When Lukas kisses me and says, “I luh Momma” I cry because he’s just said that he loves me.

When Jessie unwittingly says something insensitive, instead of having my usual response of ripping him a new one, I cry.

When I wake up early in the morning and vomit stomach acid in the toilet, I cry.

When I watch any mildly touching scenario on the television, I cry.

It wasn’t this bad during my pregnancy with Lukas.  The crying seemed to come more after Lukas was born.  I was talking to Helen a couple of weeks ago and I was telling her about how I was watching the movie “Pumpkinhead” for Halloween (Lukas was only a few weeks old) and when that little blond boy gets killed I LOST.  MY.  SHIT.  I’m not talking tears silently streaming down my face either.  I’m talking body jerking, snot running down my face, red puffy eyes, can’t talk I’m so choked up bawling.  Jessie was slightly freaked out.

Tonight, we rented “Where the Wild Things Are” and watched it after we put Lukas to bed.  I’ve been wanting to watch this movie since it came out.  This was one of my favorite books when I was little.  I loved the pictures and I always loved how Max’s mom recants her punishment of no dinner so that when he comes back to his room it is still hot and waiting for him.  It was a typical mom move in my universe.

The movie though.  Oh my goodness.  I’ll be good and I won’t spoil it for anybody.  It’s not a movie for small children like I expected.  There were so many underlying messages and conflicts in this movie that I think only an adult can truly appreciate and understand.  It really affected me.  I know that a lot of it had to do with these effing hormones.  Don’t talk to me about “Dumbo” or “Father of the Bride” or “Terms of Endearment” because the very thought of those movies makes me choke up.  Still, some of those underlying issues in this movie really hit me.  They really hit a sensitive spot.

Not all wounds heal with a desensitized scar.  Sometimes those scars are sensitive and when even lightly grazed they prickle and burn, just to remind you that they are there.  While not always visible, those scars are sometimes disfiguring.  You try to hide them from prying eyes.  You try to keep them hidden in such a way so as not to draw curiosity and therefore questions.  Sometimes those scars are too big to hide completely.  Sometimes they are always slightly visible and passersby are able to see that you are damaged somehow.

That movie was like a rough callused finger brushing across a very gnarly scar.  That movie seriously just broke my flinty little heart.

I’m sure the hormones have a lot to do with this.  I don’t like to be a person who blames every hissy fit on my hormones, but I’m usually not a big crier.  The only thing that I can think to so in a situation like this is blame it on the hormones.  If I watch it again in a year or so after things have smoothed out, will I still be so torn open?  Yeah, I will.  But to this degree?  I mean, it’s not Dumbo saying goodbye to his mom through those bars *sob*.  And it’s not a young bride-to-be having a close and loving relationship with her father.  And it’s not a difficult but close mother/daughter relationship being torn apart by cancer.

But it was still about a little boy trying to make sense of his angry feelings.  A little boy trying to make sense of the actions of the adults in his life.  A little boy projecting his fear and his confusion towards the people he loves in an imaginary world.  It was about a child that felt left behind while the “big” characters in his life were sucked in to their own problems and details.

So ok, this movie just may be a close second to “Dumbo.”  At least this time I have a better reason that just one particular scene.  But that one particular scene kills me every single time.  Don’t you judge me.  It’s terrible.

I’m typically not comfortable having a man as a gynecologist (women tend to be gentler) and I’m really not all that skippy about having a MAN guiding me through a pregnancy.  When I chose my first OB/GYN with Lukas, I made it a point to find a doctor who had been through pregnancy, labor, and childbirth herself as a personal experience.  I know that this stuff varies and no two experiences are alike, blah blah blah, but I just wanted a woman.  A kind of older woman guide for me.

Now we have an HMO and the most annoying thing about our HMO is that an OB/GYN is considered a specialist and in order to see a specialist, you have to be evaluated by a family doctor and then have a specialist recommended to you.  Yes, it’s annoying.  To make it even more irritating, the “family doctor” that Jessie chose at random from the website refused to see me until I went to another clinic to have another doctor give me a blood test to verify that I am pregnant.  I needed to make appointments and get things all in a line.  If things hadn’t gone south, I’d still be waiting to see a real OB/GYN.

But things DID go south.  I started bleeding on a Wednesday.  It wasn’t bright red blood and it wasn’t accompanied by any sort of pain or cramping so I wasn’t too alarmed since I know from my first pregnancy that this is normal.  Friday came and I was still bleeding.  I went to the emergency room.

The nurses were very nice.  I was put into a hospital gown and admitted.  Once the bureaucratic stuff was taken care of, a fast talking ER doctor came into my room.  She asked me a bunch of standard questions that had little or nothing to do with pregnancy.  Then she started asking about the bleeding problem.  Somewhere in the middle of this interview, Jessie interrupted the doctor and told me to tell her that I had HG in my first pregnancy.  Annoyed, I told Jessie that it wasn’t important right now.  (Also, I HATE IT when he tells me to tell people certain things when he could just tell them himself.  Like, we’ll be having dinner with my mom and he’ll say, “Have you told your mom X?” and it’s like, why the fuck don’t you just tell her yourself?  What the hell?)  The doctor looked confused.

“HG?” She asked.

I sheepishly informed her that I had hyperemesis gravidarum during my first pregnancy and that we need to be on guard about it happening again.  She asked me if I was feeling sick and I told her yes.

“Do you think it’s in your head?” she asked, laughing a little bit.

I felt the blood rushing to my face as I held myself back from spitting in her face.  I told her that, no, I didn’t think that it was all in my head.  We moved on quickly.

The doctor left, a nurse swept in and took three vials of blood and hooked me up to an IV saying that the doctor had ordered it since I was complaining of nausea.  I rolled my eyes and accepted the IV.  I was then ordered to urinate in a cup.

A little over an hour later, the doctor peeked into my room and informed me that they discovered that I have a urinary tract infection.  My first thought was that I really had no clue.  I felt no symptoms, nothing.  The doctor then went on to inform me that UTI’s can sometimes result in miscarriage and other injuries to a fetus.  My eyes bugged out of my head slightly.  She tried to comfort me by saying that they were going to start me on antibiotics right away and that it SHOULD be ok.

It took another 3 hours for all of my blood work to come back.  Then I had to go get an ultrasound.  The nurse rolled my bed down about eight hallways and parked me in the middle of a hall.  I just sat there in my bed waiting for someone to come get me.  A lady came out of a room and instructed me to follow her and lay down.  She tried to ultrasound in the traditional way with the paddle rubbing on the outside of my belly.  Apparently it wasn’t working so I had to have an inner probe inserted so that she could get a better look.  I laid on my back for a half an hour while she twisted and poked and said nothing to me.  The silence bothered me greatly.  I sat there in the dim room staring at the ceiling (she had the screen turned away from me) and trying not to cry.  When she was finished she told me to go back into the hallway and get back in my parked hospital bed and someone would come get me.  She said that the ER doctor would review the information before telling me anything.  Numb, I wobbled back to the abandoned bed and waited 15 minutes for a nurse to come get me.

They wheeled me back to my room.  My mom came in not long after.  I tried not to cry.  She talked to me and tried to keep my mind off of what was going on.  The doctor came back in and explained to me about what was going on.  Words like “minor hemorrhage” and “viable pregnancy” were said.  Apparently things were fine.

“You need to have another ultrasound in a week and you need more blood tests,” the doctor said.  “Who is your OB?”

I explained to her the weird situation we were in where the doctor wouldn’t see me until I had a doctor give me a piece of paper saying that I was indeed pregnant.

“That is very weird.”  The doctor said.

She excused herself and came back about 20 minutes later with a stack of papers, one of which was the name and number of an OB/GYN who she had talked to on my behalf.  “Your situation is not uncommon…….people recover and have healthy babies……..he accepts your insurance…..call his office first thing Monday morning and he’ll see you that day……..here’s a prescription for that UTI………you can leave after you sign a few papers……….the situation with that other doctor makes no sense……..blah blah blah.”

I left the ER that night tired, drained, confused.  I was put on rest and “pelvic rest” for the weekend until the OB/GYN could see me.  Sunday was my birthday.  It was not my best birthday.  I was sick and could barely eat the food my mom and Fred brought me, even though I was grateful for it.  Spent most of the weekend in bed.

Monday morning the doctor was called and an appointment was set for 11 a.m. that day.  I noticed that the bleeding had stopped.  We arrived at the doctor’s office.  More bureaucratic shit.  Then I was called to the back.  Weight and blood pressure were noted.  I waited in exam room 1 for what seemed like an hour.  Then the doctor came in.  The MAN doctor.  Introductions were made, examinations were conducted.  I was then asked to dress myself and meet the doctor in his office for a chat.

He was SO nice.  Told me that, at this point, everything is looking to be on track for a normal pregnancy, except for a small tear where the egg has torn away slightly from the uterine lining.  He said that I have a 50/50 chance of having this pregnancy go full term.  While I’m not particularly happy about those odds, he made me feel very comforted.  He asked me if I had any other questions or concerns about the pregnancy.  I told him about the HG in my first pregnancy and that I was terrified of it getting to the point that it went to before and that I simply COULD NOT do that this time since I have a 2 year-old to take care of.

“That’s something we won’t wait on.”  He told me.  “I’ll go ahead and write you a prescription and take care of that and I’ll also write a prescription for a prenatal vitamin that will also help with the nausea.”

Seeing how I had just spent the past week unable to eat much and vomiting several times a day, I was ecstatic.  He didn’t look at me weird, didn’t ask to speak to my previous doctor, simply said “we’ll take care of it before it becomes a problem.”  Part of me feels like it may be society’s tendency to throw pills at all ailments without question, but a bigger part of me is just happy.

I started bleeding again yesterday.  Same as before.  No cramping.  Light.  I have to have another ultrasound on Friday and more bloodwork that day too.  I don’t like this uncertainty.

Last night, I was having a once-sided conversation with my favorite deity.  “I don’t want to lose this baby,”  I said.  “But since I really don’t have a lot of control over this, I have to have faith and trust.  Just please, please, if it’s going to end, let it end quickly.”

Hopefully a year from now I’ll look back on all of this with a smile.  Maybe then I’ll think on how dramatic I am being right now, how everything worked out fine and turned out to be NOT a big deal at all.

The shittiest thing about this situation, the shittiest thing about my attitude so far is that I really didn’t realize how much I wanted this until it became a possibility that I might not be able to keep it.  I hate that and I hate myself a little bit for not being completely happy about this from the very beginning.

He looked over at me and nodded.

“I’m afraid to have anymore children with you.”  I said.

“What?  Why?”

“I wanted to fix some things in this relationship before we bring another baby into this family.  I wanted us to be more stable.”

This conversation occurred on February 18.  I found out I was pregnant with my second child on February 19.

It was a Friday night.  I’d been feeling sick and fatigued for the last few days.  He went out and bought a box of home pregnancy tests.

“Give me a kiss for luck,” I said as I went to the bathroom.

I took the test and tried to compose myself after seeing the positive result.  I stood on the stairs looking at him.

“Well?”  He asked.  “Are you pregnant?”

I nodded and sank to the floor and started sobbing.  He stood there just staring at me, not knowing how to react.

Yes, I was unhappy about this.  For several reasons.  The number one fact being that I wasn’t ready.  I’m still so scared of going through this again.  Intellectually I know that this pregnancy should be better.  We know about the HG, we are closer to family, and I’ll have a better idea of what to expect.

Emotionally, well that’s a different story.  Emotionally, I’m scared of my abilities to be a good mother to Lukas while sick and pregnant.  I’m scared of how a new baby will affect Lukas.  I’m scared he will feel pushed aside.  I’m scared that the things that are broken in my marriage will become aggravated once the new baby comes like they did when Lukas was first born.  But the big thing?  I didn’t plan this.  I wasn’t taking prenatal vitamins for 6 months prior to this pregnancy like I did with Lukas (which was good since I was unable to keep anything down, prenatal vitamins included, for the first 5 months of that pregnancy).  I didn’t have every detail worked out ahead of time.  The control freak in me is freaking the hell out.

But it’s happened and now I need to warm up to the idea.  I’ve had nearly a week to let it all sink in.  I’m warming up to it.  I’m getting excited about another baby in the house.  I’m still having my sour moments, but they are about this being unplanned and not about me being unhappy about a new baby.  A trip to Target’s baby section helped me to get the right perspective about a new baby.  I walked to the pajama section, picked up a set of footie fleecy pj’s in a newborn size and started crying.  A new tiny baby.  Oh yes, I can get behind that idea.

I’m doing ok.  Really I am.  The sickness has kicked in earlier this time around.  The motion-sickness-but-not-moving-reading-nausea is terrible.  That’s why my online presence is being so quiet.  I’d like to thank everybody (my friends and internet family) for all the well wishing and congratulations.  You guys are great.

Since I didn’t have a baby shower with Lukas, I was thinking about throwing myself a party in late spring.  Not a baby shower, just a party.  A chance to celebrate a new baby without soliciting gifts from all of my guests (not that I’m against that, I’ve just already got most of what I need).  I’ll flesh that idea out after I can finally get an appointment with a doctor and get some pills.  I’m not taking this lightly.  I may be pregnant, but I’m still the Momma to a toddler and he needs me.  He needs me to not be bed-ridden and to be able to chase him round the house and play bouncy ball with him.  It will be taken care of ASAP.

Until then, my dear friends and family.  Thank you so much again for your love and support.

Thursday morning the nausea was stronger.  Unrelenting.  Blinding.  Familiar.

By Thursday night I was worried.  I thought that I was late but I wasn’s sure.

Friday morning I woke up nauseous.  My left breast hurt.  Not like a tender hurt, like a deep down (milk duct) hurt.  I had about 3 HUGE pimples on my face.  THAT was worrisome.  My skin is usually really well behaved, but when not 1, not 2, but 3 huge pimples show up on my face, I start asking questions.

Oh boy……

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I was watching the show “Hoarders” on A&E.  The family of one such lady were gathered with a therapist discussing how her hoarding has effected them.  They had wrapped up the session but were still chatting when the son completely disconnected from the circle and became engrossed in his phone.  I don’t know if he was texting or checking email or what, but there was something horribly insensitive about it.  He wasn’t a kid, either.  He was a grown man who owned his own business.

—————————-

How many times have I been in a restaurant or at the grocery store or walking down the street or driving or anything else and have seen people completely lost in the screen of their cell phones?  Too many to count.  We are currently having a problem with getting people to stop texting while driving.  People are engrossed in the virtual world when walking down the street and aren’t watching their surroundings.  People are having one-on-one dinners and instead of connecting to the person across from them, they are on their phone.  Is Twitter really that important?

I’m not going to try to say that our online lives are the make-believe part and the physical part of life is the only real part.  I have quite an active online social life.  It’s more social than my physical life.  The people that I know online are real people to me.  Real friends.  But I have no problem with playing catch up on messages and coming to the conversation a little late.  I don’t feel the need to be current and chat live at all hours of the day.

I know I’m sounding all preachy and holier than thou and I really don’t mean it like that.  I’m not trying to say that I’m better than anybody.  I think that people need to use their heads though.  If I were spending time with someone and they were completely lost in their phone the whole time, I would be hesitant and want to spend time with them again.  There’s something rude and disconnected about it.  If I’m with you, I want to talk to you.  I want to interact with you.  I don’t want to have half-conversation with someone because signing offline is just too much to ask.

I don’t mind checking on a text really fast and then returning back to the physical present.  If we’re just hanging out and watching TV or something and email needs to be checked really fast that’s cool, but it never happens that way, does it?  You check your email really fast and see that someone left a comment on whatever social media site and you need to check it out.  You go to the site and see that the reply is funny and you need to respond.  While you’re there, you see that a friend did a funny status update and you need to comment on it.  Then another friend mentioned a movie that you love, so you have to comment.  Oh what the hell, while you’re online you’d better check Twitter really quick.  Once on Twitter, you see that you’ve missed about 75 tweets and need to catch up while you’re here so you don’t fall too far behind.  You retweet a few items, reply to a few, click on a couple of links, and before you know it, the friend sitting next to you on the couch is asking what the hell is so important on that phone because you’ve been completely absorbed in it for at least a half hour.

Of course you didn’t mean to be online for so long.  It started out as just a quick email check.  But you know what?  You could have stopped at any time.  Those status updates aren’t going anywhere.  Neither are those tweets.  Unless you tweet for work, there’s no such thing as falling behind on your Twitter reading.  Your friend is only going to be hanging out with you for a few hours anyhow.  Why couldn’t this stuff wait?

I can understand a deep need to be connected to other people when you’re alone of lonely.  But when you have company?  When you have friends over?  When you’re on a date?  Why does the lure of Facebook and Twitter and Google outweigh the physical person in your presence at the moment wanting your attention?

If we keep this up, evolution will give us enormous muscly thumbs and a palate that is no longer capable of speech.  We’ll become Homo Textians.  We’ll be nothing but physical manifestations of robots.  And while in a SciFi way, that sounds awesome, there’s something about a physical human connection that seems to allude some people these days.  When did the cold glow of that screen become more interesting than a real person’s face?

I’ve spent my entire adult life with Jessie (I was 18 when we started dating) and we’ve both come such a long way, both as individuals, but also as a couple.  I honestly don’t know exactly how I’ve changed in these almost 9 years.  My perspective on myself is sometimes a little warped.  But I know how Jessie has changed.  What I started dating was a 19 year old guy who still played with action figures and slept with stuffed animals.  This guy was immature even for a 19 year old guy.  This guy was insensitive to other’s feelings.  This guy was self-centered and unkind quite often.  This guy did dumbass things quite regularly for no other reason than to be the center of attention.  This guy accidentally called me the names of his exes and vehemently denied it afterwards.  This guy had no idea how many times I sat looking at him trying to find the words to break up with him.

But, as time went on, we had quite a lot of “sit down” talks.  He hurt my feelings one too many times and got the point that you don’t act that way to someone you care for.  He pushed me aside one too many times and saw how I felt that I wasn’t a part of his life.  He embarrassed me in public one too many times and saw that maybe that’s not the kind of person he wanted to be.  Little by little, the bad stuff gave way to what I have now.  A (still quite annoying) guy who understands that he must think of how his actions affect those close to him.  A guy who understands that love means giving up a little bit of himself in order to make it work.  I’ve got a good one.  Maybe one of the few real good ones out there.

I can spend days on end just completely irritated with him.  But when I get in bed at night and snuggle with his back, I know that I’m stuck in this.  I can’t help it.  I love him.

But you came here to read a story that will make you laugh hysterically, didn’t you?  Ok.  Today’s Ridiculous Jessie Story took place in 2001.  We hadn’t been together for very long.  One night we were in his room messing around (still fully clothed).  He was on top of me and I was noticing that he was moving around an awful lot.  I tried adjusting myself so he’d stop moving so much, but he just kept moving.  Then I realized what was going on.  I realized what he was doing.

He was humping my leg.

Not as a joke.

For real.

I stopped and said to him, “What are you doing?!?!”

He got a little mad at me and said, “What?  It FEELS good!”

“Oh my God,” I thought.  “He was just caught humping my leg like a lowly junkyard dog and his only excuse is that it feels good?”

I told him that I was suddenly not feeling very well and excused myself to the bathroom where I sat in horror for a few minutes before a terrible fit of laughter overcame me.  My boyfriend was humping my leg and didn’t have sense enough to be embarassed when I called him on it.  What the hell kind of person was I dating?

I ended up spending the night with him anyway.  He was there, what the hell.

I was talking with Jessie about this incident this morning and having a good laugh at his expense when he said to me,

“I think I need to impose a statute of limitations on all of the stupid thing’s I’ve done.”

If only you could, honey.  If only you could.

Then there are those nights when he quietly gets out of bed, goes to his door, and says through the door, “Momma.”

I’m awake in a flash and going to him.  When I open the door, I am greeted by a tiny creature dressed in fleece footy pajamas with a blue blanket hanging from his mouth.  Tiny arms are reaching up for me.  I bend down and the tiny arms wrap around my neck.  I pick him up and hold him for a minute, just standing in the doorway with his tiny form in my arms.  His warm soft cheek presses against the side of my face.  Little hands have found my hair and are lightly playing with it.

I walk him back over to his bed and lay him down.

“Sit, Momma.”  He cries.  I get in bed with him and pull the covers around us.  I stretch my right arm out and he snuggles into the nook between my chest and arm.  Tiny hands reach up and start playing with the button on my shirt.  We both doze.  He wakes up, not realizing I’m still there and cries out.

“Shh.  Momma’s here.”  I say to him.

“Momma,”  he says as he grinds his face into my chest.  He’s asleep in a matter of minutes.  I slowly make my way out of his bed.  I pull the covers in around him.  I kiss the soft hair and warm skin at his temple.  I pick up a tiny hand and kiss it before tucking it under the blankets.  He sleeps the rest of the night.

The next morning, I am awakened by the sound of one of his noise-making books honking loudly by his door.  He is awake and is patiently keeping himself occupied until I let him out.  I get out of bed, open his door, and a tiny creature in fleece footy pajamas flies past me, stops, turns to me and says “Hi, Momma!” before darting into his toy room where he plays with his train set until breakfast.

He eats his yogurt and fruit quickly and quietly knowing that finishing this dish will get him a bowl of Cheerios and milk.  When I set the cereal before him, he looks up at me and says, “Ank oo!”  I sit across from him eating my breakfast and checking my email.  He lifts his small plastic spoon for me to see and proclaims that it is a green spoon.  I tell him that, yes, that is a green spoon and that he is a very good and smart boy.

Now it’s time for Sesame Street. The time of day that I dread and he loves.  With the hour-long show comes 10,000 questions about minute details on the screen.  Yes, Elmo is red.  Yes, that is Mr. Noodle.  Yes, I see Big Bird too.  No, that is not a cat, that’s a dog.  Yes it is.  YES IT IS.

He has not been napping lately.  Usually around this time, it is nap time but now I pull some special toys out for him.  We cut wooden fruit, play with cars, or fry bananas in his play kitchen.  When I go upstairs to shower, he stands in the bathroom with me standing on his stool and compulsively washing his hands and getting water everywhere.  I brush his teeth and he begs for a sip of water from his ducky cup.

Now it’s time for his lunch.  I put him in his chair and serve him a plate of bologna, cheese, and a crackers or chips.  He asks for a sippy.  I bring it to him.  He tells me to sit.  I sit and we chat while he eats.  We talk about the house that he can see out of the window.  We talk about the kitty misbehaving.  We talk about what kind of cheese he is eating.  We sing the ABC song.  He claps and wants to sing it again.  We sing it again.  He claps and wants to sing it again.  We sing it again.  He claps and wants to sing it again.  We sing it again.  I get up from my chair and remove his empty plate before he can ask for another encore.  I let him down from his chair.  He grabs my hand and says “DOO DOO!”  And drags me upstairs where we play with his train set (choo choo).  We come downstairs and chase each other around for a bit.

I ask him if he wants chicken for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants fish for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants rice for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants noodles for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants a weiner for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants French fries for dinner.  He says no.  I ask him if he wants M&M’s for dinner.  He says yes.  I opt for chicken.

His father comes home.  He goes crazy.  They say their hello’s and hug and kiss.

We sit down to dinner.  When he sees that he did not get M&M’s for dinner, he gets angry.  He repeatedly pushes his plate away from himself and I keep pushing it back telling to eat a little bit.  He puts a piece in his mouth and takes it out before chewing.  I tell him to eat or go to bed.  He doesn’t want to go to bed so he eats one piece.  Only one piece.  We give up after about 45 minutes of screaming and tantrums all around.  We go downstairs and watch a DVD.  Then we go upstairs and play with the train set some more.  Then it’s bath time.

He plays with all of his toys, splashes us, points out his winky 200 times, and turns on the cold water and squeals when it hits him.

We take him out, brush his teeth, lotion his body and put him in fleece footy pajamas.  We read him a book.  We snuggle him under his blankets and kiss his cheeks.  He says night-night to us.  We turn off the light and tell him that we love him.  We close the door.

I’m one of those people who is a huge pain in the ass when it comes to buying gifts for me.  When people ask me around Christmas and my birthday what I want, my reply is always “I dunno,” or “You don’t need to get me anything.”  I get yelled at all the time about it.  When it comes to Jessie buying me gifts, he usually just takes me to a store and says “Spend X amount of money.  Merry Christmas.”  I’m usually ok with that since I don’t feel that I need wrapped gifts under the tree.  That morning is for Lukas and for Jessie to get his one surprise present.  That’s where my fun happens.

Last week I was on Amazon looking at books that I wanted to get.  Since I am terrible at remembering things like that, I started adding these books into an Amazon Wish List.  As the night wore on, I started searching for other things on Amazon and adding them to my wish list.  Things like imported salted and canned fish that I’ve always wanted to try.  Weird things.

I mentioned through Twitter that I was making a wishlist on Amazon when a friend told me to try Kaboodle instead.  I took a peek that night before going to bed, and wasn’t super impressed.  Then the next day I took a longer look and was like “Holy shit, I should have been alerted to this a LONG time ago!”

The great thing about Kaboodle is that you aren’t restricted to only what’s on the site.  You can go to other sites that offer online shopping and add those items to your Kaboodle wish list.  But that’s only half of why it’s so awesome.  This site has a huge community of list-makers of every category.  I can spend hours and hours looking through these lists and adding items to my own lists.  Seriously.  HOURS.

I was just doing this for fun and as a reminder to come back and buy these things later when I realized, “HEY!  Those people who are always bugging me around Christmas and birthday times would really benefit from this list!”  Yes.  I had a revelation.  Instead of sulking in front of a computer two weeks before Christmas, angrily trying to find some stupid little gift someone can get me, I can just tell them to go look at my list!  There’s a wish list and a list for stuff to get Lukas.  Oh this will simplify my life greatly!  And it’s fun to sit on there and daydream.  And look at kitchen gadget lists.

Go.  Look.  Make a list.  Friend me.  Maybe I’ll buy you stuff.

I’m not going.  I’M.  NOT.  GOING.  It’s not that I have a certain beef with anybody because I was picked on or that I am scared that everybody is going to see how fat I’ve gotten.  It’s not like that.  Yeah there were cliques, but since we were such a small class, we all bumped into each other from time to time and exchanged a friendly word or two before moving on.

But people, I hated high school!  I loved those years when I was in high school, but I didn’t actually like school.  I didn’t like that awkward girl that I was.  I didn’t like the hierarchy that the teachers helped to facilitate.  I didn’t like it.  When I graduated high school, I was SO HAPPY to be out of there.

Don’t get me wrong, I have some good memories of the actual school experience that had nothing to do with getting felt up in the equipment room in band class, or cutting out early to go to the mall, or all of the “extracurricular” activities in which I happily participated.  I have great memories of the Latin class that I took my Senior year.  I have great memories of my Honors English classes.  I have great memories of my Biology class Sophomore year.  But that’s behind me.

I don’t want to have to worry about losing a little bit of weight so that I can go to a cocktail party with a bunch of people I don’t know (and who don’t know me).  I don’t want to have to make small talk.  I don’t want to have to huddle in a corner with the select few people that I DO know and talk about how weird it is to see everybody again and how we all still pretty much look the same (Umm, it’s only been 10 years!).

I’ve already documented the horror story of being attacked for carrying a bag ONLY FOR CHEERLEADERS by a teacher.  Now, let me impress upon you another story that I occasionally look back on with great ire.

My Senior year, my homeroom teacher pulled me out into the hallway to have a talk with me.

“I want you to know why you weren’t chosen to be in the National Honor Society,” he told me.  “You meet all of the requirements, but the sentiment among some of the teachers is that you are too quiet.  People in the National Honor Society need to be outgoing and have moxie.  These teachers think you are too meek.”

“But I talk in your class all the time.  I talk in a lot of my classes.  I raise my hand, I answer questions.  My teachers all know me.  I don’t understand.”  I said.

He stared at his shoes.  “Maybe you’re not talking enough in the right classes.  Maybe you haven’t made a big enough impression on the right people.”

“Are you telling me that I didn’t get in because I’m not a suck up?”  I asked.

He continued to stare at his shoes.  “That’s not the term that I would use.  But essentially, yes.”

My teacher, who was a good guy despite making me sit in the back of class for falling asleep (I had finished my test early [and aced it!] and he didn’t allow us to read or do anything else to entertain ourselves, so after sitting there for 20 minutes staring at my desk, I dozed) didn’t give any names, but I know that the teacher on whom I didn’t make the best impression was the one teacher in that high school who most valued having her ass kissed.  One of my other friends didn’t suck up to her either, but she regularly had strong bonds with other teachers (she also totally deserved her admission into the society).  Why the fuck was I picked on?  I wasn’t a super student (long story, not just laziness) but I think that I deserved in there.  So again, I was struck in the face with the cheap hierarchy that this small school took complete advantage of and once again I got the short end of the stick.

I’m a grown up.  I’m much more secure in my self identity.  I’m much more capable of telling snobby people to go sit and spin.  However, I still look back on some of those occasions, occasions where I was PICKED ON BY ADULTS and it makes me sick.  I realize that these people won’t be at the reunion and that if I’m not at the reunion nothing interesting could possibly happen, but I just don’t want to relive some of those moments.  I want to keep those hurts in my past.  High school is behind me.  And besides, the people from my school who meant anything to me are still a big part of my life.  If they want to get together, let’s rent a dance hall, see if we can find the Dugger (DUGGER DANCES) and spike the punch!  Then we can go sit outside, smoke lights, and listen to terrible music.  If I want to revisit those years, those are the memories that I would like to touch again.

(And now the screaming rants from Aschlie will start…..)  (She BETTER not boycott me over THIS) (Or I WILL post pictures of her in a string bikini)

Well yesterday, I was #4 on the list of the search.  Today, I am #1.  That’s right, when you search for “pale cleavage” I am the number one site delivering the goods.  I’m so moved that I’m thinking of changing my blog name to PALE CLEAVAGE:  The Home of Pale Cleavage!

I must protect my place in the blogosphere, people!  I must make sure that I am always the #1 place to go for pale cleavage!  (Have you noticed yet that I’m soaking this post with the phrase “pale cleavage”?)  Aside from writing more about pale cleavage, I thought I might do the internet a favor and actually post some pictures of real live pale cleavage.

This is my “Oh dear, I have pale cleavage!” look.

“Dude, my pale cleavage is totally metal.  It will rock your face!”

“Yoo-hoo!  Have you seen my pale cleavage?”

“I want to tell you a secret!  I have pale cleavage!”

Waxing philosophical about my pale cleavage.

Eeeeeevil pale cleavage.

And the best pale cleavage of all:

“My wife made me do it” pale cleavage.

I am righting a major wrong here.  No longer are people craving cleavage of the fair-skinned type forced to dig and search for pictures.  I have provided a service.  Now the weirdos actually have something to look at on the first try!