One or Two?

I drove to the store tonight to grab some farfalle, as you do. I ran into a neighbor who tried to make small talk. “Are the boys at home?”
“Yes! Just grabbing a few last minute things for dinner.”
“So...is there just the one baby in there?”

Look. I know I’m very, terribly, awfully pregnant, but do we REALLY NEED to point it out? I nearly spit out the words, “Did you just say that to me?” Instead I said in a cheery, clipped voice, “Yup!” and then walked away as fast as my waddling self would take me.

I picked up one more thing and went to the registers where the cashier said,

“Do you have one baby in there or two?”

and I said,

“The next person that asks me that I will literally reach over and slap their face. There is one baby. I have anywhere from a couple weeks to maybe even a month to go.”

To her credit she tried to recover.
“Is it a girl or a boy?”
“Girl.”
“So do you have a name?”
“NO.”
I grabbed the receipt and walked as quickly back to the car as I could.

How am I feeling? I feel tired. There’s your answer. I answer that question all day.

I felt so tired this morning that I could barely move. I have to perform a cost-benefit analysis when I look at the crap strewn on my floor. Is it truly worth it to pick up that sock? I have to go down on all fours to clean the floor and face the very real possibility that I won’t be able to get back up again.

I stare down over my belly at the green straw, the unidentifiable plastic wrapper, the school work, and think hard. I think about the one baby in my belly. The last baby in my belly. The one that’s held six babies; three tighter than the others. The humans that grew there are the only people in the world for whom the casual asking for butterfly pasta for supper would send you to the store at dinner time, to run into people who ask you things without thinking and raise your blood pressure to Everest.

And I figure out the contortion to let me pick up the sock.

Voyeur Vigilante

What would you do if you saw a cell phone sticking out from under your dressing room or bathroom door taping you?

Heather Seamons saw a voyeur trying to tape her in a Forever 21 dressing room. She left her room half-dressed, banged on the door, confronted the man, and alerted the clerks. The clerks let the man go (probably because they were about 16) and questioned Heather instead. She wouldn't stop, however, insisted on calling security, the police, and the news. I'm so proud of her for going public and trying to find this jerk.

You can probably guess how I'd react. I hope you have an image of me absolutely LOSING IT in a public place. I don't know if "confront" is the right word as much as calling on all the powers in the universe to unleash a storm of fury that wouldn't stop until the man was cowering on the ground duck-and-cover style in absolute terror.

And then I'd press charges. And I'd make sure his computers were confiscated so that he could be charged on multiple counts. Then I'd Google-bomb his name and image. I'd see him prosecuted to the fullest extent possible.

I despise people who violate women and children. I would be their millstone. Why? Because I have the strength to do it, and so often, those victims do not. I have a problem not getting involved when my friends are being spitefully used. And if you try to spitefully use me? That would be a mistake.

What would you do?

Why I Have To Win

I’m not competitive, I just have to win. Or be better than someone else. Even when I’m pretending not to be competitive for the sake of social grace, there’s a good chance that deep down I am plotting the revenge and total annihilation of my competitors.

I texted Noelle the other day “Just got a pair of Michael Kors heels marked down from $210 to $25. I WIN!” It just so happens that Noelle texted me back with the news that she’d hit a shoe sale and felt sort of proud of herself for a bargain on some shoes she got, and then I texted her. I declared victory without knowing that I was competing. That’s like The Babe calling it. Booyah.

Maybe it all started with the sticker books in the second grade. Who could get the puffiest, sparkliest rainbow sticker, or the smelliest scratch-n-sniff, all inside the cutest binder? The answer was not me. I’m still a little ticked. Megan and Jessica can suck it.

Could it have been the fourth grade spelling bee when they lined us all up in a room and I misspelled some word, who cares what? Now that I know that contestants are allowed by regulation a pad to write down the word first, I demand a do-over.

Knowing the answer first in class got me the nickname of Ponce in the fifth grade from my classmate Tom who was either impressed or annoyed that I answered which explorer went searching for the fountain of youth with “Ponce de Leon.” I was Ponce for the next five years, at least. Guess what? I WAS RIGHT. Face.

Or there was the time when one of my friends won the Make It With Wool sewing contest in high school. Actually, meh, who cares. It’s not like she cured cancer, or even won Project Runway.

So now that we’ve considered it, I guess I have two settings: a seething, death threat level of competition where I will unleash a temper in the form of a mushroom cloud, and not care.

Here is a list of things that might be considered engaging in competitive behavior and I just don’t care:
1. Basketball
2. House size
3. Collections of media
4. Running fast
5. Frolf
6. Highest hair
7. Nicest luggage. I think I’ve run out of things I don’t care about.

Even if I ostensibly never want to compete in something, I function under the labored delusion that if I were to compete, I would totally win. See, noodling.

Which is why my current standings at the very bottom of our office foosball matches, below employees who don’t even play, is eating at the very center of my soul. I went to sleep last night knowing that three disastrous challenges landed me in 17th place. The guy in 16th has never never even spun a spindle. I’ve brought dishonor to this house. I might as well start cheering for the Lakers.

In my only defense: Michael Kors does not make good foosball shoes.

Handle THIS

A few weeks ago my friends Allison and Marie suggested that we all go up to the book signing that Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, would be having in Salt Lake. If you read Ree, you know that this was the easiest decision ever, worth the hour drive and a full-price book purchase.

We all agreed to meet at 6:30 at the King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake. I got stuck in traffic and then trying to find a place to park, so I didn't get to the shop until 6:45. Allison and Marie had gotten me a ticket, though, so I wasn't worried. I should have been worried.

When I walked the extra distance to the gallery where Ree would be speaking, the line was out the door, 4 people wide, and around the corner. Whoa. I asked the handler if we should get our books before getting into the gallery. Affirmative. I ran into the bookshop where I picked up the copy I'd bought over the phone. I walked back to the gallery and I brought my ticket to the front, were I was told that they weren't letting people in. I was confused. "But I have a ticket," I said, clutching the copy of the Pioneer Woman's book.
"WE ARE AT CAPACITY," the handler told us.
"But if I have a ticket..."
"NO MORE. CAPACITY."
"I'm confused, if we have a ticket then why..."
"CAPACITY. I will NOT be letting ANY ONE ELSE in."

It was fun being outside the gallery while my friends were inside. In the mean time, Janet and a few of my other friends showed up. We were all outside, staring at our friends who were inside the shimmering gallery windows, listening to Ree do a reading, and probably dining on ambrosia, baby lamb, and liquid gold chasers. The laughs coming from inside sounded impossibly happy, like Ree had invited them all to spend a holiday at the lodge surrounded by sets of perfect Le Creuset, vintage-colored Kitchen-Aids, and her famous southern hospitality. I clutched my ticket in goldenrod yellow with my rapidly freezing fingers. Thank goodness I can read lips so I could see what Allison and Marie were saying to us through the glass (which I will not repeat here, because GROSS.)

One rep from the bookstore told the handler that there was plenty more room for people in the back, and she could let about 20 people inside the sparkly glass windowed paradise. The handler counted 21 people in, turned to our group and said, "None of you are getting in. I saw how late you came." The handler would let one person in per person that left, however, definitely none of us.

Janet was fuming. Turns out that she had called the bookshop earlier and asked about their preparations. The person she spoke with admitted that they didn't know who Ree Drummond was and that they didn't anticipate a large crowd. I'm sorry, what? Now, if you're reading this blog and you don't know who Ree Drummond is, that's fine (inexplicable, but fine) because it's not your job to know. It's a bookstore's JOB to know who they are hosting and how to accommodate a crowd (because when a blogger like Pioneer Woman, who has literally millions of readers, comes to town, you OUGHT TO KNOW, so sayeth a former bookseller.) Janet told King's that they needed more space than they would be providing and they basically shut her down. Honestly, if Janet is offering you advice, you might want to take it, she's kind of savvy.

The reading ended and Ree walked from the gallery to the bookshop, stopping for a second to say "Hi!" to Allison (they've met. See here.) (Also, Ree is thin, tall, lovely, and may have left a trail of soft, perfumed, imaginary ruffles in her wake.) The crowd followed her over. It was announced that the tickets we were holding had a letter from A-Z on them that determined in which group we were included. Marie, Allison, and I were letter O. As in O GRAVY that's a long time to wait in line. So we sat outside the empty gallery, wondering if the scary handler lady would be back to eat our babies.

And that's when Dooce showed up: all long legs, rockin' hair, and flanked by glam assistant Katey. Dooce walked into the gallery, which gave we castoffs all the incentive we needed to finally crash the now empty shop. We cornered her. I apologized for cornering her, although it wasn't really a corner, we'd just backed her into a window and she couldn't move. Heather was kind, self-effacing, awesome, and trying to keep a low profile, even though she was conversing with us. Someone brought up boobs. It was probably me.

Katey said that she had tried to convince Heather that having boobs is rough, and Dooce, like many a svelte-chested woman, did not believe her. "It's true," I said, letting the levity of the situation completely run away with my tongue, "All kinds of things get stuck in cleavage. At night you take off your bra and shake it out and say, 'Huh, I don't remember eating sesame seeds.'" WHICH IS TRUE, and made Dooce laugh. Did I just make all of you male readers uncomfortable? SORRY, but it's STILL TRUE. Dooce just makes those kinds of inappropriate things come out of your mouth, like when I asked when the cocaine would be arriving a mere ten minutes later. (Help me.)

Dooce led us around to the back of the shop where we waited to see if they'd let us in. Short answer: No. Scary handler lady was inside the bookshop and was not about to let any of us interloping upstarts inside. They eventually let in Dooce, which, believe me, is always the right decision.

I was a little drunk on the crazy we'd been experiencing during the whole event. I may have also demonstrated to the cool and stylishly dressed Moosh in Indy, along with her friend Barbara, that I am not to be trusted in social situations, or in fact trusted in public, period.

Allison was chatting at the back door with Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, who is quite pretty and very gracious. When Missy asked handler lady if Allison and her children could come inside and get her book signed, handler lady looked at straight at Allison and said, "That woman will NOT be getting her book signed tonight." Yes. Refused, even though Allison paid full price for her book at King's English (which sold out of their 300 copies--not enough for the 500-600 people who showed up.) Janet and a few other friends got in with a gift basket they'd put together for Ree, but eventually we all left. I met everyone at The Pie Pizzeria where I happily ate half a Combo Pie, watched the last two innings of the World Series, and witnessed the noble Phillies lose to the evil Yankees.

Moral of the story?

Careful when you go to meet The Pioneer Woman because you'll end up talking with Dooce about boobs.

THE END.








p.s. If you want to read about a successful PW encounter, go read my friend Fig. Love her.



p.p.s. Hi, fellow Pioneer Woman readers! Have you made her brie-stuffed mushrooms yet? You should. Unless you are like my husband and don't like brie, or mushrooms, or anything good or delicious on earth including sour cream (if we ever get divorced, his dislike of sour cream will be the first thing listed under "Irreconcilable Differences.")

Before you start reading the comments on this post, just be warned that some of them are a little...strident. I'm not usually that controversial (unless I'm talking about how I don't like Gerber, or how house stars are confusing, or that time I brought up breastfeeding and formula--who knew that was controversial?)

So thanks for stopping by. Want to come over for the mushrooms? We can play Rock Band and gossip about the Gosselins. Or not. We can discuss Darfur or the delay in the Radovan Karadizic trial, if you'd rather. Drinks on me?

Authority and a Timer

Last September, a real estate agent named Spencer with Home and Family Realty listed our condo for sale. He listed it for a huge price, far above what it was worth. That listing expired today. I started getting calls this morning about the expired listing from other real estate agents.

Just one problem: I never listed a condo with Spencer, or Home and Family Realty. In fact, I've never heard of either of those two entities. My condo wasn't for sale last September as we had no intention of selling at that point. I never signed a contract, made a phone call, or even sent up a smoke signal: the listing was a fabrication out of whole cloth.

The first agent was super nice as I tried to explain what happened with our condo--that we never listed it for sale and it never went on the Multiple Listing Service. (In May we decided to sell our condo and two days later we had a contract on the place from some friends of ours, it didn't go onto the MLS. We didn't have a real estate agent involved. We completed the sale in June without an agent of any kind.)

I tried calling Home and Family Realty this morning but they didn't pick up, not once of the fifteen times I rang.

The second agent that called me got an earful. He suggested that I simply tell the other agents, who will no doubt be calling like carrion to try to feed off the bones of a faux dead listing, that the information was wrong and the listing was bad. What fun would that be, I thought to myself, I'd rather go ninja on them.

Because WHO DOES THAT? Who lists a place that they have no authority to sell?



Also, El Guille fixed his own breakfast this morning: brown sugar with a honey chaser and is now making sounds like an air raid siren, making me even more cheerful than humanly possible. I will fix this by having him run a race from the downstairs to the upstairs three times with a stop watch to time him (1:51).

It Just Came Out of My Mouth

Saturday night the kids were a nightmare.

They should have gone to bed earlier, but they didn't. They shouldn't have splashed a Niagara out of the tub, but they did. I was so frustrated with them as I wrestled them onto the bathmat that I didn't know what else to do, so I started singing.

I started singing Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.

The kids looked at me funny as I sang over their screams and squeals. Blue skies from pain. I was surprised I remembered all the words.

And you know?

I felt a lot better.

Reply All

You all know how much I hate email forwards. I can't abide them. Usually, however, I'm pretty good about just letting things go. Grit my teeth and just let it go, go ahead, gulp, let it go.

Today, I couldn't let it go.

My mother-in-law sent me some email about how a woman in Colorado got a speeding ticket and had to go to court. At court, there were a bunch of (what the email is assuming) illegal immigrants Spanish speakers. The translator had to leave early that day so all the the non-English speakers had to go first. This is AMERICA, and she speaks ENGLISH and she had to WAIT. What is this world COMING to. The email concludes "Our Country [sic] is eroding every day right before our eyes. No country in the world has ever survived having 2 major languages*. We are heading down that path."

So, as I have warned multiple times, I hit the 'reply-all' button. Oh yeah.

Don't try and stop me, I'll take you all down.

"Who cares?" I said, "She broke the law. I don't feel bad for her at all. I don't feel bad about paying 89 cents a pound for strawberries either."

What I really, really wanted to say was:

"Who cares? She broke the law. I don't feel bad for her at all. It's just a shame that if she killed a small child while speeding through a school zone we couldn't deport her back to Germany/England/Sweden in parts equal to the sum of her ancestry. And I don't feel bad about paying 89 cents for strawberries either."

Shooooot, I just keepin' it real, yo [sic.]

I also don't know how to leave well enough alone. I hit 'reply-all' again and mentioned,

"The last statement, that no country in the world has survived with two major languages, is patently false. The VAST majority of nations on this earth have more than one major language. Here is a list of countries with more than one official language."

Booyah.

As Kiki can tell you, this exchange was punctuated with significantly more cussing of the most base variety. I chose not to record that for posterity at this time.

If there is one thing I can't stand, more than mere xenophobia and racism, it's STUPID, baseless, jingoistic propaganda that serves to inflame the gullible with inaccuracies and fear.

So don't forward me that tripe.

'Cause that's how I roll.



*Then again, perhaps the email is correct in saying that no country in the world has survived two major languages in the most far-reaching sense that every country will be born, rise, fall, and be absorbed into the next geographical entity to occupy that same area of land. However, I maintain language is NOT causal, even if you try to make the case for the previous argument.
Yeah, I don't think the author of the email is smart enough to consider that either.
And that's the reasoning of someone who was raised, speaking Spanish, by an immigrant. Peace, out.

It's Your Drink Stop!

Dear Girl at Sonic,

I hate your freaking guts.

Remember when I asked for caffeine-FREE Diet Coke? Remember that? Remember how I ordered one large REGULAR Diet Coke and one small caffeine free Diet coke with limes? And an Oreo Blast (trademark)?

I didn’t tell you I was bringing those drinks to my friend JKirk who just had a baby. I DID tell you to make SURE that it was caffeine-free.

Was it caffeine-free?

NO

Do you know how I know? Because I felt perkier and then crashed later. Because even though I drank only about half of my small drink, my poor baby could NOT get to sleep last night. You made me curse like a stevedore last night as I realized what happened. Ok, so I made me curse, but Other Half had to hear it and I think his ears are singed.

Baby tried, and tried, his little red-rimmed eyes and puffy face should HAUNT YOU for the remainder of your days.

Baby was EXHAUSTED...

because of YOU,

SONIC GIRL

You’re on my YOU KNOW WHAT list.

Pterodactyl-like Sounds

Sometimes, when my three year old starts to whine and tosses himself on the floor, I'll take action (versus ignoring him.) I scrunch up my face into an evil mask of itself and emit a pterodactyl-like sound. I’ll repeat that sound every time he starts making noise until he stops whining and starts laughing. Frankly, it’s just because the whining is annoying to me and I figure if I’m annoyed, he should be as well.

I was watching this man tell his story about having his leg broken by a humpback whale. The best part was that he was using a little toy whale to show how the creature turned to attack him. “She turned, like this,” he said as he maneuvered the plastic toy.
Show me on the doll, sir.

This baby is a faker.

We didn’t leave the house this weekend on caution of “any minute” from the midwife (yeah, I don't know how I got to a 6 and 80% effaced without any contractions either, but I did.) As a consequence, I have cabin fever and am bored. If you’re in the mood for fun, call me, especially after 8. That sounded slutty. But I am serious. Cinn-a-stacks anyone?

I don’t mind my friends asking me how I’m doing, because I’ll tell them the truth. However, if strangers, or neighbors, random relatives, or people I don’t particularly care for ask me I want to punch them in the teeth. It’s especially the “you must be SO DONE with being pregnant” people with their phony smiles. Whatever, tools. I don’t want to synthesize how I’m feeling for you into a little nugget of polite response. The worst is when they try to carry the conversation farther than the initial exchange; that’s when I have to remember that people are being polite and are NOT TRYING to piss me off. I have to swallow the bubbles of fury, smile and play along—it’s like being named Miss Congeniality!

My road rage is at a peak. A Saturn cut me off the other day because I was slowing for a RED LIGHT so that he could get to the light 1 second faster. I have never wanted to crash my car into another car so much in my entire life. I sent an obscene gesture his direction but he didn’t see me—which made me want to drive faster, catch up to him, and repeat the distinction. I seriously had to have a conversation with myself where I mentioned that I was both pregnant and had a child in my very small car so that I didn’t crash into him. But I wanted to. A lot. Still do.

I need some book recommendations. Here are my stipulations:
1. No young adult (because I don’t feel like it right now.)
2. Must be available from the liberry, because I am poor.
3. Nothing from a series that isn’t done yet.
4. I need amusing, fun, thrilling, or completely enthralling—nothing ponderous—one of those books where you have to stay up till 4am to get to another chapter (‘cause guess what time I’ll be up to soon. Well, not that soon, the faker.)

Yogurt: Salve of Life and Healer of All Wrongs

The scary thing about being able to cook is that you could cook for yourself whatever you want whenever you want it. Tonight, however, I did NOT make a hazelnut chocolate mousse and satisfied the internal imp with a chocolate yogurt (one billion fewer calories and no work.)

The yogurt gave me some sweet time to heal from two obnoxious interactions we experienced over the weekend.

I had a baby shower next door on Saturday. Every place I called was out of the book I wanted to give as a gift, except B&N (yes, I called an independent too and they told me the book was out of print, which isn’t true.) I paid for the book and asked if I could wrap it.

Now, I have spent years wrapping books, and let me tell you, they are not hard to wrap. It’s not that I’m super-extra picky, I just think that a gift should look nice. I asked the cashier if I could just wrap it myself when a bossy-bossy lady walked by and said, “Actually, no. We have to have an employee do it, store policy!” I have been a snotty B&N employee, and I am so not going to take that.
“Oh really,” I said, “That didn’t used to be the policy.”
"Yes it has.”
“Huh, it wasn’t that way when I worked here.”
“Oh it’s been that way for at least five years. Who was your manager when you worked here?”
I answered “Wade.”
“Oh yeah, that was a long time ago.”
Me, increasingly annoyed, “Yes.”

In the meantime, bossy-bossy had called up an employee to do the wrapping. I was watching the girl wrap my book and it just looked terrible. She wasn’t folding the edges over, the tape was haphazard and excessive; it was just not being done well. Bossy-bossy finished her conversation with me and left to turn keys someplace else. The wrapping chick struggled with the ends of paper, “Haha! I am just not that good at wrapping!” she said flippantly.

I just wanted to hit her. I wanted to wrap the book because I AM GOOD at wrapping and I am FAST. It’s a damn rectangle. Wrapping a book is not hard and requires absolutely no advanced degree of any kind. Did you not just hear the conversation where your manager WON’T let me wrap the book and instead calls you up and you show/tell me you’re a terrible wrapper?

Today we braved college bureaucracy. I had to turn in a short term loan note for J. The letter we were sent said to go to a specific place in Building A to turn in the documentation.
When I got there, Guille in tow, I thought I’d just confirm with the senior citz at the window that this was the right place. I noticed a tuition drop box to my left. She said that no, in fact, I had to walk across campus to Building B’s One Stop to drop off the note. I asked if she were SURE I couldn’t just drop the note here. Absolutely not.

I mentioned that if we weren’t supposed to bring the documents to this room, they should update the letters that people are sent, you know, so they don’t go to the place where they’ve been instructed to go. The senior citz then said something else that I’ve since repressed.

So Guille and I walked over to Building B, up more stairs, to the One Stop where we were instructed to leave the note in a tuition drop box--precisely the same box that was at Building A. Sometimes I give cjane a hard time about her position on senior citz, other times, I think she is onto something.

Maybe just reliving these events calls for another yogurt.

Cindy and Me

Once upon a time I was a loyal AT&T customer. I loved them and they loved me. We had an amazing relationship for seven years. Anytime that I had a problem, I could call my friends and they would straighten it out immediately and with aplomb. Accidentally run up my charges in a roaming area? No problem, we’ll just credit you, thanks for being a customer. Don’t like your phone? Here’s a new, fancier one, for free.

I thought our relationship was great. Apparently, though, AT&T wanted to spice things up, so they invited Cingular to the party. At first I thought, “Hey, rollover minutes, I could get used to that.” However, I didn’t qualify for that plan without changing everything about my current plan.

See, Cingular was like Cindy, the new wife in a polygamous relationship who is demanding, pouting, and acts like the 19 year-old child that she is. Surely there would still be love for the first wife. No, I was constantly forced to take a back seat to whatever Cindy wanted. Cindy wants you to change networks. Cindy thinks you need a new phone for the new network. Cindy thinks they should change cell phone towers and make reception impossible at your place of work. If you had a problem, Cindy cracked her gum and said, “Whatever, this is SO NOT my problem.”

Finally, I was through. I ain’t no hollaback girl. I called to close my two (2) accounts with Cindy and her spineless hubby, AT&T. One account was with Cindy, the other, technically, still with AT&T. One account had a positive balance of 37.18; the other, a negative balance of 37.18. Could they, I inquired, possibly transfer the balance from one account to the other? Sure, came the reply.

A month later I got a bill in the mail for the negative balance. I called again and after being on the phone for 45 minutes, I was assured the balance had been transferred. Month after month this went by. FOUR months to be exact. Each time, more and more time on the phone. By the fourth month it was more than 2 hours (I had 12 employees as witnesses) on the phone trying to get them to MOVE a balance from Account A to Account B.

Nothing topped month five. I was at my desk when I got a call, “Hello, this is Sean from External Collection Agency. Cindy has turned your account over to us for non-payment. If you do not cooperate with us we will royally screw-up your credit.”

I

Was

Livid

I called Sean back. He was actually pretty nice. He agreed to put a hold on the collection until I could call Cindy back.
I went home that night, gearing up mentally to call Cindy.
There, in the mailbox, was a letter.

A check.

For 37.18.

The same day AT&T/Cingular sent me to collections, they sent me a check.

Today was a Fun Day

And by fun day I mean I got to talk to real estate agents. The first call was this morning at 8:10am. I dove for my phone because an 8:10 call usually means some system at work is down and I need to get it fixed. Instead it was “Brad” from whatever company.

“Isn’t it a little early to be calling people, Brad?” “Oh, did I wake you?” “I don’t think that’s really the point, Brad.” I’d been awoken at 7:20 by a screaming kid who’d locked himself in his room. By 8:10, I was enjoying Nap One while Thomas and Gordon were having a fight with Percy, or something.

“I’m taking a survey of For Sale By Owners,” says chipper Brad. I agree to take the “survey” although I know it’s nothing but a selling tool that I’ve “taken” before.

Hey, if they’re going to call me at the crack of dawn, I’m going to waste their time as much as possible. I should note that we’re not really selling our place right now, either. I decided I didn’t want to deal with the stress of moving at this point in my life. Let’s not even get into the sinking economic indicators.

These surveys always consist of the same questions in the same order and my answers are always frustrating to the agent (who are in this case nothing but over-paid telemarketers.)

Q. One a scale of one to ten how motivated are you to sell your home?
A. A two. (This is followed by a few seconds of silence while they digest this low level of enthusiasm.)
Q. What is your time line for moving?
A: We have no time line (true, also frustrating for Motivated Agent who is Pestering Me.)
Q: Where will you be moving to?
A: Don’t know yet.
Q: How long would your place have to be on the market before you enlisted the help of an agent?
A: Well, since we have no time line, that’s not really an applicable question. Alternative answer: Indefinitely. (Silence.)
**Q: If you decide to find a place after this one, what would be the deciding factor?
A: Well, I’m waiting for the bubble correction: housing starts are down and there appears to have been an increase of 8% nationwide in home supply.
**Q: But the market is expected to grow 15% in your area next year
A: Says who? All the economic indicators, new home starts, sales of existing homes, everything is down with large drop-offs from the bubble-highs in the western US, particularly California and parts of Arizona. Even the Fed is worried enough, they stopped raising the overnight rate, halting nearly two years of straight raises. So, you’re wrong. (Silence.)

Q: How did you arrive at a selling price?
A: I looked at the comps. (Silence while they process that I know what a “comp” is.)
Q: Are you prepared to adjust your price down for a buyer?
A: Of course.
Q: If you did get an Agent, what would you expect them to do to market your place (honestly, I hate this question.)
A: I’d expect them to put it on the MLS. (I don’t care how the agent does their job. I know their main job is to list it on the MLS.)
Q: Are you familiar with the kind of marketing techniques that I employ?A: (In my head: are you serious, you think that people go around talking about the marketing techniques that Agent B uses vs. Agent C? Is that so we can put them on our Fantasy Agent team? ) No, I am not.

Now, their response to this one is usually to talk about how aggressive they are, but Brad started telling me about classes he runs called “Have Your Roommates Pay Your Mortgage.” This seems like a totally unnecessary class to me. First of all, duh. Second, and the response I gave to Brad was, that a.) I doubt that my spouse would appreciate roommates paying our mortgage and b.) Our HOA has mandated that our units are single-family only, therefore you can’t put four unrelated people in the place.” Brad’s response, "But are the bedrooms big enough that you could put two in?" Mine, “Yes, but you CAN’T.”

Q: (This is not a question) I’d like to meet you to speak with you more about selling your place and what I can DO for You. Does tonight at 7 work or is tomorrow at 6 better?
A: Neither, because we’re not really interested in selling right now and if we DID sell we’d list with David Spackman.
Brad: Oh
Me: If you bring me a buyer I will pay you 3%, plus you do all the paperwork.
Brad: Ok, thank you.


Repeat this conversation exactly nine times.
I’ve had this conversation NINE times today. Sadly, today is not done. I wonder how many more times I’ll need to give these answers and at what time they’ll actually stop calling me. At one point I accosted the agent and said, “You know, you each call me and you each ask me the EXACT same questions in the exact same order for this 'survey'.” “Well, uhm,” was his response.

Should we place bets on how many times I will repeat this conversation tomorrow?

**only two asked me these questions.

Temper, Temper

Years ago I put an extremely long fuse on my beast of a temper and let it dwell deep below. Other Half has only seen me really lose my temper a couple times in the decade we’ve been together. My father is fond of saying that a pregnant woman is more true to herself than at any other time in her life. If that’s true, then I am a fearsome creature.

Gestation makes my fuse thisshort (that’s very short.) In normal life I am willing to let a lot of things slide. I’m able to hold my tongue, at least in front of the person in question, let my blood simma down now, and chill. In my current state, the slightest perceived injustice, the merest indication of stupidity, unleashes my wicked tongue. Once the child is out I never cuss in front of it, but when it is in utero the poor defenseless creature may, at any time and for the most specious of reasons, be subject to swearing like a stevedore (I am currently pissed because the word document I’m using to write this thinks I misspelled UTERO and I DIDN’T, no I don’t mean “utters,” son of a…)

On Tuesday I went to Mates of State and Death Cab with ~J and cjane. I’m in the stage of “eat every two hours OR DIE from emptying the contents of your stomach.” Near the end of Mates, I had to get something to eat from the miserable commissary. I was a little annoyed that there was a huge line, but I stood on line anyway. When I finally got up near the front Mates was over and all of a sudden there were a whole lot of people who decided to just saunter up and plant themselves at the beginning of the line. AW HELL NO. “HEY, who DIDN’T stand in line?” I said, only moderately loudly. “YOU, you didn’t” I accused a pimply faced 17 year old boy. He blushed and left the line. The guys in front of me turned around and said, “We were here, we swear.” “I know,” I said, “It’s just that I’m pregnant and I can’t take these fools.” Those guys were so sweet and kicked all kinds of people out of line for me, the dears.

Later that night cjane told me of someone who was vexing her life. You have NO IDEA how much I wanted to drive over to that sucka’s house and give them the kind of verbal lashing that would loose their bowels in fear and terror. I still might. Watch it.

The KUTV anchor Ron Whatshisface was covered The Storm of ’06 a week ago. He started his news cast with “Lots of damage down in Happy Valley tonight.” REALLY RON WHATSYOURFACE? HAPPY VALLEY? I hate when people call it that. The expression is patronizing and inane. I can’t imagine something more asinine than referring to an actual county as “Happy” when in fact there is a woman inside it that will gladly rip your sad, strangely elongated head off.

At The Jolly Porter’s birthday party the topic of Raechaelaer Ray from Food Network came up. The Jolly Porter blinked a little when I announced to him that I’d like to find that food-orgasmic freak, take her by the neck and punch repeatedly. “You should ask the locals for restaurant ideas,” is her ONE AND ONLY piece of advice on her food travel programs. OH REALLY RAY? That’s your advice? I’m with Tony Bourdain here: she needs to stop her ascent to monopoly before we’re facing the REAL New World Order.

Yesterday I had my first appointment with the mid-wives. For those of you who’ve never been knocked up enough, your provider will usually give you a big bag full of pre-natal vitamin samples, magazines, coupons—corporate sponsored crap, basically. You all know how I feel about formula marketing. Yet, I couldn’t help but be surprised and instantly furious when I saw both of these items in my bag:


YES, that’s a copy of BabyTalk magazine with the cover story entitled “Why Women Don’t Nurse Longer” right next to a big freaking box from Similac with a free bag and samples. HMMm with that kind of implicit endorsement from a medical establishment it’s no wonder why women doubt the capabilities of their bodies and are undermined at every turn in their attempts to nurse. It’s been proven in studies that some women thought that because hospitals and doctors handed out those samples they endorsed formula over nursing. So screw those formula makers and their @$^#$#@ marketing tactics.
Poor Carrie heard the kind of double-deuce language over IM yesterday that would make Tarantino shake in his boots. I seriously wanted to go ape-@#$ all over their !@#$. Similac can kiss my grits.

Then I thought about things and decided that instead of being angry I should donate these things to people that NEED them. So if any of you formula girls (it’s your decision, not my business, you know best) and would like the samples/coupons/ etc, I’ll be thrilled to mail them to you, REALLY and TRULY (consider it an act of guerilla consumerism.)

I may have lost my temper, but I haven’t totally lost my mind (yet.)

Course Correction

I told a friend that I’ve been self-censoring my posts, sometimes not writing about things that I feel strongly about out of respect for my readers. She urged less self-censorship, more faucet reactions. I’m concerned with adding to the cacophony of the sphere, but it’s somewhat self-important to think that these entries do anything at all to the sphere. In that view, I might intersperse the small life-moment captures with more stringent viewpoints and editorial opinions.

I am a lactivist.

I didn’t intend to be that way, I, or should I say, we, evolved into the pro-nursing camp. When Guille was born I had a goal of nursing until one year. I’d read all the literature about the extraordinary benefits of nursing and I knew that my mother had nursed all of us. Nursing was such a struggle in the beginning. A fill-in pediatrician, concerned that two day old Guille was jaundiced, recommended I supplement my nursing with an ounce of formula after each feeding. We stopped feeding him formula when the jaundice resolved. At his two week appointment he was still considerably under his birth weight. Since nursing is on demand, that ounce after each feeding (8-10 ounces a day) cut my volume significantly. I, of course, felt beyond horrible. I’d been starving my child. I sobbed and sobbed. We went to see the lactation consultants who helped us figure out a good latch. I had to pump after every feeding and supplement with a nursing aid (the tube + tape.) After a few weeks of that, my supply righted itself and we went on our way. We had other problems: nursing strikes, biting, colds and sickness. I had made a goal, however, and I was determined to stick with it. I am so glad I did. We reached one year and haven’t stopped.

As a result of all of those struggles, I began to research nursing. I was stunned with the discoveries I made.
I want to preface some things right here: there is a place for formula. Some of you reading this right now have used formula. I am not angry with formula. Adoptions, medical problems, specialized medication that preclude nursing, all are excellent examples of why we need safe baby formula. I remember Melanee, who was given heart medication that contraindicated nursing. Her heart broke because she wasn’t going to be able to nurse Maggie. Every time I see someone pulling out a bottle of formula, her example, and those of other mothers, is what reminds me to mind my own business.

However, I am angry with the formula industry. I hate that they provide every woman who delivers in a hospital a free diaper bag full of powdered, concentrated and ready to eat formula with incentives and coupons to buy. This makes it seem that hospitals and doctors actually prefer formula to the real stuff. Every pediatrician is sent loads of formula to distribute to women, even if the Doctor doesn't want it. These companies prey on the fear of women. Those corporations risk the health of babies and women to meet their bottom line.

Sounds like the most patronizing, misogynistic, and destructive mission statements on earth.

Babies who don’t breastfeed:
20% increased risk of Leukemia
60% increased risk of common and chronic ear infections
40% increased risk of Diabetes
Huge increase in upper respiratory infections which led to hospitalizations, increased risk of other types of cancer
The whopper is that 20% more likely to die in the first year.

So why isn’t this common knowledge? Well the government and certain health advocates thought you should know. So they made some commercials informing you of risks of not breastfeeding. The ads featured pregnant women riding mechanical bulls, competing in rollerball and log rolling competitions. The tag line: “You shouldn’t risk the health of baby before it is born, why start after?” followed by the statistics above.

I am filled with rage for our government. Rage is the only word I have to describe it.

The formula industry called the offices of Tommy Thompson (former Secretary of Health & Human Services) constantly until they were allowed to see him. The result? “Officials confirm to ABC News that HHS' Secretary Tommy Thompson met privately with formula industry representatives but turned down meeting requests from breast-feeding advocates.” You'll never see those ads the way they were intended to air. Why?

Because this administration is in so cozy with large business interests they’d rather see babies placed in literal mortal danger. As a result of industry pressure, Thompson had the ads revised to remove the statistics above. They focused not on the dangers of bottle feeding but on the benefits of nursing. Because, really, when you say it’s risky NOT to nurse is that it IS RISKY to formula feed. The industry can’t have that, oh no. The administration can’t have Nestle, Wyeth, etc, not contributing to the re-election campaigns, oh no. They make me sick.

It was just reported that an enzyme in babies' mouths when nursing prevents the contraction of HIV from infected moms. Your milk concentrates fat and protein content after the first year, tailoring itself to what your toddler needs. Children who nurse past the age of one score, on average, ten points higher on IQ tests than children who are nursed less. Antibodies pass through your milk make sick babies healthier and prevent illness entirely. The WHO and UNICEF have reported that one to one and a half MILLION babies die every year because they were not breastfed. Basically, every 30 seconds a baby dies from dehydration, diarrhea, vomiting, respiratory infections, or malnutrition as a result of being bottle-fed.

Let’s talk about you! 30% decrease in your risk of ovarian cancer, 50% decrease in risk of breast cancer. Uterine and endometrial cancers also decrease. The longer you nurse the more your risks drop, the results are often cumulative as well (nursing more than one child, even if for shorter than a year, cuts your risk.) If you choose not to nurse, you’re choosing to endanger not only your child’s life, but also your own.

When I see a bottle of formula I see misogyny.

I see the Dr. who told my grandmother that formula was better for her children (thankfully, she looked at him and said, “Are you calling God a liar? God didn’t make a mistake when he made me. I was built to nurse.”)
I see the nurses in the Swiss hospital arguing with my mother as she demanded that her baby not be fed artificial milk.

I see the companies that decided that when formula sales dipped they would go into the third world.
I see the women in third world countries that were told artificial milk was better, so they mixed the expensive powder half strength to make it last longer, starving their babies to death.
I see the poor water supply that they used to mix the powder, killing their children with cholera, dysentery, and e coli.

I see the triumph of marketing over women.

So, yeah, I’m a lactivist. Want to make something of it?