spied the heavily made-up nose and bald ostrich-egg pate lying in the casket. It looked like any time he'd sit up and make bitchy noises in the back of his throat at all of the silliness and bowleg-walk out of the room. On his own, of course. But he hasn't walked on his own in about five years now, and he isn't wearing his glasses, and his hair is too short, and he forgot his hat and none of that will do. It's all wrong.
Also, they painted his lips and face the same color. It's very mod. I think it's to look "natural", but I don't know anyone who actually looks like that. Other than that, he looks like I could walk in and hold his hand. And a very surprisingly large part of me wants to. Hugely. Instead, weird, squelched, raw pig noises start squeaking out of my throat and I am finally at the anger stage as I rush out a back door to lose it for a good bit. I am mad at myself still, that the last time I saw him was September and that my last memory will be of being horrified and depressed at how deaf and physically slow he'd gotten. I'm ashamed that I couldn't stop being an asshole before the next time I saw him, which is now. I hope that there is an afterlife or some sort of part of the consciousness lives on, and then I won't feel like I have to explain.
The funeral home is full, with the family seated in the middle and half of the right hand side. They're mixed in with the ancient group of Masons, and look a little confused about the tiny old men wearing purple aprons and holding canes. On the left side, there are kids (now older than my dad) who had Grandpa as a DeMolay dad - a kind of cubscouts for freemasons, I figure out. There are kids (now in their fifties) who knew him when he worked at a local high school. They all look slightly bewildered as to why they're here and if it's alright. It is. I'm glad they are. I think I get my tendancy to keep various parts of my life completely separate from one another comes from my Grandpa at this point, and it's a little odd to think of how and why that is. I'm too exhausted to ponder it, I haven't been sleeping well with a belly full of large baby who squirms when I am not busy crying.
A small crowd follows to the graveside service, it's freezing and windy but all of the Washitonians present remark on how lucky we are there's no rain. Of course. It's like some version of a local prayer, no matter what's happening, "lucky the weather held out".
My son is holding hands with an elderly freemason who has a hearing aid that makes him look like a more organic version of the Borg. He is fascinated with the waving of evergreens, and needs to put on a sweater, so he does a jigglejoggle dance in place to keep all of the weird inside. He's a good kid, my kid. He has clung to "His Bubba" (my dad, his grandpa) like glue this entire day, wanting nothing to do with me or my mom, really. It's good, I think my dad needs it the most. I've never seen the man so broken-looking and lost in my life, and something has changed to where he is able to say "I love you" more easily and all of the burred edges have laid back until he's more like a hedgehog in his prickliness than a thistle. It makes me feel very young and too old too fast at the same time. I am not ready to see my dad be old, but he's aged over night and I finally see him as less a "dad" and more a "grandpa" in a warped phallocentric "mother / maiden / crone" trine.
It's all getting too weird. I edge up to the coffin, suspended above a cement hole (which is surprising to me, cement, really?) and a small, dark, solidly built man appears out of nowhere and very tenderly kisses the lid. I stop my snail crawl in mild shock and stare after him. Out of everyone here, he is the most visably affected. I don't remember talking to him or seeing him speak to anyone, and I don't see him again.
As we drive home, I am worried about that man more than anything or anyone else.

well harumph. not so fun, this one.

So much for being in the habit of posting... as soon as life picks up, I forget about everything on the ol clickernet except for email and things like thisiswhyyourefat.com and failblog.com. I am a sucker for cheap thrills on the fly, what can I say?

These past two weeks have been nicely hectic, I've attended two parties (a beer tasting fete and a housewarming shindig) and hosted a couple of dinners for friends, had a midwife appointment or two, planned our July vacation to Vashon Island (we are staying in TEPEES OMG TEPEES YALL), finished packing our birthin supply box, unpacked clothes in Bumblebee's room, and started the final baby shower planning shizz. I figure I had best get all the socializing in that I can before I am a fucking mess of sleep deprivation, spit up, eye crusties and spilled coffee. It's gonna be a long few months of adjusting, and Domo-Kun (aka manwife) only gets two freakin weeks off. Though, at this point, we are just glad he is still employed... and that we have benefits... le sigh.

Also, there is the not so fun thing where my favorite grandparent died last week. Which pretty much trumps all at this point, in terms of being motivated to do stuff and say stuff. If you read Firstnation's blog, you already know, and yeah, I am doing ok. I am not one for pretending to be all stoic and stuff, I kind of break down a little and get all sniffly in the middle of doing something mundane... even moreso while acting as fetal tupperware. So there have been lots of times where I like, make toast? chop tomatoes? look outside?, and I start crying a little.
I am glad I have so many memories of my Grandpa, he was the raddest. It is weird to hear other people's takes on him - to me, he was my sweet, bald, bowlegged, cookin' demon Grandpa. He used to grow tomatoes and plums and dahlias and he is the only person I met who grew currants and *liked* them. He drove around in a tiny porsche 912 around downtown while wearing a greek fisherman's cap and always wore birkenstock-style clogs (which are my faves, too!). Like my dad, Gpa always, always, always had to roll up or hem his pantlegs, due to a 31" inseam at 5' 8" lol. My Grandpa used to travel to Greece and would come home with armloads of decorative pots, engraved platters, textiles, and jewlery and bake baklava and dolmathes for us. Every year he would work at our local heritage festival and hand out ribbons to members of families who had been here the longest. Every time I went to his house as a little girl, he had cookies tucked away in a tin on top of his fridge - the red one, with sailboats, and had Andes mints in the milk glass candy dish on the coffee table and I could always take as many as I could get away with. I remember staring at his beautiful china cabinet filled with ornately decorated eggs, painted dishes and colored glass, and how thick the shag carpeting was in the dining room. Oh, and how terrifying the dog demon mask from Thailand was... he kept it in the bathroom, right above the damned toilet! Ack!
So now that he is gone, everyone wants to talk about how he "really" was, i.e. his personal life. I wasn't a part of that life, and that is ok, I respect that still. I am his granddaughter, I don't NEED to know who he was dating. I do not care about the wild shit he did, nor will I ever, EVER judge him for any of it if I do find out someday. Grandpa took a lot of care to cultivate very separate private and social and romantic lives, and I respect that. I have no interest in prying or hearing gossip, and I am a little upset that some of his old queen friends think it is appropriate, funny, or cheeky to do so now... ESPECIALLY to my Dad. My Dad and Grandpa never talked about the fact that Gpa was gay. They had their own relationship, and while it was not always easy or entirely honest, it was good and sweet and they loved each other very much. It is unfair for people to go and try and shit on that by sniggering around about my grandpa's young lovers and stuff. What about that seems appropriate to them, I wonder? It seems cruel, even if they are just trying to get a rise out of my Dad. I understand that part of his life even if he never came out and said anything about it. He knew we all knew, so I don't think it bore mentioning. It was fine, there is no need to "freak out the straight folks" (which...have they MET my mom? straight folk? really?). It's not like my dad ran to grandpa to dish on HIS love life. I don't get it, Ma and I are a bit queerish and it's well-known. Do they expect us to gasp in shock and clutch the pearls? Good lord. It is none of my business or anyone else's for that matter, and I hope people STFU soon.
Anyhow. Had to vent. It's a weird thing, to lose someone you were actually close to. I took the weekend to cry and hide out and be clingy with my dudes. I drank a lot of tea and ate lots of cheese and jam, and laid in bed reading a bit. This week I am mostly baking and watching old movies - lots of Garbo (apparently I *like* to be sad?), wizard of oz, etc. If you've got a sweet, kinda funny old movie that you love, hook it up! I even love the shit out of It's a Wonderful Life. It's just about my favorite classic after The Quiet Man.

Phew. I wasn't expecting to vent. I am just worried about MY parents. As Grandpa's caretakers, I am sure they are glad to see him out of pain and feel happy for him... he passed in a very lovely, calm way. He had his wits and his friends and family around ALL the time, he was well-loved and got to go without a lot of fuss or muss or hospital bullshit. On the other hand, they are busy feeling relieved and glad in a sad way, but I think they need to just go be very sad. Or see a movie and have some comfort food and go see a show and have a beer. Or have a weekend trip out of town. They deserve it, after all this time and pain and sad stuff. They are my heroes, they did this so well, and they always treated my Grandpa with the utmost respect and dignity - even when it was difficult, painful, or frustrating to do so. It was incredibly tough for them to "parent" my hyper-independent Gpa, and they did a damned good job. They deserve some time to go and do what they need to. I love you, mom and dad, and I know Grandpa did more than anything.

Ok. I have a dire need for cocoa and Amelie and a butt-snuggle after all that. I feel a bit better, thanks for the venting and grieving.

Twenty eight weeks, two days. God, let it be over soon.

I am done with this whole baby-Tupperware situation. Don't get me wrong, I honestly don't mind the baby rolling around my guts, nudging my bladder (usually...sometimes she jumps on it repeatedly, and I pee a little... so not cool), bizarre internal bellybutton pokes, or even the frequent peeing and waddling.

I will tell you what I am done with.

I am done with only having one pair of jeans that fits.
I am tired of the bottom three inches of my belly sticking out of almost every shirt I own.
I am sick to death of wearing the same Birkenstock clogs every god damned day because my feet are too swollen for all of the others save my favorite Keen sneakers which I cannot wear unless someone is around to do up the laces for me.

I am tired of hearing about what I should and shouldn't eat or drink - yes, I have about 4 oz of lager or a brown every now and then. Yes, I have a tiny glass of wine (think the portion of what you get during Hanukkah or a Mass as a kid) occasionally but it gives me wretched heartburn. I also still eat the occasional soft cheese and cold cut! I still eat salmon voraciously! I drink coffee! I eat hollandaise and over medium eggs and aioli and LOVE IT, nay crave it insanely! And anyone who wants to give me shit about it can shove it - if I crave it, I am eating it.

I am missing rummaging around at Goodwill or the local consignment shops for clothes - it's more the thrill of the hunt I miss. Finding a five dollar pair of converse sneakers is fun if they're for Sweetbean, but I only feel truly victorious if they're MINE!

I want to be able to get up off the couch without getting myself rocking for momentum's sake first.
For that matter, I miss being able to get up out of a nice warm tub without hollering "HALP" to my husband, who always comes running like the house is on fire even if forewarned I am just getting out of the bath.
I want so very badly to sleep on my back - sleeping on my side causes my behemoth mammaries to collide with my throat, kind of slowly choking me at night.
I am very sad that there is no real nookie for the next four and a half months... I mean, there are alternatives... but come on.

I am very, very tired of being treated like a cripple, or as impossibly irrational / hormonal / etc. I am still me. Yes, I cry at the end of Cold Case and yell at my roux for thinning too quickly. I am much more passionate in my rants. I have freezer cleaning needs at odd times of the day and night. Every disagreeable or confusing thing I do is not directly attributable to my pregnancy. It really isn't. Just the reeeeeeeeeaally weird stuff.

Also, heartburn, wtf? You can go right to hell and DIE, heartburn. I hate you so much.

again with the flakes

Oh, if only the flakes I had in my life were just happy little corn flakes (these are my favorites, three ingredients, eat that Michael Pollan...no, really, do! I think you'd like them, Mr. Pollan. I'm a big fan of them AND you).
Unfortunately, the flakes mentioned two posts back indeed did as I expected and flaked out on me. Because they are flaky hippies and it is their nature. It wasn't malicious, it was just...lame and very rude. I had a whole dinner done - honey lemon roasted chicken, veggie salad, potato and veg au gratin and black bottom cake - and when 5 pm rolled around, they were nowhere to be found. Nor at 5.15. Nor 7. There was no call, no text, no email. Just a simple no-show. Needless to say, my pregnant ass bawled like a little six year old, and then ate all the roasted honey-crusted chicken skin out of spite.
So today (five days after said dinner was scheduled and bailed on), I get a facebook wall post: "Oh I am so sorry, I'm so horrible, I just couldn't handle going out for a while, I guess I should've at least called, can we hang out". Now... from Sunday night (when Ma and Pa came over for carbonara made out of the roasted chicken and to "help out" with the cake) until today, I thought I was okay with this situation - my friend is a fucking flake, she's always been a wishy washy flake, and she will continue to be as such and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. We're not bff or anything, but we've been pals for about ten years at this point in time. Flakiness was manageable, nay, expected, back then in our high school years, but now.... No. Now it's time to have manners and a capacity to plan. SO. I am mad all over again now, because she apologized.
It's conflicting, I feel like a dick, but I am so mad that I don't care, but then I would like to graciously accept the apology and move on. I know it's not my place to reprimand or lecture her, she's an adult. I don't do passive-aggressive punishments, but OH MAN am I tempted.
So do I wait until I've simmered down to accept, or do I give her a quick "we're cool" and wait until I'm calmer to try to make plans? I understand she is how she is, and so in being her friend and knowing/expecting that, do I even get to be mad here? I don't know how to proceed. I like her a ton, but I am fumed, big time.
Being a gracious adult is tough work, man.