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Saturday, February 6, 2010
22 hours of labor
I woke up at three o’clock this morning with the strangest sensation. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I was left wondering…does the body remember as much as the mind? Because while I was rolling over, trying to find a more comfortable position, it occurred to me that at that exact moment twenty years, ago I went into labor.
It was February 5, 1990 in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and there was a snowstorm raging outside. I was lying in my bed, on top of the covers, with the windows open—curtains blowing madly in the wind—and a small drift of snow was building on the sill. At three am I still hadn’t fallen asleep. Despite the snowflakes falling around me, I was hot. Pregnant women have messed up internal temperature regulators, and mine was on full blast. I continued to search for a more comfortable position but with a midsection that extended at least two feet in every direction, I wasn’t having much luck. My then husband was burrowed down under several layers of blankets and a down parka trying to stay warm. He had given up trying to negotiate for closed windows and heat weeks prior. You don’t argue with a hormonally challenged woman in her final days of pregnancy.
My due date had passed three days earlier, and I was beyond ready to have my baby. My bag was packed, an entire box of popsicles was at the ready in the freezer, and the names were finally picked out. And I had insomnia.
And there was a blizzard in my bedroom.
Flash forward to twenty years later, and my water breaking is just barely a memory. I do remember the harrowing two mile drive to the hospital in the near whiteout. But I’m not sure if it was the weather or my ex-husband's bad driving that was the scariest. I don’t remember checking in at the desk, but I do remember everything about the birthing room, including the wallpaper, the beeping monitors and what was showing on the TV. I know David Bowie was on Joan Rivers that day, because when I told my ex-husband that a contraction was coming he informed me that he was busy watching said program, and could I manage my contractions on my own for a while.
Important qualities to have in a Lamaze coach:
1. Coach should attend all Lamaze classes and remain awake all the way through class.
2. Coach should not treat contractions as first down and ten to go during the final quarter of a closely played championship game. (absolutely no shouting “push harder…you’re not trying!”)
3. Coach should not complain about how much sleep they are missing and how uncomfortable the hospital recliner in the birthing room is.
4. Coach should not remind you of how long it has been since you were able to shave your legs or comment on how swollen certain body parts have become.
5. Coach should not disappear for long periods of time and reappear with crumbs on their shirt and breath that smells of fried foods.
Thank god for my mother! I can’t recommend highly enough having a mother who is trained in obstetrics. Lucky for me, my mother was a head nurse in the same hospital. When your mother is head nurse, they can’t throw her out! She actually paid attention in Lamaze classes, and she wasn’t grossed out when I needed help in the bathroom.
After several failed epidurals, one smashed IV, puking on the anesthesiologist, the father of my child being kicked out of the delivery room by my mother, and generally being naked in a room full of strangers, (although after twenty two hours in labor, I would have flashed the janitor if it would have moved things along faster) I made it through labor relatively unscathed. I finally had a baby boy!
My ex husband took one look at his son’s impressive little package and exclaimed, “That’s my boy!” To which my mother quickly burst his bubble by telling him it was just swelling from the hormones.
As I watched the clock inch towards midnight, and my son’s birthday was just minutes away, I looked back at the crazy day I brought him into the world and smiled. I would do it all over again to be lucky enough to get a baby half as wonderful as my grown up boy has become.
Just maybe not today!
Until the next time…I’ll be keeping my legs crossed!
Erica
It was February 5, 1990 in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and there was a snowstorm raging outside. I was lying in my bed, on top of the covers, with the windows open—curtains blowing madly in the wind—and a small drift of snow was building on the sill. At three am I still hadn’t fallen asleep. Despite the snowflakes falling around me, I was hot. Pregnant women have messed up internal temperature regulators, and mine was on full blast. I continued to search for a more comfortable position but with a midsection that extended at least two feet in every direction, I wasn’t having much luck. My then husband was burrowed down under several layers of blankets and a down parka trying to stay warm. He had given up trying to negotiate for closed windows and heat weeks prior. You don’t argue with a hormonally challenged woman in her final days of pregnancy.
My due date had passed three days earlier, and I was beyond ready to have my baby. My bag was packed, an entire box of popsicles was at the ready in the freezer, and the names were finally picked out. And I had insomnia.
And there was a blizzard in my bedroom.
Flash forward to twenty years later, and my water breaking is just barely a memory. I do remember the harrowing two mile drive to the hospital in the near whiteout. But I’m not sure if it was the weather or my ex-husband's bad driving that was the scariest. I don’t remember checking in at the desk, but I do remember everything about the birthing room, including the wallpaper, the beeping monitors and what was showing on the TV. I know David Bowie was on Joan Rivers that day, because when I told my ex-husband that a contraction was coming he informed me that he was busy watching said program, and could I manage my contractions on my own for a while.
Important qualities to have in a Lamaze coach:
1. Coach should attend all Lamaze classes and remain awake all the way through class.
2. Coach should not treat contractions as first down and ten to go during the final quarter of a closely played championship game. (absolutely no shouting “push harder…you’re not trying!”)
3. Coach should not complain about how much sleep they are missing and how uncomfortable the hospital recliner in the birthing room is.
4. Coach should not remind you of how long it has been since you were able to shave your legs or comment on how swollen certain body parts have become.
5. Coach should not disappear for long periods of time and reappear with crumbs on their shirt and breath that smells of fried foods.
Thank god for my mother! I can’t recommend highly enough having a mother who is trained in obstetrics. Lucky for me, my mother was a head nurse in the same hospital. When your mother is head nurse, they can’t throw her out! She actually paid attention in Lamaze classes, and she wasn’t grossed out when I needed help in the bathroom.
After several failed epidurals, one smashed IV, puking on the anesthesiologist, the father of my child being kicked out of the delivery room by my mother, and generally being naked in a room full of strangers, (although after twenty two hours in labor, I would have flashed the janitor if it would have moved things along faster) I made it through labor relatively unscathed. I finally had a baby boy!
My ex husband took one look at his son’s impressive little package and exclaimed, “That’s my boy!” To which my mother quickly burst his bubble by telling him it was just swelling from the hormones.
As I watched the clock inch towards midnight, and my son’s birthday was just minutes away, I looked back at the crazy day I brought him into the world and smiled. I would do it all over again to be lucky enough to get a baby half as wonderful as my grown up boy has become.
Just maybe not today!
Until the next time…I’ll be keeping my legs crossed!
Erica
Friday, February 5, 2010
my name means WHAT?
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” William Shakespeare
I think Shakespeare missed the target with that line. Names ARE important. A rose by another name might smell the same, but it wouldn’t be a rose anymore, would it? No, it would be a daisy, or a petunia, or a gardenia….or it might just be a fart! And, who wants to get a bouquet of farts on Valentine ’s Day? Some of us might end up getting little more than that anyway, but it wouldn’t exactly be on our wish lists, now would it? Seriously...a name can define who you are! It says a lot about you. It could even steer your path in life! How many lawyers do you know named Taffy? Right…zero! There are just certain names that go with certain positions. I doubt we’ll be hearing stories about President Billy Bob anytime soon. A person’s name should be able to carry them from infancy to old age with a seamless transition. Some names just don’t do that. Baby Mildred isn’t going to be the center of the sandbox social club with a name like that! And there are a lot of Brittany’s out there who made cute little girls, but how well will that name carry them into old age? Someday, someone will be referring to that formerly cute baby as Grandma Brittany! When I was pregnant with my children, I spent every day of each nine months, laboring (no pun intended) over what name I would bestow upon my unborn child. I tried to imagine every stage of their lives with that name, every possible nickname that could be created from their proper given names, and how the name would roll off the tongue when combined with the middle and last name. And one can’t forget about the initials! I had to be sure their initials didn’t accidentally spell out something horrible, like ASS (which wasn’t likely as their last name started with an L). But you just can’t be too careful. My father’s initials are PU. Sometimes people just don’t think about the consequences of their choices! As for my name, my father picked it out. As the story goes, he met a girl named Erica while he was stationed in Germany back before he met my mother. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the whole story. How my mother let that one slide I’ll never know. Despite its origins, I had issues with my name from the beginning. It was unusual back then. When I was little, no one had heard of my name, so no one knew how to pronounce it. I had teachers that called me Ureka…Ursula…Ahreeka. My grandmother decided to just call me Rikki, which was fine and dandy except that it was a boy’s name. I asked my mother once why they called me Rikki, and she told me it was because they thought I was a boy at first. To a six year old that seems like an actual possibility! And it suddenly made perfect sense why I had a toy tractor. As I got older, I began to grow into my name. Not right away mind you. I had a very awkward start. I was 17 before I could actually fit into the sexy category that the name demanded. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having a sexy name, and the minute I broke free of my mother’s fashion chains, I was able to live up to those expectations. I learned how to suppress the crazy hot pink sweater inside of me and channel the outward power of the name. I have run across a few Erica’s in the course of my life, but never in my immediate circle. so, I have always felt unique. I was always one of a kind. So I was excited when I saw the newest trend on Facebook. It was the chain letter du jour. A cut and paste status experiment, if you will. The instructions were to go to Urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and take the first definition and make that your status. I was up for that challenge. I had a distinctive name. I had looked it up before. It means Eternal ruler in its Norse origins. It was a powerful name. And I had seen the other definitions on the statuses of my friends and family. Julie was fair-haired and loved by all, Louise was popular, and June was hot like a summer day. I would be something wonderful too. How could I not be? I was an “Erica”. And “Erica” means something grand. So I opened a new browser window with an air of vanity…ready to show them all. I typed in my name and hit enter with a jolt of sudden pride. And then I just sat there…dumbfounded for a minute or two. I couldn’t post this on my Facebook status! First of all, who would believe me? Who would believe I had actually discovered this without any interference on my part? After all…they all know me too well. And I couldn’t have aspired to have a definition as unique as this. It was priceless. It summed up in one short line what I would have taken several paragraphs to convey. “Erica: the term used for the exact moment a penis enters the vagina.”
Until next time…just call me Alice!
I think Shakespeare missed the target with that line. Names ARE important. A rose by another name might smell the same, but it wouldn’t be a rose anymore, would it? No, it would be a daisy, or a petunia, or a gardenia….or it might just be a fart! And, who wants to get a bouquet of farts on Valentine ’s Day? Some of us might end up getting little more than that anyway, but it wouldn’t exactly be on our wish lists, now would it? Seriously...a name can define who you are! It says a lot about you. It could even steer your path in life! How many lawyers do you know named Taffy? Right…zero! There are just certain names that go with certain positions. I doubt we’ll be hearing stories about President Billy Bob anytime soon. A person’s name should be able to carry them from infancy to old age with a seamless transition. Some names just don’t do that. Baby Mildred isn’t going to be the center of the sandbox social club with a name like that! And there are a lot of Brittany’s out there who made cute little girls, but how well will that name carry them into old age? Someday, someone will be referring to that formerly cute baby as Grandma Brittany! When I was pregnant with my children, I spent every day of each nine months, laboring (no pun intended) over what name I would bestow upon my unborn child. I tried to imagine every stage of their lives with that name, every possible nickname that could be created from their proper given names, and how the name would roll off the tongue when combined with the middle and last name. And one can’t forget about the initials! I had to be sure their initials didn’t accidentally spell out something horrible, like ASS (which wasn’t likely as their last name started with an L). But you just can’t be too careful. My father’s initials are PU. Sometimes people just don’t think about the consequences of their choices! As for my name, my father picked it out. As the story goes, he met a girl named Erica while he was stationed in Germany back before he met my mother. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the whole story. How my mother let that one slide I’ll never know. Despite its origins, I had issues with my name from the beginning. It was unusual back then. When I was little, no one had heard of my name, so no one knew how to pronounce it. I had teachers that called me Ureka…Ursula…Ahreeka. My grandmother decided to just call me Rikki, which was fine and dandy except that it was a boy’s name. I asked my mother once why they called me Rikki, and she told me it was because they thought I was a boy at first. To a six year old that seems like an actual possibility! And it suddenly made perfect sense why I had a toy tractor. As I got older, I began to grow into my name. Not right away mind you. I had a very awkward start. I was 17 before I could actually fit into the sexy category that the name demanded. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having a sexy name, and the minute I broke free of my mother’s fashion chains, I was able to live up to those expectations. I learned how to suppress the crazy hot pink sweater inside of me and channel the outward power of the name. I have run across a few Erica’s in the course of my life, but never in my immediate circle. so, I have always felt unique. I was always one of a kind. So I was excited when I saw the newest trend on Facebook. It was the chain letter du jour. A cut and paste status experiment, if you will. The instructions were to go to Urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and take the first definition and make that your status. I was up for that challenge. I had a distinctive name. I had looked it up before. It means Eternal ruler in its Norse origins. It was a powerful name. And I had seen the other definitions on the statuses of my friends and family. Julie was fair-haired and loved by all, Louise was popular, and June was hot like a summer day. I would be something wonderful too. How could I not be? I was an “Erica”. And “Erica” means something grand. So I opened a new browser window with an air of vanity…ready to show them all. I typed in my name and hit enter with a jolt of sudden pride. And then I just sat there…dumbfounded for a minute or two. I couldn’t post this on my Facebook status! First of all, who would believe me? Who would believe I had actually discovered this without any interference on my part? After all…they all know me too well. And I couldn’t have aspired to have a definition as unique as this. It was priceless. It summed up in one short line what I would have taken several paragraphs to convey. “Erica: the term used for the exact moment a penis enters the vagina.”
Until next time…just call me Alice!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
the crazy sweater experiment
I got a pretty good night’s sleep last night so I woke up almost cheerfully. I say almost because I still growled my way through my morning rituals the same as every other day, I just wasn’t yawning quite as much. The plain and simple fact is that I am not a morning person. No amount of sleep, or sunshine, or Cap’n Crunch is going to change that fact. It was a Wednesday, and because I’m usually off on Wednesdays, (unless I’m off on Saturday, which I was this week) I typically spend the day doing my laundry for the week. So when I do have to work on a Wednesday, it’s always a challenge to find something to wear. This is not to say that I don’t have a lot of clothes. I do. But it’s just over a month since Christmas, so I’m still wearing my “post holiday” pants. I have several pair, but they are all varying shades of black. So what goes with black? More black. Or white. Or cream. You get the picture. But, it was Wednesday, and I don’t know why, but I wasn’t in the usual, “woe is me, I have to go to work” mood. I was feeling bold, and confident, and…dangerously defiant.
Cue the crazy sweater.
Perhaps I should start with the back story. I know you love back story! I have a client who owns a clothing consignment shop in town. It’s a very upscale place catering to women with discriminating tastes. Like me. So I was in her shop a few weeks ago doing a client visit and I ran across this outrageous sweater. Well, I thought it was pretty outrageous. It defies explanation, but I’ll give it a shot. It is a long black button down sweater with hot pink ribbon running through the length of it, silver beaded bows, black satin and lace trim, and thick hot pink fur around the cuffs, the collar, and the bottom. I tried it on and immediately thought of Lady Gaga, Studio 54, Donna Summer, and a platinum blonde wig. So of course, I had to buy it! I took it home with the express intent to wear it long enough for my husband to demand that I immediately take it off and never put it on again, and then I would hang it back up and tuck it into the closet until next Halloween. I can’t help it; I like to stir the pot sometimes. But as crazy as I may occasionally be, I had no intention of ever wearing this ridiculous sweater for any reason other than “dress up”.
Fast forward to Wednesday…today. As I was digging around in my closet for something to wear that met with my PMS charged mood, I ran across the consignment store sweater. And because I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and maybe because I was tired of wearing the usual drab business attire, and maybe even because I wanted to stir the pot just a little, I took it off the hanger.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I wore my black “post holiday” pants, a fitted black knit shirt, black shoes, and the hot pink and black sweater. There is something about hot pink fur that just changes a woman, and I felt supercharged. I ran out of the bathroom grabbing my purse and my phone and my keys because, as usual, I was running late. I didn’t pause as I passed my husband, so I can only imagine the double take he did when he saw me wearing the crazy sweater. “You’re funny.” He said. “But aren’t you going to be late? You’d better hang that ridiculous thing back up and get out of here.” I just smiled. It was going to be a good day. “Nope. I’m wearing this to work.” I shot back. “You’re kidding, right?” He said with marked skepticism. “Nope! I’m suffering for my art!” I said with a wider smile. “This is going to make for great blogging!” And I was off.
I managed to get to work relatively on time. I was the second person through the door. The first person didn’t even mention my sweater. I chalked that up to him being a guy. He probably didn’t even notice what I was wearing. I ran to my office to log in so I could run back to the lobby for everyone else to arrive. As the others filed in one by one, I did get a reaction, but it wasn’t the one I had expected. The joke was on me! I was suddenly getting rave reviews on my sweater. Not, “great joke”, not “you crack me up!” No, it was more along the lines of, “I LOVE your sweater! Where did you get it? You look so girlie! You never wear pink, it’s your color!” My sweater was a hit, but for all the wrong reasons! I even had a few requests to borrow it. I had no idea I was so fashion forward! I did get a few tips on what I should pair it with next time…short skirt, hot pink tights and silver boots, was my favorite suggestion. Not that I own any of those things…yet. It’s a good thing my husband doesn’t actually READ my blog, now isn’t it?
All day long my sweater was given lovely little compliments. Even the men seemed to like it. Was it possible that it was just SO ugly that it came back around to cute? I’ve seen puppies like that…so ugly they are cute. But a sweater? It could happen! Somewhere in the middle of the day, my manager approached me out of the blue and stood back to get a long look at me, twisting her lips to the side and furrowing her brows as if deep in thought. “I’m not sure what I think about your outfit today.” She said after a minute. Finally! Finally someone with the reaction I expected when I put the sweater on this morning! “You look somewhat like the madam in a fancy brothel.” How she knew what a madam in a brothel looked like was beyond me, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask! I just nodded and walked away. That’s one thing I love about my job. I can wear crazy sweaters as long as I’m not wearing open toe shoes with it. The other things I love are the fact that I get paid to go there every day. I work less than two miles from home so I don’t have to drive in traffic. I get to eat restaurant food for lunch every day, because it’s only half a mile to the food and its two miles to home. And I have a really big window in my office so I can still see the sunshine all day long.
It was a long day at work, but somehow my crazy, ridiculous sweater made it so much more fun than I expected. I decided that no matter what I wear on the outside, on the inside I am that crazy hot pink fur trimmed sweater, and there is no reason why I can’t let that side of me see the light of day every now and then. As I strolled into the house at five oh one, and threw my purse and my keys on the table, my son walked past me and stopped just long enough to ask, “What the hell is with that hideous sweater you’re wearing?” “My blog.” I answered and he nodded as if that explained everything. After all…what’s could be more important than suffering for art?
Until next time…I’ll be searching for a platinum wig!
Erica
Cue the crazy sweater.
Perhaps I should start with the back story. I know you love back story! I have a client who owns a clothing consignment shop in town. It’s a very upscale place catering to women with discriminating tastes. Like me. So I was in her shop a few weeks ago doing a client visit and I ran across this outrageous sweater. Well, I thought it was pretty outrageous. It defies explanation, but I’ll give it a shot. It is a long black button down sweater with hot pink ribbon running through the length of it, silver beaded bows, black satin and lace trim, and thick hot pink fur around the cuffs, the collar, and the bottom. I tried it on and immediately thought of Lady Gaga, Studio 54, Donna Summer, and a platinum blonde wig. So of course, I had to buy it! I took it home with the express intent to wear it long enough for my husband to demand that I immediately take it off and never put it on again, and then I would hang it back up and tuck it into the closet until next Halloween. I can’t help it; I like to stir the pot sometimes. But as crazy as I may occasionally be, I had no intention of ever wearing this ridiculous sweater for any reason other than “dress up”.
Fast forward to Wednesday…today. As I was digging around in my closet for something to wear that met with my PMS charged mood, I ran across the consignment store sweater. And because I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and maybe because I was tired of wearing the usual drab business attire, and maybe even because I wanted to stir the pot just a little, I took it off the hanger.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I wore my black “post holiday” pants, a fitted black knit shirt, black shoes, and the hot pink and black sweater. There is something about hot pink fur that just changes a woman, and I felt supercharged. I ran out of the bathroom grabbing my purse and my phone and my keys because, as usual, I was running late. I didn’t pause as I passed my husband, so I can only imagine the double take he did when he saw me wearing the crazy sweater. “You’re funny.” He said. “But aren’t you going to be late? You’d better hang that ridiculous thing back up and get out of here.” I just smiled. It was going to be a good day. “Nope. I’m wearing this to work.” I shot back. “You’re kidding, right?” He said with marked skepticism. “Nope! I’m suffering for my art!” I said with a wider smile. “This is going to make for great blogging!” And I was off.
I managed to get to work relatively on time. I was the second person through the door. The first person didn’t even mention my sweater. I chalked that up to him being a guy. He probably didn’t even notice what I was wearing. I ran to my office to log in so I could run back to the lobby for everyone else to arrive. As the others filed in one by one, I did get a reaction, but it wasn’t the one I had expected. The joke was on me! I was suddenly getting rave reviews on my sweater. Not, “great joke”, not “you crack me up!” No, it was more along the lines of, “I LOVE your sweater! Where did you get it? You look so girlie! You never wear pink, it’s your color!” My sweater was a hit, but for all the wrong reasons! I even had a few requests to borrow it. I had no idea I was so fashion forward! I did get a few tips on what I should pair it with next time…short skirt, hot pink tights and silver boots, was my favorite suggestion. Not that I own any of those things…yet. It’s a good thing my husband doesn’t actually READ my blog, now isn’t it?
All day long my sweater was given lovely little compliments. Even the men seemed to like it. Was it possible that it was just SO ugly that it came back around to cute? I’ve seen puppies like that…so ugly they are cute. But a sweater? It could happen! Somewhere in the middle of the day, my manager approached me out of the blue and stood back to get a long look at me, twisting her lips to the side and furrowing her brows as if deep in thought. “I’m not sure what I think about your outfit today.” She said after a minute. Finally! Finally someone with the reaction I expected when I put the sweater on this morning! “You look somewhat like the madam in a fancy brothel.” How she knew what a madam in a brothel looked like was beyond me, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask! I just nodded and walked away. That’s one thing I love about my job. I can wear crazy sweaters as long as I’m not wearing open toe shoes with it. The other things I love are the fact that I get paid to go there every day. I work less than two miles from home so I don’t have to drive in traffic. I get to eat restaurant food for lunch every day, because it’s only half a mile to the food and its two miles to home. And I have a really big window in my office so I can still see the sunshine all day long.
It was a long day at work, but somehow my crazy, ridiculous sweater made it so much more fun than I expected. I decided that no matter what I wear on the outside, on the inside I am that crazy hot pink fur trimmed sweater, and there is no reason why I can’t let that side of me see the light of day every now and then. As I strolled into the house at five oh one, and threw my purse and my keys on the table, my son walked past me and stopped just long enough to ask, “What the hell is with that hideous sweater you’re wearing?” “My blog.” I answered and he nodded as if that explained everything. After all…what’s could be more important than suffering for art?
Until next time…I’ll be searching for a platinum wig!
Erica
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
six more weeks of whining
I got up this morning the way I do every morning...grudgingly. I stumbled out of bed, staggered sleepily to the shower, and completed my morning rituals quietly, and without interruption. It was a dreary morning. Light rain dripped down from a gray blanket of clouds. The sun had already come up, but it was nowhere to be seen. Despite the dismal gloomy sky, I took for granted that sunrise had come at the same time it did most every morning, I was rarely awake to see it. To me this was just another Tuesday in a long week of work. I was completely unaware that it was also Groundhog’s Day. I hadn’t saved that day on my Blackberry, and if it isn’t on my Blackberry…well, it must not be that important. When I finally realized what day it was—several hours later—I actually felt a little bad that I missed it, the whole extravaganza that surrounds the yearly appearance of the groundhog. And not just for the sake of the groundhog, but for sentimental reasons. Twenty years ago, this was the day my son was due to be born. (Thankfully, he was four days late because I can’t imagine what would have happened if HE had seen his shadow coming out…I don’t think I could have survived six more weeks of pregnancy!) Then I started thinking about the groundhog again. Do we really care that much whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow? Does it still have the same relevance in our lives that it used to have? Maybe. But I would hazard a guess that the only relevance is psychological. Then again, I might take the whole ordeal more seriously if the news media didn’t trudge out to the animal’s den before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, lights and cameras in hand, to drag the poor thing out of its bed kicking and screaming. Even Paris Hilton gets more respect! So I tried to think of myself like the groundhog. I imagined myself back in bed still asleep, as I usually am at quarter to seven in the morning, sweet dreams swirling around in my brain. Thirty or so minutes to go before the first wave of alarm clocks would go off and the only sound was the soft buzz of geriatric dogs snoring. Blissfully unaware…like our friend the groundhog. What would I do if someone came crashing into my bedroom so early, TV cameras at the ready? Provided they could plot a course through the dangerous territory known as my bedroom, a space riddled with doggy beds, loose blankets and half a dozen tennis balls, not to mention all three dogs and one ninja cat! (I have all too often gone down in that obstacle course myself.) Still, the press is skilled at navigating treacherous terrain on a daily basis, so I will assume they survived the journey to find me, face buried in my pillow, sound asleep…and wham! Suddenly, I’m up! Eyes wild…teeth bared…hair all in a tangle. I think I might just curse them all to six more weeks of winter! And why wouldn’t I? Surely they deserve at least that! But because I’m so over winter, and ready to usher spring back in, I think I’d just doom them to six more weeks of whining instead. That might just be the PMS talking. I have been sadly afflicted these past few days. I don’t even know if groundhogs get PMS, but it would explain things a little bit better to know they did. What other excuse is there for cursing someone to six whole weeks of winter just for seeing one’s shadow? PMS does that to people. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone dreads those terrifying days during each month when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are behaving like a raging bitch on a stick, and you just don’t give a damn. Relationships have been all but ruined because of PMS. People have been maimed and may have even died! It’s a serious matter that deserves serious attention! I think it’s about time we created some sort of early detection system to send out a warning when PMS is evident. Similar to the one in place for tornados. It would be beneficial, especially for men. Like a public service announcement. “The emergency broadcast system’s PMS detection center has identified three women in your vicinity who are experiencing severe symptoms of PMS. This is not a test. You may want to take cover in a basement or other shelter surrounded by multiple sports channels and beer until the storm blows over.” I’d be all for that. In fact, it might work in our favor. There is nothing that will clear a room faster than the three words, “I have PMS.” It’s almost like an exclusive club. And women who spend a lot of time together end up suffering around the same time every month. Misery loves company…and shopping…because PMS is almost completely alleviated by shopping, bitching and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order. So drop off your credit card on the way to your man shelter. Happy Hour anyone?
Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol…
Erica
Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol…
Erica
the penis factor
I'm feeling the effects of PMS this evening, and therefore felt it would be fitting to give you another peek at my work in progress, "the penis factor". If you like it, there will be more to come. Enjoy!
Ok, I admit it. It’s true. I had issues with men. But, it really wasn’t my fault. It was what I had learned my whole life that had brought me to the place I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature with major design flaws, structural inadequacies that threatened the entire human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31, 1965.
While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that "bastard" was a term of endearment. After all, that’s what she called him.
“You old bastard.”
She always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her in to bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was her way of saying that men were the root of all evil. Bastards who would use and then discard you. (But not a second before trampling mercilessly all over your poor pitiful heart.) It was several years before she spelled it out quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.
This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a member of the opposite sex not related to me occurred back in Kindergarten. He was the class clown...and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery, soI never gave him more than a second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m sure. But it was an impression nonetheless.
In second grade I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.)
I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair, except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression, eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street. Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me. Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when they suspected the existence of this mystery man.
I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever. This vow/curse was one that I struggled for many years to break without much luck.
Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love. Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer. No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the white swoosh down the side. I carried his picture, a clipping from the TV guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends, informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me, because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back then, back in the days before the Internet.
Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Leif Garrett. They filled the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.
Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before “fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and “thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the “cool” kids at school.
My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”, “big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the stork”.
For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable, but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the walking dead.
Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I would have rather had them, which of course I did not.
“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me during his pathetic phase of my life.
At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother, with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a stitch of it.
My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.
My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was. I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real lesson in heart break.
I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I grew into my body, and somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup, I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover that I wasn’t the only one having these problems with men. I started to think that maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.
Or maybe not...right Mike? Love you honey!
Until the next time...I'll be writing...
Erica
Ok, I admit it. It’s true. I had issues with men. But, it really wasn’t my fault. It was what I had learned my whole life that had brought me to the place I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature with major design flaws, structural inadequacies that threatened the entire human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31, 1965.
While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that "bastard" was a term of endearment. After all, that’s what she called him.
“You old bastard.”
She always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her in to bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was her way of saying that men were the root of all evil. Bastards who would use and then discard you. (But not a second before trampling mercilessly all over your poor pitiful heart.) It was several years before she spelled it out quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.
This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a member of the opposite sex not related to me occurred back in Kindergarten. He was the class clown...and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery, soI never gave him more than a second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m sure. But it was an impression nonetheless.
In second grade I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.)
I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair, except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression, eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street. Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me. Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when they suspected the existence of this mystery man.
I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever. This vow/curse was one that I struggled for many years to break without much luck.
Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love. Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer. No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the white swoosh down the side. I carried his picture, a clipping from the TV guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends, informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me, because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back then, back in the days before the Internet.
Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Leif Garrett. They filled the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.
Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before “fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and “thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the “cool” kids at school.
My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”, “big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the stork”.
For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable, but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the walking dead.
Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I would have rather had them, which of course I did not.
“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me during his pathetic phase of my life.
At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother, with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a stitch of it.
My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.
My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was. I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real lesson in heart break.
I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I grew into my body, and somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup, I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover that I wasn’t the only one having these problems with men. I started to think that maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.
Or maybe not...right Mike? Love you honey!
Until the next time...I'll be writing...
Erica
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