Saturday, July 30, 2011


Six years ago today was also a Saturday. I remember it very vividly. I remember what it felt like to give birth to another human being. I remember what it felt like to hold her and smile at her tiny fingers and toes. I remember the lump in my throat, but maybe that's because it never left.

Even though I love words and try my best to put my feelings into them, I can not do it with Gracie.

Words are a one-size-fits all costume, not fitted clothing.

"Love" is too general to describe what it feels like to make and give birth to a miniature you. It's too general of a word to express to her what she means to me. Perhaps I'll never to be able to explain how it feels to love a daughter who is both your own and someone else's. Or perhaps I could, if I created my own word, from my favorite letters, one that hasn't been overused and misused yet.

So Gracie, I mylsch you. It means that there is no circumstance that could make me stop caring this much about you. It doesn't have strings attached - no matter what you feel for me, it won't change how I feel for you. It is an overwhelming emotion - in my subconscious, you are always there, sitting in a quaint little chair, occupying my thoughts. There is no past-tense for this word - the feeling is eternal.

I hope she feels it too, from all of her parents. She is one very special girl - to a lot of people. There is a lot of love for her, and a whole lot of mylsch, too.

Monday, July 25, 2011

no good very bad morning

I don't handle mornings gracefully without a giant sea of specialty coffee in my stomach. Even then, your odds of me being in a civil mood are slim. It is my personal belief that "morning people" are people who have never had a hangover. They are those same people who believe a good run can cure anything and never look to self-medicate with a drug of choice. They are those people who make their own home decorations and grow their own herbs and have a natural childbirth. Those people and I have nothing in common.

Today is my second morning waking up before 6:30. It wasn't good. I slumpwalked downstairs for breakfast. Steve poured me coffee into my favorite mug - a black and white monogrammed one my sister got me. Awhile ago, the handle broke off, but Steve superglued it back on for me. Apparently superglue is not eternal. As I held the mug up to my lips by the handle, the cup part dropped, splattering warm coffee all over my body on the way down to my freshly mopped kitchen floor.

I had to take a second shower (to my three male readers: all though this is an insignificant and quick task for you, for a woman with hair, it is a giant pain in the ass). I still had some extra time, so I popped in my yoga DVD. While I was standing erect with my palms pressed together above my head (the only yoga pose I know), the spinning ceiling fan knocked my phalanges together as I yelped in pain.

Finally, I make it to work, cursing the morning and my shitty home brewed coffee I never got to drink. As soon as I walk into my office, I see a ceiling tile in pieces on the floor and water stains on the carpet all around it. The ceiling is dripping. Someone surmises the problem to be the air conditioner, and a service is called. "Please don't shut off the air," I whine like the overheated hyperhidrosis victim I am. No one gives a shit what I have to say about my clammy hands - the air is turned off. The temperature climbs and climbs until I can't take it any longer - I leave to get a cold specialty coffee, and consider not returning at all.

But I do return. Because I'm a responsible adult who needs a paycheck. And because I know in the grand scheme of life, these problems aren't really problems. There are people with a much shittier time of life than mine. But I'm so busy being a self-involved whiner I don't even notice it. Tomorrow the alarm will sound bright and early again. And maybe tomorrow I won't violently suffocate it with my pillow.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

egg me

Every morning, Steve and I eat breakfast together: we each have one egg over easy, and a mug of coffee. On the weekends, we make a big breakfast: our favorite is breakfast burritos. Breakfast burritos involve eggs, sausage, bacon, cheddar cheese, tater tots, and tortillas. We fucking love eggs. We eat as many eggs as Gaston.

Since my last check-up was five years ago (well, really since I needed something prescribed to me for my hyperhidrosis), I visited a doctor. All I was interested in was getting that signed paper from him, but he made me get needle-poked (I added "needle" so it didn't sound so dirty, but now it sounds worse) and give urine and all sorts of other intrusive tasks I wasn't in the mood for. All that to tell me I am healthy. But my cholesterol is a bit high.

Guess what has 65% of your daily cholesterol? One measly egg yolk. What the fuck am I supposed to eat now? And don't tell me oatmeal - that mushy shit looks like what they put in pig troughs. Don't tell me grape nuts, either: I'm not 85. No, I would never spend the two hours it requires to peel an orange. In fact, don't tell me to eat any breakfast food that isn't eggs, because it's only eggs I'm interested in. If only Gaston weren't a cartoon - I'm sure he'd know what to do.

Monday, July 11, 2011

the blogger is out: to return in september

Forgive me for my absence.

Big Brother has begun.

If it weren't for that show, there would be absolutely nothing I liked about summer. I hate mosquitoes and unbearable heat and that stuff between your window panes. I hate the sound of flip flops, I hate those teeny bikinis that I can't wear ever since the stretch marks. I've even become indifferent about ice cream, which was at one time a great joy of my life.

But Big Brother saves me from my misery, even if only for three hours a week. Who am I kidding? Three hours? That's just watching the network show. Then there's twitter feeds and jokers updates and message boards and Big Brother After Dark on Showtime.

Steve says it's my religion, then laughs, as if it's a joke.

No one should joke about people's beliefs. It's disrespectful.

I will lurking around the internet, checking out Big Brother gossip. And every now and again, I'll pop in here, too - to remind myself of my own reality outside of reality tv.