Random Muse

Wracked, I am. That damn Jewish guilt. Sorry, but Catholics got nothin’ on me. Couple that with the weird British/Welsh guilt and I never had a chance. Sigh.

I have guilt because I hate my job. I should be grateful I even have one. And I should have known better than to take a job that’s 98% writing newsletters. I hate writing newsletters. But I can’t quit; in this economic climate that would be so wrong. Like, really rude, if you know what I mean.

I have baby guilt. This job plus the other freelancing means I have less baby time. I think I am actually really bad at scheduling and time management, that’s part of it. All I want to do is read him books and talk to him and sing and recite nursery rhymes and take him for walks when it’s not too nasty out and cuddle on him all the time. And I can’t. I find myself hoping he’ll nap or putting hm in his swing to keep him busy and then I feel just terrible, that I am neglecting himand he’ll be developmentally delayed and also resent me when he is older. Well, he probably will resent me when he is older anyway.

I have dog guilt. My poor puppy used to get two hours a day at the dog park; now she doesn’t even get a walk unless we’re at my parents’, usually. It’s so time-consuming to wrap up the baby AND me AND get the dog together and get out the door and be gone long enough to make it worthwhile and then get home and unwrap baby and myself … I am actually taking her to doggie day care about once a week now to assuage the guilt a little. My sister once gave me this piece of advice that I have truly taken to heart: Throw money at it. It’s hard [you know, the whole Jew thing and all], but hell, that’s what it’ sther efor, to make life better, easier. What else am I going to do with it? Make pillows? Oh well I guess I could be starting a college fund … and there’s that baby guilt again.

I have self guilt too. I stil haven’t gone over to check out the gym’s child care area, even though baby was eligible to go at six weeks and he’s almost eight weeks. And I’ve plateaued on my weight loss: 30 pounds in 6 weeks and that’s it. The last 10 aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, never mind the extra 10 [or 15] I would’ve liked to drop. And my hands are a mess and my hair needs cutting and coloring and none of my clothes fit and bitch and complain, bitch and complain. Sigh.

Of course all of this is tied up with feelings of self-worth and with self esteem, neither of which I’ve ever been very good at. I’ve always second guessed myself. Am I hating my job becsause I’m not good at it? Am I not good at it because I’m not a good writer? Or am I just lazy? Am I being too lazy to really buckle down, read extra materials, do extra research, and make sure every moment of the day I am taking care of my other responsibilities? Instead of reading a novel for a little while in bed before I go to sleep, I should be reading background material. Instead of watching House, I should be doing laundry, packing for the day trip to Mum’s tomorrow, doing the dishes. Instead of blogging I should be trying to get a jump on next week’s newsletter so I don’t have to rush next week. I need to do the christmas cards, hang the lights, go get vacuum bags, do mre laundry, scoop the litter box … and still find time to try online dating, a new recipe for chicken and meet C for lunch. Do people really manage to do it all? Is it even possible?

Gotta go now and do the dishes and some laundry and sort the Christmas cards.

Sigh.

I haven’t had a hot cup of tea in a week. Yesterday I ate at 6.45am and 9pm. The chocolates I popped [stolen from the toddler’s Halloween basket] don’t count. The other day it took two-and-a-half hours to eat dinner. Dinner was peanut butter and jelly.

Nobody told me there’d be days like this. It’s all part of the vast mom-wing conspiracy …

Mission accomplished. We have a baby.

We also have granny panties. B/c giant diaper-sized pads don’t fit on thongs. We have the expectation of a six-week-long period. We have sore nipples and rock-hard, implant-y looking boobs. We have mandatory naps, multiple loads of laundry, and an extremely jealous and under-exercised puppy. We have guilt over napping instead of doing laundry and other cleaning, and extreme puppy-related guilt. We have stitches in a place no stitches should ever be. We have a funny floppy gut that doesn’t suck in at all.

We have warm snuggles and kitten noises. We have unexpected tears of joy, and of fear for the future. We have baby smell. We have hours of staring into deep navy-blue eyes and stroking soft blonde hair. We have the most perfect lips ever made. We have little tiny smiles that are not gas. We have a son.

Excuse me, I have to go cry again.

[Gross details and the Mummy Conspiracy Theory to come. You have been warned.]

I just don’t understand it.

I’ve been carrying around almost 40 extra pounds on my boobs and belly for like two months now. I should have the legs and thighs of an Olympic athlete.

Shockingly, I do not. This, I feel, is completely unfair.

Baby Daddy is still in town after all. Piss fuck.

I have to admit it was the most civil meeting we’ve had. I got a myspace out of the blue:

I’ve got myself sorted a bit. I regret being MIA, but I’m not running from this either much as it may seem that way. Get in touch if you’d like to arrange a meeting. I’ll be sober. 

So I decided to be … I don’t know, friendly? I am not really ‘giving it a try,’ I still don’t see him involved [hell I can’t even picture him holding the baby with clean hands], but I said I’d drive over to meet him somewhere nearer his house. We met at the dog park one morning last week. He even borrowed a dog, which was kind of cute. And we kept it light, did the little chatty thing, basic small talk chit-chat, and it was … OK.

It helped that he looked like crap, was dirty and sweaty and just pretty gross. That made it easier to go, Did I ever think he’d really be a part of our lives??!! He’s also unemployed and living in a boiler room … man, I sure know how to pick ‘em. But he is working on a new book too and he was friendly and even asked about being there when the baby is born. I discouraged that. I can’t see him standing there with my mum and my sister – they would [at least my sister would] rip him a new one.

Did I mention my sister wants to be there? I had no idea, but she does! She told me when she finally came down to see us and met mum and me for lunch for her birthday. It just never crossed my mind … but it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. She really wants to come, and hold my hand, and be there when he’s born … I love that.

But I don’t think Baby Daddy should be there. I don’t even think he could get a ride, actually …

So anyway, Baby Daddy and I had a little visit. Unfortunately baby wasn’t feeling too energetic so he didn’t get to feel him swimming all over, which he usually does these days. I wander if he could feel the tension? I promised to give Baby Daddy an update after the last dr appointment and dutifully emailed him, and he wrote back that he was ‘excited’ and that it was ‘great news.’

Maybe I can work this out after all …

The baby belly has presented a new obstacle: I can’t keep my pants up or my shirts down. Never the twain shall meet.

No closure.

On Thursday, the Ex-Boss – I guess I should just call her Mrs. C now – called in the morning to see if I’d be home. She needed to bring me the ‘extra’ eggplant parm and cupcakes she had made. She arrived just after ten, chatted, took the Crazed Canine for a walk, oohed over the crib and went home.

At the dog park, Rocky’s mom – we hardly know people names there, just dog names – told me she would love to help with cooking or taking Lucy for a walk or whatever I would need when I bring the baby home. And she doesn’t even know my name.

I think I am going to cry. Who knew people could be so gracious?

It’s been a crazy week of good and bad, pleasure and pain. My Marquis de Sade week, if you will.

Friday J&J had a lovely dinner party at their house. Well, they made dinner, but we were all playing Guitar Hero and nearly everyone was toasted on wine, so not like a stuffy sit-down dinner party thing. I feel too full these days to want alcohol so I observed and made an early exit, but not early enough.

Because when I got home, I found Lucy the Panic Pup standing in her crate in the remains of poo. ‘Remains,’ b/c she ate most of it. I had thought we were past that stage … obviously not. So, 10.30 Friday night, 9 months preggo, I drag her, in her crate, onto the porch to get hosed off. Thank god I had that tap put in the front yard. I get her cleaned up, hose down the crate, dry her, wet Swiffer the floor, go upstairs to change into jammies … and she pukes poo all over the light grey carpet, right next to the bed. So that’s another hour of clean up, scooping up poo with a spatula, pouring soapy water, blotting with paper towels. Eww.

BUT, the previous Monday at my dr appointment, I was told the baby was backwards [not breech, but his spine should be against my tummy, not my back], and that I should spend some time on my hands and knees to try to turn him. Well, that was a good hour, so hopefully that helped him turn. Two birds one stone, right?

Oh, the dr also said to have lots of sex to get labor going. I wish. Hmm, combine ‘spend time on your hands and knees’ and ‘have more sex’ … ok, I have to stop now.

I finally got around to filing for unemployment. In fact, I’ve gotten two checks already. But I managed to work myself into an absolute frenzy when I received a letter saying I needed to do a phone interview with the claims people. I was convinced they found out how preggers I am and that they were going to argue the ‘able and available’ requirement for me to qualify for money. I was practically panicked for an entire week and terrified of taking the call. Turns out they questioned the ‘self-employed’ description I gave myself and wanted to make sure my last job was a real, working-for-someone-else job. No big deal. Money on the way.

I actually have a job interview next week – how insane is that? I am due in less than TWO WEEKS!! It’s for a part-time writing position that may turn full-time/perm eventually. I did full disclosure and they still kept the appointment, so that’s good. Of course now I am panicked about what to wear.

Which is made even more difficult since only 4 pairs of shoes fit me, including my flip-flops and my destroyed Converse, and by the fact that the cute dress that would have worked perfectly will now not work since my knee is disgusting. Lucy-fur the Crazed Canine [get it? Lucy-fur? When she’s bad?] pulled me over on the street two days ago, and with a weakened immune system my knee is totally infected and gross, so no dress for interview day.

WHICH is next Thursday. REALLY close to the due date. As in, I hope I make it to the interview. And OMG, I have an interview! It just seems … bizarre. Ack portfolio!

Oh, and after she pulled me down/knocked me off balance/was super bad dog, I couldn’t stop crying for the rest of the day. Like nine hours. I even had an episode of the ugly, harsh, hacking, snotty, just full-out losing it that I haven’t had in years, like maybe since I was a teenager and the world was ending [as it so often does for teenagers]. The kind where you look and sound so horrible that no one could even feel sorry for you b/c they can’t stay in the same room with you, you’re so gross. I didn’t even have a mini melt-down after the Poo Puke episode, but knock me over and I am a complete basket case. Go figure.

And I also hope I don’t have the baby before October 3, which is my court date for my traffic ticket. Yay, I have a chance to reduce my fine. Boo, what happens if I can’t show up? I have no idea.

So that’s my Marquis de Sade week. There were more incidents but I need a nap. Plus I have to save up my energy for the next big blog installation – because, just my luck, You Know Who is back.

Sigh.

Ghost Town

Every now and then I get to see a free movie down at the local art house. ‘Free’ and ‘movie’ are two words that really go together well. I will see almost anything, any piece of crap, if it’s nearby and at no charge.

I got to see Ghost Town, the new Ricky Gervais film, last night. It’s been a long time since I really laughed out loud at a movie, and especially at one that was fairly formulaic and could have been totally predictable and totally a waste of time.

The previews show the “I see dead people” part of the movie, but not that Greg Kinnear is trying to stop his [living] wife from marrying a hunky lawyer guy. This could have gone all kinds of bad, and has in other movies, I just know it — it seemed just so familiar, so done before. But then you throw in Gervais and you’ve got a twist that makes the old formula seem fresh and almost new again.

Gervais’s character Pincus is a cynical bastard, pretty much, but a damn funny one. I actually had some trepidation going into this film: I found the British “The Office” truly cringeworthy so often, that it was almost — almost — too much to bear and too difficult to watch. And this film does have some similarly cringeworthy moments, brief scenes where you have to just make that “ouch” face and briefly turn your eyes away. It’s like being embarrassed for the character, for some made-up person up on the screen, which is really weird if you think about it. But I think we all do it. Well, all us non-sociopaths.

Anyway, despite the fairly predictable boy-meets-dead-ex, boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl-but-ex-gets-valuable-lesson sort of trajectory, the story arcs nicely and neatly, though predictably, to its conclusion, and at the end [and yep, it’s a pretty damn sappy ending] you are actually left feeling somewhat satisfied. I’m usually considered a pretty cynical person [although the ex-Boss called me ‘the happiest cynic she’d ever met,’ whatever that means], and while I did groan over the closing lines, all in all it was an enjoyable film and it really was great to laugh out loud at a comedy that had no [full] nudity, very little profanity and only a couple dick jokes. A good choice for Gervais fans, Kinnear fans and even mainstream audiences who can handle Gervais’s accent [which is strong and almost buries his dialogue in a couple of spots].

One side note: Tea Leoni is like a Robin Wright, a skinny blonde who doesn’t work much but is pretty decent at what she does [but without the breakout classic of a ‘Princess Bride’ to carry her along through the lean years]. She’s a good love interest and shows a decent range. It could be interesting to see what she does in the next few years – and also if her marriage survives hubby David Duchovney’s check-in to sex addicts’ rehab [although I read that may be a stunt to promote the new season of ‘Californication,’ who knows?].

I mean seriously, people. It’s been like 100 degrees with the heat index lately, but I haven’t seen the ice cream man in over a week. 

What happened to American entrepreneurial spirit? What happened to cruising around, smoking pot and making a few bucks? What happened to my soft-serve sundae??!!!!

All I know is someone is falling down on the job and not exploiting the desperate masses by taking advantage of the favorable environmental circumstances. Please, Ice Cream Man, please come back to my ‘hood. I need you. The baby needs you. We’ll be waiting at the curb, five-dollar bill clutched in our sweaty hands, wiping the sweat slowly from our eyes, straining to hear “The Entertainer” moving ever closer at a glacial, teasing pace. We miss you.