So the Truth Finally Comes Out

(You may want to get some coffee first .... this is a long one)

For the past two and a half years, a beat-up old Cutlass Supreme has been sitting in the only covered parking space available at my house. From my doorway, it looked like a dusty black, but in fact it has red stripes up the hood (spray painted on, thankyouverymuch) and the opposite side of the care is alternately a baby-ish blue and stripped metal. He never got around to painting the other side.

For the fisrt few months, P worked on the car every weekend, sanding down the paint, attempting to hammer out some of the dings, and laying a dingy blue rug throughout the interior to cover the lack of floor panels and ripped blue leather. The car is an eyesore, although that may really be an understatement. A piece of carpet was placed under it so that the oil oozing from the engine would be somewhat soaked up. Two tires are flat, and I found a hubcap in a bush a few weeks ago. The engine will only start if it's jumped, but otherwise that part at least is in decent shape.

The car was not exactly gifted to P. He sort of inherited it when La Tia threatened to send it to the junk yard. His Tio Toto loved that car, and drove it into the ground. When Tio Toto passed away from a misdiagnosed, God-awful cancer which ravaged his body making him unable to eat or walk, but left his razor-sharp mind intact, he gifted the Cutlass to Julio, who didn't have the money to make it driveable, so he left it in front of La Tia's house in Petaluma. And P claimed it.

So for two years, it has sat untouched in our carport, save the readjustments to the cover when the wind blew more than a single gust. Finally he got frustrated with the cover too, and left the car to blind anyone passing by, with it's degraded glory. For two years we begged foregiveness from the neighbors for leaving such an ugly, inoperable, unregistered vehicle park where they were forced to see it daily. And finally they started complaining to the HOA.

So I saw a note on it a few days ago that it was going to be towed. The note was old though, that's how much attention was paid to the car, and it was supposed to be gone a week before I found it. I finally convinced P that we needed to do something with it before they took it from him, and we decided it would be better to donate it to charity than have it torn apart for scrap metal. I looked online, contacted Marin AIDS Project who agreed to come tow it, and as of about 12:30pm yesterday, it was gone.

P had a really rough day. As he walked back into the house and the tow truck was pulling away from the curb, I could see him fighting back tears. There were people around, so I cracked a joke to give him some composure time, and headed back to work.

Last night I stopped at Safeway to get some beer, knowing he needed to grieve and that he wouldn't allow himself to lose face by doing it sober. We danced around the issue for a few hours, but he refused to discuss it, each time we came close tears welled up in his eyes, and he would angrily wipe them away and change the subject. When he finally had enough to drink to let his guard down, the tears streamed down his face and my heart broke open.

I don't understand. I've lost people before, but none were that closed to me. My great grandmother passed recently, and as heartbroken as I was it was more for the loss of life in general, than any real attachment to her as a person. It sounds cruel, but I didn't know her. We had a blood bond, but that was all. My uncle passed a few months after Tio Toto, and again I cried, but I didn't know him well. I mourned the sudden-ness of it, and the suffering my aunt would endure, and he was a good man, but I'd only met him once and so the grieving was relatively short.

But once the tears started flowing they quickly went from genuine grief to this overly dramatic spilling a sip of beer in his name, kissing his hand and holding it over his heart, asking for forgiveness, and I couldn't take it. I snapped. It was only for 10 minutes or so that he did that, and I'm sure I was a complete a-hole in the moment, but I told him to be real. I told him that if he was going to grieve, he needed to do it for the right reason. I said he didn't give away his uncle, he gave away the car, and I apologized for pressuring him, but told him that he needed to keep his Tio Toto in his heart and mourn his death, not giving away a material object that he once owned.

And I think he got it. He sat quietly for a minute, and then said, yes, I was right. He felt guilty that the day before Tio Toto passed away, he had called P to go visit him and he didn't. He regretted not going to say goodbye, and it felt like a double betrayal that he is now giving away the one thing he had left of him.

I remember at his funeral, P didn't want to say goodbye. I basically forced him to go up to the casket and say a prayer for him. I knew that if he didn't do it, as much as he opposed it in the moment, he would not forgive himself for missing that opportunity. I knew there was something wrong at the funeral, but I was busy taking care of the kids so the adults could say their goodbyes, and I never pressured him to tell me.

So there it is. Guilt is an ugly thing. It makes you irrational, and it sucks that people feel so much shame, so much that they can't face what it really is about in order to work through it. I dont' think I did anything to "solve" his problems, but I'm hoping that when he starts to feel that guilt and shame he can remember that it isn't about the car. And anyway, we did a good thing. Hopefully when they auction the car off they'll get enough to help someone out with medications or doctor's appointments or something. Hopefully.

I know this is long, there is a lot to this. But P also said something that broke my heart and confirmed years-old suspicions that I've had.

He said that one of the reasons he felt so close to Tio Toto was that they both loved women their families hated.

Yeah. He finally admitted what I've known for years. His family hated me. I don't think they do anymore, but he made me out to be this crazy American bitch who broke his heart and trampled his self-worth, turning him into a depressed, angry, alcoholic recluse. And then when we got back together, I was the Golden Child. I saved him from himself.

At Tio Toto's funeral, people were whispering about the "other woman." The mother of his children would not allow her to pay her respects, even though he had been divorced for decades and the "other woman" had been by his side, loving him and caring for him when nobody else would. P said he understood the ostracism, loving an American, choosing a woman over his family.

And on some level, I always knew it, although he denied it up and down for the past 7 years, I knew it, and now I can stop worrying about pleasing them. It's hard to be yourself when you have a suspicion someone doesn't like you, but won't admit it. It's a weird feeling. It doens't change my feelings toward them, I love his family, but I'm glad to finally know why I felt so out of place for so many years.

One of Those Days

I want to sit at home, snuggled up in my jammies with a good book, a cup of coffee and some cheddar and broccoli soup.

But I have entirely too much to do. Drop off my leather jacket at the cleaners, write up P and I's Advance Directives and PoA's, take care of the little terror (who is feeling much better, and hence has MUCH more energy), get Vic a gift for her birthday, and make P some lunch in the next 30 minutes...

*sigh*

Of course I could have been snuggled up for the last hour or so, but this damn computer won't let me go!

I got bored with my book again, so I'm planning to start another soon. Maybe during her afternoon nap.

I am Fertile Again!

After a short 22 months, Aunt Flo is back for a visit and I am officially (biologically) ready for #2! If only my finances recovered to quickly. I'm bummed out due to the inconvenience, but stoked that my magical baby-making powers are back.

And it is on this old-newcomer that I am blaming the following statement:
I have been having some seriously inappropriate dreams about someone other than my husband.

And I'm slightly disturbed, because this is someone that I haven't thought of in that way before. Okay, maybe a little bit, but not quite so...graphically.

Gawd, and what to do? I see this person every day, more than a few times a day at work, and I know I'm blushing when we speak, so thank Goodness my office is so dark, but I feel like the bright red ACT NORMAL sign on my forehead is blinking and it's throwing me off so that I know I get a tiny smile in the corners of my mouth when we speak, but I can't help it.

How naughty, eh? But don't worry folks, this person is in a committed relationship, as am I, and there is not a hot damn thing that I going to do about this in real life. It's just tripping me out, you know, and since shame is not a word I'm familiar with lately, I wanted to share.

Thanks, I feel better. And I know it's only 9pm, but I'm suddenly very tired.

:)

Twinkle Twinkle

I was sitting outside last night, looking into the sky and wishing for a sign.

I've been feeling religiously stuck lately, and I want to get back to the innate feeling of being surrounded by God like I used to, but I don't know how. I really wanted a cash-sign, like a winning lotto ticket (even though I don't play) or a huge inheritance (but I don't have any rich relatives).

As I was staring out over the fence line, admiring the beautiful old oak trees on my hill I noticed a single star shining through the cloud cover. I stood up and searched the rest of the sky, but there were no other stars in view. It was before 8pm, and the sky was still fairly bright, so I sat outside for about 15 more minutes contemplating a recent decision P and I made.

No other stars were showing.

And I'm going to take this as a sign that I'm not going against my faith, that God is okay that I'm covering my bases. I need something, and the only way I can find it right now is through Taryn, and I think God understands that.

White Hot Rage

This past weekend, we had another visit from Crazy. It was probably close to midnight, and Will was over having a few drinks. She had called him at least three or four times in the span of an hour, and each time he had told her he was on his way home. At one point, P was inside taking care of business and Will and I were outside talking. Crazy called again and threatened to wake up the Baby to come get him. He reassured her that he was leaving right away, and as soon as he hung up, turned to me and said "If I'm not honest, I know I've got 30 more minutes."

Okay, so granted, their relationship is all types of messed up. He lies, she threatens, he consoles and lies some more, and then she goes off the deep end. He told me he's getting to the point where he just doesn't care anymore. Sad.

But here's what really pisses me off: He knows that if he doesn't go home, she's going to wake the kids up and come looking for him. What kind of father does that? What kind of father would rather lie to stay away from home for an extra 30 minutes when he knows his kids will suffer because of it?

And what kind of selfish biotch mother would do that to her own kids? What crazy-ass person who carried a child for 9 months and went through the pain of childbirth would wake her kids up at midnight, put them in the car, then drive to a house that they most likely recognize, to sit there in the dark while she yells out the car window for him to come home, threatening him with "Don't make me get out of this car, Will!"

What the hell is wrong with these people?

Every time I think about this, my eyes go blank with fury. I'm half-tempted to report these messed-up people to CPS, but I can't figure out who is worse. The Crazy mother who wants her husband home and under her supervision, although from my experience they really don't talk to each other unless they are yelling. Or the drinking, gambling father who will do anything to get out of the house and away from her.

I just don't understand how parents could act in a way that they know their kids will suffer. People like this shouldn't be allowed to raise children together, and I'm all for working things out, but it's been the same old shit for the two years we've known them.

If P and I get to the point that we simply can't get along anymore, we've vowed not to put any of our children in the middle. I'm sure the temptation will be there, since Taryn is the easiest way for us to hurt each other, but we've both been through it ourselves and know how much it can mess a family up.

Sometimes I Suffer to Make a Point

Today we were supposed to be bringing Super Nanny over to the Berkeley Kite Festival for her monthly Au Pair cluster meeting. For the most part, we don't like going to these things, Nanny is bored and seemingly doesn't really want to get to know the other Au Pairs, T-Boogie's schedule is always thrown off because the meetings aren't timed with her naps in mind, and P-Dely and I fight because he's always wanting to get into the shower 5 minutes before we need to be out the door, and I HATE being late to everything just because he can't get his shit together.

But Boogie really likes watching kites, so I was thinking she'd enjoy our required outing today. I woke her up early so she'd be able to get a nap in before we had to leave, and I checked out the food options there so we'd be able to grab some lunch that she could share with us while we watched. But like clockwork at 10:20 P says he's getting in the shower.

And I snapped.

I was all ready to go, my bag was packed with a banana to feed Boogie on the way, all I needed to do was get her up, change her diaper and clothes, and put her in the car. Nanny doesn't have issues like him with getting ready, so I knew at precisely 10:30 she'd be downstairs waiting for us.

I didn't flash on him like I normally do. Yelling doesn't do anything but make him regress, and I didn't want to deal with another child. I told him he didn't have time for a shower, and he had a minor hissy, then went and changed his undershirt and sat back down at the computer without brushing his teeth. I calmly washed my hands, walked over to him, pointed to the directions I had printed out and told him he needed to get Nanny there by 11.

Then I sat on the bed, turned on the monitor, opened up a book and started reading. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him staring at me, mouth hanging slightly open and a look of shocked disbelief on his face. I don't know if he was waiting for me to start ranting like I normally do, but right now, I'm sick of the same old shit happening. We're locked in this crazy dance that makes us both miserable, and as much as I was dying to take Boogie there, I knew I wouldn't enjoy myself with him being in a pissed-off mood, and I don't want Boogie being around us like that.

So. Now I have to find something else for us to do today. I'm thinking of taking her over to the water park in Terra Linda for a while, so she can splash around and play with the other kids, maybe stopping at Sonoma Taco so we can share a burrito for lunch (this kid LOVES her some chicken burritos). I'm bummed my plans didn't work out, but hopefully P will realize, soon, that I'm not going to cater to his childish actions and tantrums. Because in the past I would have bitched and moaned and we would have gone, and neither of us would have had fun. I'd rather change my plans and enjoy myself than that craziness we used to do.

Peer-Pressure Boyfriends

I've seen two ex-boyfriends in the past 48 hours. I know this county is small, but is there something He is trying to tell me?

Both of these guys were peer-pressure boyfriends, you know that guy (or girl) you date because they are your best friend's cousin or your parent's friend's nephew? The person you are not really into, but you give it a try because if they have so many good things to say about them, maybe they really are a diamond in the rough.

There was absolutely no hanky panky with these two. Call me shallow, but I just could not get past not being physically attracted to them. And maybe I'm unlucky, but I've never been so WOWed by someone's personality that I didn't care what they looked like. Well, maybe once, but only once.

Don't get me wrong, I have crushed on guys who were less-than-stunning, but normally they were so intimidated by me that we never were more than friends. And sadly, I've spent more time with gorgeous a-holes than the aforementioned sweet boys, but I've got a serious sweet spot for a pretty face and a hard body.

But I digress....

Both of these guys were somehow related to my two best friends at the time. Neither was what I would normally go for, and yes, they were sweet, but I remember both being very needy (serious turn-off to me) and more interested in trying to get in my pants than trying to get to know me (also turn-off). Neither lasted long, and neither was a real "boyfriend" as I don't remember any inclination on my part to not look for something better while I was seeing them. What an a-hole I am.

The sad thing is that I think they may have really liked me. I was so cruel back then, on the prowl for my perfect man and totally discounting anyone who wasn't exactly what I thought I wanted. And it was for a reason, I was looking for P, but I didn't know that, and I was too self-centered to consider their feelings at the time. It was all me, all the time. And it didn't help that they seemed to agree, they were both aware (I think) of me checking out other guys, and I may have been a bit of a flirt and really didn't give a hot damn about trying to conceal my intentions towards other men when they were around. Even after I basically told each that I was bored with them, we still hung out as friends, but I would still strut around like a horndog on a stick looking for my next conquest.

So anyway. No point really, just trying to figure out what the karmic mesage is in seeing these two this week. Any ideas?

Heebie-Jeebies

Don't you hate it when you're sitting on the pot and you see a spider crawling toward you?

But then it's even worse when you look away for a second, to grab a magazine or rip off some paper to finish your business, and you look back to make sure it hasn't gotten too close and you can't find it!

Eck.

Paraguay Here We Come!

I bought our tickets to go to Paraguay this November. Yay!

We're pretty much assed-out in terms of actually celebrating Christmas, and getting my new car, and possibly eating for the next couple years as well, because we are dead-broke, but Yay! We're going back to Paraguay!

I'm excited that P's family will be able to see Taryn when she's small, and so damn cute and cuddly. It will be easier to travel when she's older, but it was really important to me that they see her as a baby/toddler. It's easier to bond with a kid this age than maybe a six year-old who isn't as interested in snuggling, and I want her to get used to the 30 hour plane ride soon too.

Yeah, 30 hours.

I'm being dramatic. It's only 20 hours to get there, 17 of which are actually on the plane. For some reason on the way home, we couldn't get a decent set of flights, so we'll have an 11 hour layover in Chile. So P and I decided to make the most of it, get T and I some visas, and go have some wine whie we wait. Because really? 11 hours in an airport. Shitty.

But we found fabulous rates, and we had room on the credit card, so hey. Can't complain. These are the types of things I love to go into debt over.

So yay! Paraguay! P's Tata Lina is going to be so excited when we tell her we're cominng back. I can't beleive it's been 2 years already since the last trip.

I Will Never Be Bourgeois

I was BS-ing on myspace again today. I had loads of work to catch up on, but really, who wants to work when you are so stuffed from a work potluck, you've got serious doubts about controlling your gag reflex, and anyway, I was in baby-zone and seeing if any classmates had been knocked up recently. Or done the knocking.

And I happened upon a friend (although really, I was looking at a friend of his who used to like me, back in the day maybe 15 years ago) and I started to realize that I could never be that. I could not be dressed up when the sun is still out in my Daytime Fancy with my man decked out in his Summer Suit, champagne glasses carefully placed beside a centerpiece overflowing with pink and purple blossoms.

In my house, when the champagne comes out we've either run out of other alcohol, or are transitioning to the hard stuff. My dress-up clothes are more likely to be black knee-high boots with an above-the-knee denim skirt and a booby shirt, instead of a long, formal velvet dress. I think tattoos are hot, and not the shit-tard "tribal" arm bands, but crosses and bleeding hearts, portraits and panthers and beautiful, sentimental designs. Huge hoop earrings, layered necklaces, stilleto slingbacks, gelled waves and dark eyeliner, that's me, not this mellowed-out I have to dress like my father so I'll be successful in like crap.

I don't have a problem with other people doing it, it's just not me.

It's just odd sometimes, when you see how people turned out when you both started in the same place. Okay, maybe they started out with less morals and more money, and look where it got them! More money and still less morals.

Interesting...

14 Weeks

No silly, not pregnant.

We took T-Boogie to get her passport today. We waited for an entire hour, and there were literally three people in front of us. One couple took upwards of 45 minutes, and the sign on the door said the clerk was taking lunch from 1-2, so at 12:56 the woman in front of us offered me her place in line, because she could see T was tired and P was talking about going back to work.

I told her to keep it, she looked like she had her shit together, and I felt bad because I figured we'd take a while, seeing as we needed photos taken and P and I's IDs and such needed to be checked.

A couple minutes later, literally at 12:58 the woman said she was going to try to do it in the mail, handed me her number, wished us luck and left. I walked over to one of the workers and asked if we could get P to sign the form in front of one of them, but they said the sign was old, the woman doens't take a lunch anymore, and she should be calling us soon. Maybe a minute later, the door opened, and we were called in.

We only took about 15 minutes total, so I can't fathom what in the hell the couple before us were doing in there for so long. Anyway, I'm just glad we got the application in today. It's supposedly a 14 week wait to get the passport, and she also took the only certified birth certificate we have for T, so if something happens and we need it, we're pretty much screwed. So... 14 weeks. Plus a couple extra weeks to mail in our passports to get out visas. I don't know if the late-November trip is going to happen. May have to push it back to January or February. Shoot.

But Yay! I got my chairs in the mail. And they are utterly fab. I can't wait to get trashed and sit outside in them and smoke! Heheheh.

Holy Shit

I weighed myself yesterday (in the process of weighing T-Boogie, who is now 19lbs) and I only weigh 129 lbs!

WTF?

I haven't been this skinny since I was in high school, and I'm a tad worried, considering I'm still nursing. I think I'll go downstairs and make some brownies instead of the blackberry pie I was planning on, and try to fatten myself up a bit.

Dang. I weighed more than this before I got pregnant, before I lost 11lbs when I first got pregnant...

Screw Normalcy

The happiest time of my conscious life was when I was dedicated to being different. People were intrigued with the odd styles of clothes I would pick out, my quirky hobbies and habits, and the fact that for a while, I just didn't give a damn. I mean, I did. My personality was a cultivation of things that I enjoyed, things that made me an individual, and at the same time I was very conscious of the fact that those differences were what drew people to me, and so I did care a lot about what people thought, and the more different I was from the crowd, the happier I was with myself.

When I was 13, I remember moving to San Marin and realizing that different was no longer good. Everyone was white. Everyone had stylish clothes, and a JanSport backpack. Except me. And for the next 11 years, I tried to be "that." I tried to be like everyone else, because I didn't want to be alone. I thought that maybe if I changed the outside of me, the inside would align itself and I would finally be a normal person.

But as The Nanny so eloquently told me, as I was explaining to her that I'd rather drink beer than eat ice cream because it had less calories, "You're weird."

And it suddenly hit me, damn straight I am! And no matter what hell I do, I'm always going to be weird. I'm tired of fighting it.

I strove for so long to be understood. And I'm tired of always trying to explain myself, always wasting my energy to get people to understand what I'm talking about, or why I did something that they wouldn't have done. I give up. For some reason, that just isn't important to me anymore.

Whenever I start a new friendship, it's always this feeling of, "Will this be the person who really gets me?" And I'm just starting to think it's not possible. It's an unreal expectation that someone out there will totally get me. And even if that person was out there in the world, would I really want to find them? Would I want to be aroudn someone who always understood how I felt? Maybe, but it seems like it could get a little annoying.

Anyway, for years and years, I tried to define myself without being true to who I really am. I tried to find "acceptable" hobbies and do all that normal shit that people do, and I haven't really been happy because it just wasn't me. And not that this revelation is going to make me chipper overnight, but I feel a bit freer just thinking that right now, I'm a freaking odd-ball, and I'm okay with that.

PLEASE Write This Down

My new blog url will be http://caffeinatedsoapbox.blogspot.com

I think I'll switch over in a week. So on July 28th, Refuge will be no more.

I'm going to have all my blogs on the new address, just not feeling the old title. I'll tell you why tomorrow.

Month Thirteen

Sweets, it is so hard to sit down and write this for you right now. We have just spent the last two hours battling, me trying to get you to sleep on time, you wanting to play, and being so overtired that you could barely walk straight, but still coherent enough to know when we go it your room, it means bedtime.

I guess that's one of the annoying and amazing transitions you've gone through this month. Your personality is not just blooming, it's exploding like a bag of firecrackers hit with a molotov cocktail, and true to form as a Gemini, one minute you are screaming like the world is going up in a riery ball of flames, and the next you are passed out on the bed between your Papa and I, the hair at your temples and the nape of your neck curling as it soaks in your own sweat, one arm thrown carelessly across your face (just like Papa) and one leg draped across my torso.

I think this whole Ms. Independence thing is partly because in the course of this month you've gone from an unsteady Grandpa walking with no ankle support and no cane to practically running. You have been climbing for a while now on the obvious, your picnic table, the couch pilows, and the radio cabinet, but now you have also discovered that something out of reach is *thatmuchcloser* if you pull a pillow over to stand on. Which means that where I used to only have to clean up dangerous objects two feet off the floor, I have to look much higher now, and I'm tired.

You are just too smart. We've been trying to teach you some sign langauge, hopefully to head off the sorts of melt-downs that occurred tonight, and you've already mastered "more," "hungry," and "water," and now we're working on "milk" so you stop smacking my boobs in public when you're hungry. And though you really don't talk much, mostly yelling "DADADADA" when I ask you oh-so-politely to say "Mama" I know you understand us pretty well, because you laugh hysterically when I tell you not to put the broken balloon in your mouth and you pop it in faster than that little Asian guy on TV eats hot dogs.

Ah, another Grandpa comparison? You've now got eight teeth up front, and two molars in the back. But between the four front teeth and the molars on the bottom, you're missing a tooth on each side, so it looks like you swallowed your bridge when you laugh. And you're still the most beautiful kid I've ever seen.

Due to some unfortunate circumstances this month, you were able to spend a lot of time with your Nonny, two of your great-aunts (Tina and Sherry) and with your Papa and I too. It was great to be home with you so much, but I was especially happy that you were able to spend basically a full week with your Aunts. They loved having you around, playing with you, feeding you, taking you to gymnastics. And my wish for you is that you develop a closer bond with your extended family that I did. I'm not good at keeping in touch, but I'm working on it, and I hope for your sake I do get better.

By the way, that "Please kidnap me!" sign on your forehead? You got that from your Papa. I don't know what has possessed you in the past few weeks, but you are the most outgoing child I've ever seen at your age. You walk right up to strangers and lift up your arms so they will hold you. You snuggle with strange men you've never seen before (Hi Mike!) resting your head on their shoulders like you really want them to take you home. Even walking down the street with the dogs, or shopping at Safeway, you are constantly stroking people's hair, waving "bye-bye," smiling, and generally asking to be stolen. We considered getting you micro-chipped, just in case you did get kidnapped, then they would know where to bring you when you were screaming hysterically before bedtime, arching your back like you really wanted to get dropped on your head, biting (oh yes, Love, you're a biter) and pimp-slapping anything within reach, which often includes a parent, a stranger, a dog, a toy... whatever. But Papa objected. Oh, well.

Thanks for making me laugh.

I love you,
Mommy

It's 2007, Right?

Today I had what would have been an incredibly awful experience a couple years ago, and now, I'm just overwhelmed with pity.

A coworker was in a workshop with me today, and we were paired together for an exercise. About half of the class was discussing work-related communication issues, and the rest of us were focusing on personal issues, which was okay-ed by the facilitator, though the spin of the workshop was toward work (duh).

So this woman, when she heard what I wanted to discuss flat out refused to speak to me. She said in no uncertain terms that she would not role-play as Nanny, and really, it wasn't role-playing but more her sitting and listening as I spoke to her as if she were Nanny.

This woman, who is quite a bit older than me, slammed her book shut and physically moved away from me as she told me should would not work with me. She then packed up her purse and left the room!

A couple activities later we were back in a larger group together, and she told me to my face that maybe if I didn't act so immature (her words) my clients would not get angry with me. Another woman in the group jokingly said, "Yeah, you should ugly yourself up a bit," and another woman sympathized with me and said something to the effect that people must patronize me a lot for being so young in the work I do. But this other coworker of mine just bull-dozed on, talking about how I probably don't take people seriously enough and that I didn't look professional, and that's why people don't take me seriously.

Now, granted, she has a point. I tend to dress down on the days I have intakes (or workshops), and adopt a fairly familiar, friendly attitude with my clients, but it is very intentional. If I was applying for public assistance, I would not want a worker I didn't feel would understand me. By dressing down and really trying to connect with clients and understand their situations during the intake, while in my opinion not sacraficing my position as the EW, I feel like I get much more honest information from them. If I wore a business suit every day, my clients may respect my position more, but they would not feel understood, and would consequently not be as open with me. I can't count the number of times I've gotten information from people who have been on aid for years and years and was never reported before, because I have a converstaion with them, I don't just interview them.

So aside from her attacks on my age, maturity level, and clothes, this woman made several derogatory remarks about another person in our office. She made blatantly racist and age-ist statements about him, and right now I feel so bad for her, to be so back-ass-wards and racist, in 2007 in MARIN County, where the white folks may have the financial upper-hand, but their numbers are nothing against my pro-creating brown, black and yellow brothers and sisters.

And I'm also torn as to whether or not to report these remarks. I was deeply offended not only by what she said about me, but also about this other man. No offended to the point of wanting revenge, or breaching confidentiality, but really very saddened that people still think like that.

So what do I do? Broach the subject with my supervisor? Pray that she finds some wisdom in her old age? I'm really torn here.

My Newest Obsession

Anyone who has stepped past the door to my house knows that I absolutely abhor the painted brass, ugly-ass "chandelier" hanging from my living room ceiling. From the first day we saw our new place, that was the one beef I had with the built-in decor. And after three years, I still don't understand the design flaw of hanging that in a house full of brushed nickel fixtures.

Last week, I finally bought a fan to hang there instead. I am so stoked beyond belief, but I have to figure out if I have a beam over the hole to attach it to.

And while I was on my It's Been Three Years, I Deserve It kick, I also FINALLY bought some wood patio furniture for the front porch. I can't afford it, but I figure that we spend so much time out front, drinking, smoking, talking, playing with T-Boogie, that we should have some nice furniture out there to sit on. And I'm sick of our house looking like a junk-bomb exploded out front and I'm hoping with some nice stuff out there, I'll be motivated to keep it a touch cleaner.

Just like I thought owning dogs would motivate me to start running. Maybe I just needed bigger dogs?

So now that those two things, which I have been ruminating on for the past three years since we bought our place, my mind has become suddenly clear for a new obsession, and it's skin care.

Look, I know I look young, and I'm thinking that part of it may be the fact that my face looks like I rubbed a piece of pepperoni pizza on it, then rubbed it with steel wool to get the grease good and lodged in my pores. I've got pimples, and I'm not ashamed of it. I'm actually pretty used to it, especially when I'm stressed and I start messing with them (I know, gross. Sorry) but I don't look at it all day long, so maybe that's why it doesn't bother me too much?

For my birthday, Nonny bought me some shower gloves to revitalize my skin, and I'm hooked. The first time I used them, I couldn't beleive my skin could be so soft without any lotion on. Of course I'm not looking to be ashy, so I put some on anyway, but I am so far past impressed with these that I actually went out and bought a couple more pairs as gifts. And I started thinking, if I can get my body-skin healthier with a little bit of work, how about my face?

So I started using the Olay Revitalift face cream, and I bought the night cream too because I'll be honest. I don't wash my face at night. Sounds gross, but I don't use foundation, so I figured it wasn't necessary. But I also bought my Bare Minerals starter kit this weekend, so I thought it'd be a good idea to get some good night cream since I'll need to wash it off before I go to sleep. Even though it's "So pure you could sleep in it." I'm not taking any chances.

I'm hoping the new regime will become second nature and my skin will clear up, and maybe I'll look my age instead of 18. I don't know what that will affect, besides my self-esteem, but if that's it, it'll be worth it.

I spent a lot this weekend. But it all seems like good investments, for my mental health and well being. I need to invest in me some more, so this is my start.

How Could I Forget?

The pimply-faced teenage boys sitting on the fence railing. They quickly light up a Marlboro Red to mask the undeniable scent of skunk weed.

Pre-pubescent girls skipping hand in hand down the middle of the street, singing off-key in more of a holler than a wail, the latest Pop songs, infusing a bubbly-innocent but deeply felt emotion into an otherwise bland and uninspiring chart topper. As if they truly knew what love and loss were.

The rowdy black poodle from the building over chained up to his porch at 10:30pm. He barks like the Second Coming of Christ is happening right before his eyes, and he's going to miss his ascendency because of a red nylon collar. But all that is really passing in front of him is a fat orange cat lumbering to his righful side of the street.

And herds of kids barely out of Pampers riding hot pink scooters and baby blue banana seat bikes with the white handle bar tassles and the sparkly, clinking spoke jewels. Their parents meander slowly behind them, holding hands and admiring the beautiful children they spend every waking hour thinking of, worrying about, and protecting. They can't help but to feel like the luckiest people in the world, to be surrounded by so much love and laughter.

I love late summer nights.

She Misses Her Boyfriend

Taryn was rummaging around my closet today. As long as I can hear her, I don't worry, it's when she gets quiet that she's usually doing something naughty.

After a few minutes, she stopped rustling papers, so I got up to investigate and see what mess she had created. As I leaned into the closet, I saw her holding a photo in her hand.

She looked up at me, pointed to the picture and started laughing.

He finger was dead-on over Jackson's face.

I smiled back when I realized she was looking at their Christmas card from this year that I had put into a box to keep for her. When she saw me smile, she looked back at the photo card and started smiling too. And she walked around the room for a few minutes, clutching the card in one hand, periodically looking back at it and smiling, like she had forgotten what she was holding onto but cool! There's JAckson in her hand!

Then she dropped it in the bathroom when she attacked a roll of toilet paper, and I tucked it away for safekeeping. I think she'll be very happy when Nanny gets back and she and Jackson can play again.

We Do What We Can

How do you help a friend who's hurting? Besides smacking your husband in the mouth and telling him to shutthafuggup about how much he wishes they would get back together already (My Love, it takes time. We all want them back together, but if things doen't get worked out first, this is bound to happen again).

I didn't really smack him. At least not in the mouth.

So P and I did what P and I do best. We opened some wine, bought a couple packs of cigarettes, and distracted her as much as possible, for as long as possible with assinine trivia, Yahoo! News stories, and planning our Living Will. Or Trust, whatever. It's not written yet, but she had excellent insight in some things to consider.

And then we clogged her arteries with Burger King at 11:30, which slyly encouraged her to go to sleep soon after. And because we got her sloshed on day-old Sangria and two liter bottles of White Zin, she gets a day off work today! And maybe being busy would have been easier, but I'm hoping the time to focus on herself will be just as fulfilling.

And of course, after she slept we had to stay up and discuss more ... randomness, so I don't remember what time I went to sleep, and P was up later than me, but he actually got himself up and showered and to work. Poor guy. While I sit and blog, drinking my coffee in my PJs and contemplating which novel to dig into, he's probably at work now, uber-starving with the post-drinking BGs. Hehe.

But I'm sending my good juju to my Buddy today, and hoping that last night helped just a little bit. I'm so sorry I can't do more for you.

This is How My Mind Works

I started this blog for two reasons. One, I wanted a way to keep in touch with the majority of my family that lives out of California. I wanted a medium, aside from mass-emails in which to update these important people in my life, because I didn't feel like I was capable of doing it in a one-on-one manner. I haven't quite succeeded in this goal, but I'm working on it.

The other main reason I started this blog was to have a place to be open and honest with myself. A place where I could write and process my thoughts because for me, I don't feel like I can fully process a situation or idea wihtout putting it in writing. That's just how my mind works. I write to process and explore the different feelings, emotions, ideas, etc that tumble around in my mind like a sandstorm, each particle a conflicting part of myself that I somehow have to come to terms with.

I feel like lately I've been getting a lot of heat from folks reading this blog. My intention when I write here is not to attack anyone without giving them an opportunity to defend themselves, or to be passive-aggressive to put this all in writing out in the blog-o-sphere, and hope that the person I am referring to will read it. My intention is to process my feelings, that's all.

I'm not like other people. I don't automatically feel compassion and empathy. My initial reaction to most things is a combination of disgust, anger, hurt, shame and a whole slew of other negative feelings. Unlike most people, I need to process these feelings in order to reach the humane part of myself who can be understanding and sympathetic to others. I feel like I've built up so many layers of negativity in my life, that pain and guilt have become the filters in which I see the world through.

I'm not an entertainer. I don't write comical posts daily. If something it outright funny to me, then yes, that single post may be amusing to others. But I can't get to that enjoyment in life if I can't process all the other stuff. And I can't slant my blog to write for others and neglect the parts of my that need to be expressed. I did start a new blog on a different host sight a while back for the sole intent of blogging all the negativity there. I didn't want to hurt the people close to me, but I had to get it out somehow. I've stopped posting there though. It feels false to me to have all my funny stories and amazements about Taryn here, and all the "shit" there. I've compartmentalized my life enough, and in order to be open and honest I need people to know all the sides of me, even the dark painful corners I've been hiding for years.

This is my consciousness. This is how I think. I write what the voice in my head is saying, and it may not be easy for others to hear but what can I say? I'm sorry?

I am sorry people are offended. I am sorry people feel the need to explain their actions and reactions when I blog about a situation. I'm sorry I'm not like you guys, but I'm not sorry for using this space, my blog, to process. My initial reaction is to say, look. If you can't handle what I'm writing, then maybe you shouldn't be reading this. But I'm not going to ask you to leave, I'm only asking you to be understanding of what I am doing, what my intention is, and to understand as well that if something is really bothering me, I'll come to you about it.

For the most part, I eventually get it. I eventually understand that you were being affected by medication, or we misunderstood each other, or that I read too much into the situation. The difference is I blog the thought processes that led me to my final understanding, and you are getting a glimpse of those thoughts, and not just the final result.

I don't know what else to say.

Cute Baby Trick #5

Normally when nursing T-Boogie and it's time to switch sides, she'll pull off and sort of push herself away from me. That's been my queue for the past six months or so that she's drained one side, and ready for the next.

Now that we've been teaching her sign language, she's figured out a new trick.

When she finished the first side last night, she pulled away like normal, and looked up at me for a second. So I asked, "Are you finished?" And she made the hand sign for more!

So I switched sides, and before starting on #2, she looked up at me and smiled.

Smart Girl.

Dimension of Confusion

Due to our lack of childcare for the next couple weeks, an event almost entirely out of our control, P and I will be alternating days to take off work to watch T-Boog. As soon as we figured out that we don't exactly have someone to watch her the whole time I called Blondie and Toe-Nail-Less and let them know that they too will have to find someone to watch Cheeks until Nanny is back. I offered to watch him while I was home with T-Boog, and assummed they would take me up on the offer so that Blondie could see him at lunch, and really, it just seemed easier than asking around to find someone else to do it.

But this morning I found out that I won't be watching him at all, and I'm pretty bummed out about it.

I think of Cheeks more as my nephew than a friend of T-Boog's. He's awesome with her, very gentle and playful and friendly, and such a joy to be around. Admittedly, the thought of watching them both was daunting at first. But mentally as I ran through what a day would look like, I started getting excited. I want to know what it will be like to have two kids, and although it's probabaly harder with two this close in age, I thought it would be a great experience for me, and would (hopefully) give me some insight and confidence about having another baby. I had already figured out the hot spots, feeding and naptime, and how I would be able to handle both at those times, and also if I could put T-Boog's old carseat back in my car and take them to the park, or something.

I guess it's my own fault for assumming I would get to watch him, without hearing difinitively that it would happen. But really, what's compounding the disappointment is the fact that they offered originally to pay me what they pay Nanny to watch him, but decided instead to pay someone else more to do it.

So then I'm left thinking, what the hell? Do they not trust me to watch him? Why would someone who can't afford more for ongoing childcare pay a neighbor or another friend more than they offer to Nanny?

And it's not that I would want anything to watch Cheeks, I would do it for free to help them out. And I get that paying Nanny more on an ongoing basis is very different than a one-time gig, but still.

The mind-tripping is being super compounded by the extra dose of caffeine today, and I should probably just let this go, but I don't understand. Do they not feel like she deserves more? And what would make someone choose to pay a childless friend when they could have a mother watch him for free?

I think my own insecurities are coming up, that I'm not a good-enough mother for my own child, so why would someone trust me with their kid? Is there something about how I act with T-Boog that would make someone not want to leave their child with me? Is it a personal thing? And in a quasi-emergency situation, what would I do? Could I hanlde two kids? Should I even consider another child if a friend won't leave hers with me for a day?

But I know I can't take it personally. I have friends who are mothers that I would not necessarily leave T-Boog with, but I never considered that people might think of me like that. And I still think of them as good friends, and would leave T-Boog with them if I absolutley needed to, but maybe that's whats thought about me. In an emergency? Yes. If we have any other option at all? No.

But really? Fuck it. I can't trip off this because what's done is done. It just adds another dimesion of confusion to the relationship. I know that my intentions and my love for my child are as pure as they get, so I have to take these three extra days alone with her as a blessing. Maybe we'll get a chance to go to the beach again, or maybe to a fair, or the Farmer's Market. Because these are things we can't do with another baby with us. And I can't assign thoughts and intentions to others, because that just builds resentment (on my side) that's impossible for them to dispel because I'm too much of a chicken-shit to tell them how ... truth be told, I'm hurt, but it could be completely misplaced and irrational, and I have to get over it.

Soooo. I'll be off the 9th, 10th, 12th, and 17th this month. If anyone wants to hang out?

Almost Forgot

Sometimes when I'm eating, my tongue will brush against my teeth and my heart will skip a beat when I realze I didn't feel my tongue ring.

Oh shit, I swallowed it!

But then I remember I took it out a while ago. Kind of like when you lose a body part but you can still feel it there ... right?

On the Road to Jadedness

Should I be offended or pleased that people keep attacking my age?

One the one hand, I have to laugh, because when clients are mad at me, or mad at the program rules, they chalk it up to me being young, inexperienced with life, or the fact that they are parents (and don't know that I am as well). I suppose I should be pleased that they aren't saying I'm stupid, or unknowledgeable about the programs, or ugly for that matter, but really? Why does everything have to come down to age?

And not to be a complete asshole, but are they really just mad that at my age I'm holding down a steady job while they are the ones applying for assistance?

I don't like to think like that. I know that one major event could easily land me in this office in need of food and money to take care of my child. I don't like to think that there is a huge disparity between myself and my clients, or that I am any better than they are. Because if I felt that, I wouldn't be effective in my job. I can't walk around thinking we're different, I think that's how people get jaded here, by the assumption that it could never happen to them, and its these peoples' fault for the situation that they are in.

And sometimes it is. But many times mental illness or alcohol and drug abuse that got them here. And though I don't understand addiction, I can still see that obviously it has a major influnence on people's actions and isn't as hard to overcome as I may like to think.

But once again I have to mention the entitled folks, the ones who used to be where I am, and now are who I am determining benefits for. Would I be like that? Would I raise hell and swear to high heaven that I deserve benefits because I've been paying takes for 10 years? I may want to, but I hope I would be a bit more humble. And at the same time I can't imagine how people feel when they are denied for their kids. I think I could handle it if I didn't get anything, but why should T-Boog suffer? That being said though, most of the people who say I'm too young to understand what they are going through are single without kids.

But being subjected to verbal abuse and really having no recourse but to walk away does take it's toll. I notice how grateful I am for motivated clients, and people who understand that what I'm doing is not personal. If they are ineligible, it's not because I don't like them or beleive their story, it's because the government says they don't qualify. And I notice how irritated and angry I get sometimes with people who want me to bend the rules for them. Who want to skip the steps everyone else has to go through and just get what they want.

"Sorry Sir, it doesn't work like that."

Because really? A single guy, educated or skilled, getting help from family and friends is going to be much better off than a single parent of an infant who didn't graduate high school. If I could bend the rules, who would I do it for?

***

On a completely unrelated topic, I've figured out why parents take so much more time off from work. It's not because we have to stay home with our sick kids, or we catch infectious, contagious diseases from them, it's because we'd much rather stay home and play with those lights of our lives, than sit in an office thinking about them all day long since we haev nothing productive to do at work.

I'm pretty positive.

Un-Connected

Nonny's RAZR has pretty much up and died recently, and since she was watching T-Boog today while I was at work (and because I'm cheap and don't have a house phone) I left mine for her to use.

Now granted, I have an office phone, so it's not like I've been phone-free all day, but it's kind of liberating to not have my cell on me. I'm not stooping into my desk drawer after my intakes to see if I have a missed call, or stumbling down the stairs to my car while I try to dig it out of my purse so I can call someone before I actually drive away from the job.

Because in California, it is now officially illegal to drive and talk without a headset. I'm pretty sure.


But it is nice. And kind of heart-stopping at the same time when I think "Who would find me if something happened to T-Boog?" But yeah, Nonny's a smart cookie. I'm sure she'll have me on the phone in minutes if needed.

Or maybe just drive by my job and lay on the horn until I go out to see who the crazy lady in the Beemer is, honking to herself? Heheh. Creativity runs in the family.

Teeny-Tiny Pieces

Taryn had a rough night.

Which means I had a rough night too.

She was pretty pissy when I got home from waork yesterday evening. Her temperature un-medicated was hovering around 102F and I know that by the time it gets that high, you're just miserable. Her skin probably hurt from the roughness of her well-washed short-set, her nose was dripping, and here is Evil Mama trying to force her to eat. I chopped up some avocado, gave her cooked onion, rice, whole wheat pasta, and finally broke down and thawed a few fruit cubes, mashed them up with some plain whole fat yogurt and satisfied myself that she had ingested at least 4 ounces of food.

Then Papa gave her a bath, which was perfect since I was cooking dinner (potatoe and leek soup) and as soon as I finished, she was freshly washed a dried, so I slathered some lotion on her which pissed her off even more than the food. I was hoping she was just tired, nursed her for the third time (in three hours) and put her to sleep. I was hoping the Tylenol would keep her temperature low enough to let her rest a bit, but sure enough at 3 am, after a night of tossing and turning that kept me only half-awake (since I was listening on the monitor to make sure she was breathing okay and didn't have any seizures from her temperature) she was up and hysterical.

So we nursed, and I know it's not the best habit to get into but I can't stand to see my baby suffer and I know the boob has magical soothing qualities. And when she finished she rolled over, scooted up, and slept with the top half of her body on my pillow, her little forehead pressed against mine, and her arm draped around my neck.

About 40 minutes later, I still hadn't drifted off and my leg started to cramp. I slowly tried to reposition my body without moving anything from the neck up. But of course, the sweaty Angel draped across my top eighth woke up and was at the hysterical crying again. I decided to take her temperature and she was at 102.1F so I gave her some Tylenol, nursed her for a few minutes, and tried to flip her on her back to sleep between P and I.

That didn't work.

She dragged her limp, damp body across mine, until her head rested on my heart, one arm on each side of my body in a little baby-hug, and her knees on my bed, as if she were in prayer. She made it like that for another hour or so, woke up again, repositioned herself in a similar stance and fell back asleep. When my alarm went off at 5:20 she woke up, yet again, wailed, nursed, and then I stuck her in her crib since she refused to let P touch her, and by this time it was after 6am and I had to get ready for work.

And of course she woke up right as I'm leaving the house, nobody could calm her down so I had to stay, rock, soothe, and trick her into going to Johana so I could leave for work at 7.

So you see, I've pretty much been up since 3am. That's going on 5 hours already. My brain is dead, my vision is foggy, and I'm a tad irked that P was able to sleep though most of it. Kind of like the night before when he went to sleep downstairs just before she woke up crying, vomiting, and inconsolable by anyone but me.

*sigh*

My heart is breaking thinking about how much she's suffering right now. Because of some damn shots. I spoke to a decent Kaiser nurse today though who suggested I try baby Motrin instead of Tylenol, so we'll see how that works at lunch today. And all of this piled onto my sinus infection.... But I can't complain. At least I know what to do to help myslef. This poor kid can't even tell us what's hurting.

*smile*

Before I was pregnant, and money-conscious, and watching what I ate to ensure I had a strong, healthy child (which has been mostly true, save the past week or so) I used to eat at my favorite "fast-food" Thai place at Northgate fairly frequently.

Which for me means only once a month or so.

There is a young guy who has worked there for a few years who I often saw, and would say hi to, and when I was pregnant he would always ask how I was doing and tell me that I looked so happy. And of course, while I was pregnant it was nice to hear, considering my ankles were twice as big as they were supposed to be (but I'm sure he couldn't see that) and even when I was miserable from having to pee every half-hour (of course, he didn't know that either) it always made me smile how sweet he was to an angry, sweaty, hungry County drone.

Before today, I hadn't been back there in probably 8 or 9 months, since last summer most likely. But T-Boog was sick today, and I nursed her at home then put her right to sleep after giving her some Tylenol, fed the dogs and realized I had nothing to eat. I figured I may as well buy myself something since it was one of the few times I could go where I wanted without worrying about anyone else.

So I headed over to Jhan Thong (?) ordered my customary noodle salad, pad thai and ginger chicken and went to the register to pay. Smiled at the guy, because I recognized him, and almost dropped my fork when he asked how I was doing, how my daughter was, and how old she is now since he hadn't seen me in so long.

I remember working in customer service and seeing so many people a day that their faces became a blur to me. I remember people stopping me on the street (which actually still happens at the new gig) asking how I was and I couldn't for the life of me remember who they were.

So to be remembered... it sounds lame, but it made my day. After feeling so transparent yesterday, it was just nice to have someone ask about me, and my kid. It was just nice to know that even when I'm not there, someone remembers that I still exist. And there's no flirty-nothing going on, it's not like that, though the guy is cute (don't tell P I said that!) but I guess because I've been going there so long, from back in the day when I worked at Mervyns, it's just one of those people that you say hi to, not even on an aquaintance level, because I have no idea what his name is.

*sigh*

How to explain? Maybe I can't, or maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just appreciate it for the simple, friendly gesture it was, appreciate the smile it left on my face and go on with my day. I guess I'm just realizing again how you get what you need when you need it. It's so easy to forget sometimes.

Afterthought

I was standing in the bathroom this morning, looking into the mirror and asking myself, "Why are you putting on make-up today?"

And I didn't have an answer except, I'm on my way to work, and this is how I always do it. So many thoughts were running through my mind, I still haven't gotten a handle on them, but one that keeps rearing it's ugly little head is this feeling of sheer unimportance that pervades my life.

I have things that are essential to my life and give me a reason to go on, my beautiful daughter, my family, helping people through my job, but the flip side of that is that I feel like I am unimportant to others' lives. I don't feel like I'll be missed if I were to suddenly pass away. Sure, for a while I would be, and to my mother, brother and daughter, I would probably alwyas be missed, but to everyone else? I doubt my death would be mourned to my satisfaction.

Gawd, that sounds awful. I guess what the feeling I'm trying to convey is, I don't feel memorable. I don't feel beautiful enough to be remembered for that, or kind enough to have lingering thoughts over my good deeds. I'm not intelligent enough or an eloquent enough writer to make some lasting impression on the world.

In my everyday life, I feel like an afterthought. People tell me how much the like talking to me, but I get the distinct feeling it's because I'm a good person to talk at, to tell all the great and wonderful things in your life, without worrying about inquiring into mine.

I feel like I get dumped on a lot, and it's nobody's fault but my own for allowing it to happen. And this is not including those times when a friend is in a really difficult place and needs a shoulder to cry on and a captive audience. Those times, I am overjoyed to be the one they come to, and if my listening is helping at all, I'm happy to sit quietly for hours. But a lot of times I feel like people want to share minute details of their lives with me, completely disregarding my own. And in those times lately I've been feeling really angry. I'm mad that they want me to listen to everything they have to say, but that they don't care what I may want to talk about, and I get frustrated that I don't feel like I have the voice to speak up for myself, to express my own needs in a positive and constructive manner.

And I haven't blogged about this yet, because I wasn't really sure what this "ick" feeling was. I noticed myself getting angry at clients who vomited all their emotional bullshit onto me in intakes, and I couldn't understand why, seemingly so suddenly, this started to bother me. But when I started to notice the same feeling in my personal life, *ka-ching*!

I don't know a lot of things, but I knew this emotional shift wasn't hormonal. One of the few things that I am getting very good at is recognizing my own physical and emotional states. I'm not fabulous at naming them all yet, but processing the feelings is helping me to understand where they are originating and what I may be able to do to change them.

Of course in this case, I don't really know what to do. My first thught is to plug my ears, start humming loudly and run from the "dumpers." But wow, people think I'm crazy now, I can just see they shit-talking after I do something like that. Or I could just avoid these folks as much as possible, but that just seems so ... avoidant. I guess the most mature thing to do would be man-up, and tell them that I'm sick of them not giving a damn about me and being so self-centered that they'll talk about themselves for an entire encounter without a first-thought about my well-being.

But then I think to myself, I'm really lucky to have the option of listening. I know there are people in my life who love me and care about me, and I know that when I really need to talk, they will always be available to me, even if it's 3am and they have work the next morning. I don't think these "dumpers" are that lucky. My thought is that maybe I'm that person in their lives, the person they can always count on to be available to listen to them. Maybe they don't have anyone else close to them who will give them the time and attention that I do. Maybe these people hav eso much pent-up inside of them that they need to get it all out before they can continue with their day, and if I'm the only one who will listen, maybe I should feel lucky to fill that roll for them. Maybe instead of being angry at them I should feel sympathy.

Maybe?

Success!

For the most part, T-Boogie's birthday was a load of fun. We had seven babies under a year old attending, eight children under thriteen years, a seventeen year old and all the adults who brought them. A bit more than I had planned on coming, but we made a ton of food and somehow managed to feed everyone, and for the most part keep people entertained.

I know now that next year, we're doing pizza. BBQ was too much work with so many little people around, but of course next year if I'm not sick, I may change my mind. I was running around all day Saturday morning, taking T-Boogie to her first gymnastics class which was awesome, and buying ice, balloons, and all the other stuff I forgot to get beforehand. T-Boog's Nanny helped so much with preparing the salads, and of course some of our guests showed up at the park before we did! We saw the neighbors leaving while we were still loading up the cars, and I had to yell over them to take their time since we weren't set up yet.

It did go a lot longer than I was expecting too, which with so many babies meant some tears and fussing, but I think they all did fantastic, considering. And T-Boog got her first taste of vegan chocolate cake. She LOVED it, but it was odd because not all the babies did. Maybe because she was the only girl eating it?

Anyway, we completely slacked and took ZERO pictures. I'm hoping to get copies from the other folks who took some so I can show her later that we really did it big for her first birthday. Except decorations. I was so frazzled that I forgot to give out hats, or put any decorations up at all, and I remembered after kids started leaving that I had goody bags for them too, but the people who stuck it out longer ended up getting that reward! Next year, it will be easier, I'm sure. I have to keep reminding myself we did well for the first kiddie birthday.

I went home at 6, before everyone left, to put T-Boog to bed, and by the time she fell asleep she'd already been awake for almost 6 hours. She only slept 30 minutes, then woke back up, so we brought her downstairs and filmed her opening her presents. She loved the boxes and paper more than the actual gifts, but she's been having fun downstairs all day playing with them. The clothes are freaking adorable, the toys are perfect, and all in all, (besides the sinus infection, sore throat, etc) we all had a fab day.

Continuing the Tradition

When we were dead broke, back in the day, Mom, Goldie (my brother) and I used to go to this sushi place off Kerner called Yu Shang for our birthdays. There is a Vietnamese guy there (shhhh...don't tell) named Henry who has an awesome creation called the Henry Roll that we order every time we step foot in the place. The place always reminds me of that TV show about the bar where everyone knows everyone, because regulars get a chorus of shouts when they walk in to welcome them.

Last night Mom and I had planned to do a small celebration for T-Boog's birthday, and also to celebrate that I made it through labor as well. We had plans of vegan cake and a hike, but since T-Boog is sick I didn't think she needed to load up on sugar or be out too late so last minute we decided to head over to Yu Shang. I was bummed at first to not be celebrating her first birthday with her father, but both he and the Nanny had classes last night, so instead of being bitter as I would have a year ago, I just made do with what I had.

Goldie met us there, and I realized I hadn't has sushi for almost two years, since before I was pregnant. We sat Boogie in a high chair at the sushi bar, ordered up some tea, cucumber salad and hot and sour soup. We took turns feeding T-Boog all of them, and she loved it, though I think the soup was a bit spicy for her. She loved the seaweed off the top of the cucumber salad, and the edamame, and I pulled some smoked salmon off the Henry roll and gave that to her as well.

And, as tradition holds, once we finished they brought out a dessert for T-Boog with a candle and the entire restaurant, the sushi chefs, waiters, host and patrons all sang Happy Birthday to her. I was standing up holding her when they started, and the whole time we were singing she looked around at all the strangers yelling to her with this shocked look on her face. It was classic. Then we blew out the candle, and dug into the dessert, which was mango ice cream with a dough on the outside. She was digging the ice cream, had it smeared all over her face, and I'm glad she got a special desert on her special day.

***

I am bringing her to Kaiser today though. I'm at home blogging this time. She's had a temperature about 99.2 the past two days, and this morning it was up to 100.3 so I'm taking her in to see what we can do to help her eat, sleep, and breathe. She's been kind of panting all day which worries me, but I'm hoping it's just because her nose it stuffed up. I hate to say this out loud, but one part I do like when she's sick is she turns into a little Snuggle Bunny. We were in bed this morning, and she buried her face in my neck, flopped her burning hot body across my chest, and passed out. And since she's congested, she has this adorable little baby (oops, toddler, now?) snore, and her hair is all matted from sweating last night, her little red nose and her fingers gripping a clump of my hair. I brought her back to her crib since the dogs were jumping on the bed, and really, I needed to blog (heh), and I was worried if I slept with her she might get too hot. At least in her crib she gets the air flow, not like in my bed when we snuggle under the covers.

But I'll keep ya'll posted if this is more than a cold.

Happy First Birthday Boogie!

At this time last year, my water had just broken and I thought I was peeing myself rather than actually being in labor. Since you were early, the floor wasn't finished in your room, we didn't have a bassinette or a swing, and really, emotionally, I wasn't exactly prepared to be a Mama. But then I saw your beautiful, sweet, serene face, and I forgot everything except how happy I was that you were alive and healthy.



The first month you pretty much just slept. And ate. A lot. I spent hours nursing you and watching Six Feet Under from DVDs we rented at the video store. We didn't leave the house much, except to sit on the front porch while I drank a cup of coffee, the one thing I really missed while I was pregnant with you. A lot of it was a blur, but I remember just sitting and watching you sleep, my heart so full of love and appreciation of you that I honestly felt that it might burst. Sometimes I would be so overwhelmed with my feelings of wanting to protect you, that I couldn't even breathe.



It sounds cheesy, but if you ever have a child, you'll understand. The second month was harder. You spent a lot of time crying. Mostly starting around 11pm until maybe 4am. The only way you would sleep is if your Papa was walking with you, or I held you on my chest. We swore up and down before you were born that you would be a crib baby, but this month we spent so much time on the couch with you or in bed, that it just became easier to let you sleep with us. And we discovered the infant swing, which finally let us sleep without holding you. We went through probably 10 batteries the first two weeks we had it.



The bigger you got, the more like a real person you became. The smiling, laughing, holding onto fingers and toys... it was so fun just to watch you try to figure out the world. When we would go on walks through the mall or downtown after having coffee with Erika and Dakota strangers would stop me to tell me how incredibly beautiful you are. They had no idea how intelligent you also were, and how strong, since you were standing by yourself while holding onto the futon before most babies could lift their heads.



The older you got, the less hairy you were as well. I thought maybe I had birthed a monkey at first, you were covered in this dark brown fuzz from the nape of your neck to the small of your back. And you absolutley hated to be too hot. When we bathed you in the sink, you'd stick your hand under the running water from your hammock, and try to grab at the shiny silver handle. Some people had a hard time with you, as you had this tendency to spit up on anyone and everyone, and the exploding diapers were no joke.



But always a happy baby. You smiled at the dogs, at strangers, at shadows on the wall. After your months of crying, it was such a relief to see you happy and enjoying yourself wherever you went. And even though I was sleep deprived until you were about 6 months old, after the first few months, when I got used to being bleary-eyed and having no memory, I treasured the hours spent nursing you in the dark, rocking and singing to you. The sweet smell of baby made everything okay.



We worried for a little while that you may always be thin-haired, and it seems like in the last month you've really started to grow into yourself. Your features make you look older than you really are, you have the most expressive face I've ever seen on a baby, and your hair is getting very long and thick, and dark like your Papa's. We're holding out hope that you have curly hair like me, so you can at least have the choice of curly or straight, though you won't appreciate it until you are much older, I'm sure.



These last couple months, you've also had a voracious appetite for real food. You've always been a fantastic nurser, after that first week when we were both trying to figure out how to latch you on, and even now you'll choose the titty over solids. But in a typical meal you'll have some Cheerios to start, while I prepare your food, main course is some pureed meat and veggies, maybe some seasoned rice. Then we try some cooked plain veggies, maybe avocado if we've got organic ones at home. Top that off with some shredded cheese, and finally plain yogurt mixed with fresh pureed fuit for dessert. And of course, you want the boob at the very end to wash it all down. Really, I'm surprised you don't spit up more, your stomach must be the size of your head.



This month you've also mastered walking. And I mean, really mastered it. You cruised for the last month or so, and you'd take six or seven hesitant steps if we really enticed you with a toy or treat, but the past week and a half you'll just randomly stand up on your own and start walking. It's crazy to see you stagger around like a geriatric drunk, dragging a pillow or your bath towel with you, falling over the dogs, and giggling like a crazy woman. I've tried not to encourage you too much to walk, because that's the end of leaving the baby gates open and now I have to figure out a way to keep you from eating the dog food.



I was trying to think of your favorite toy this month. I bought you a pool which you dig, but I think you'll have more fun there when Jackson can get in with you. And you've got a piano your Papa bought you that you'll play and dance with at the same time. The Costco box we brought home is still filled with your blanket and pillow you Nonny brought over and some toys, and the dogs are always fun to pull on. But I think you favorite toy is probably Jackson, to be honest. You pet his head like a stuffed animal, pull his binkie out and pop it back in, push him over and crawl on top of him to reach something over his head. I hope you're at least a bit more gentle with much younger kids. Like a little brother or sister?



I don't think I can ever express to you how much I love you. I don't think you will understand until you have your own children, if you choose to do so. There is nothing in the world I wouldn't do to make you happy. And I'm sorry about the ear piercing this month. I know it scared you, but you were such a champ, and halleluja, the pains a balloon can make disappear! I am so grateful that you chose me as your Mama. And I am so proud of everything you have accomplished this year. Even your development this month has stunned me, that it seems like just yesterday you were sleeping on my chest, your little arms wrapped around my body, a tiny trickle of drool in the corner of your mouth and now... now you walk, and you know "more" and "hungry" in sign language, you cuddle when you're tired, and you bring toys to me that you want to play with. I'm amazed by you, every day.



So my Sweet Angel, Sweets, Sweetie, Boogie, T-Boog, Sousa, Duckie, SweetPea, Angie-Boo, My Darling, darling Taryn. Happy Birthday to you. I love you more than words to express, and I promise to tell you so much that you never forget. I love you, and I'm so proud of you, and I couldn't have imagined a better daughter in the world. My wish for you this month is that you always remember how much you are loved, no matter the circumstances in your life. You will always be surrounded by people who love you, and I hope you carry that with you, even when Mama and Papa aren't with you, you will alwyas be loved.



Happy Birthday.

Love Mommy.

FINISHED (!!!!)

I just finished pumping for the last time at work (at least for this kid).

As I was packing up the power cord, which has been permanantly plugged into my office wall for the past 5 months, a hige smile broke out on my face, and I started doing this weird, convulsive, funky-chicken dance in front of my paper-covered window.

Then I thought about my across-the-hall neighbor (also my male lead worker) looking up from him computer and seeing my shadow like a freak-on-a-leash (under the Big Top) show at work, and started laughing out loud.

And when I opened the door, pulled the Caution sign off and walked down the hall to the kitchen, I notice a few people looking at me oddly, but you know what? I don't care.

I'm damn proud of myself for making it this long. I did what was best for my baby (in my mind) and if I want to celebrate that, to hell with all the men around here who will never have a plastic horn attached to their nipples for hours at a time to feed thier children.

Go me, it's Taryn's birthday, go me, I'm not pumping!

I'm going to try to con Ally into helping me get a big-ass plant upstairs after lunch for my office. Now that I'm taking the paper down, maybe they won't die from lack of sunlight anymore.

Shorts

I have these thoughts tumbling around my head, and really, none yet warrant an entire post to itself, yet, because maybe later I'll have the insight to delve a bit deeper, but for now I just need to get them out so I hav emore room in my brain to plan T-Boog's birthday.

1. Peachy Crap?
I think it's just me, but why on earth would someone want their restroom to smell like peach and shit? The aerosol here at work has been flowery or peach for ages, and it's gross. I quite enjoy peach lotion, or the smell of peach pie, but peach as a cover-up to a foul odor? Not the best idea in my book.

2. Ghetto-fied Hamilton?
Sometimes even cool folks have ass-inine ideas. Like my uber-awesome neighbors who commented yesterday that they wouldn't send their kids to Hamilton school because of all the people from Vallejo who moved into the rentals nearby. First off, whatever. As if having non-Marinites in close proximity to your children is such a bad thing? Because really, having intergrated schools is not the end of the freaking world. And yes, I get that you want your kids to have a good education, but isn't education about more than just book learning? Isn't it important for them to see that not everyone is middle-class white people, and to learn to interact with people from different ethnic and social classes? And besides, as a teacher, you of all people should be aware of the detrimental affect of moving white kids out of certain schools so that the funding follows them instead of staying where it started and helping people of color get a good education too. But damn, I forgot. You teach at Marin Catholic, not Novato High.

3. Speaking of Neighbors
The Great Dane People who live near us have evidently pissed off most of the neighborhood. I was completely unaware that their dogs are so disruptive to nearby residents because my ass is usually knocked-out and sound asleep until 5:30am when T-Boog decides she wants to nurse while she listens to the Early Birds sing to the worms. But I was advised yesterday that the neighbor between us gets super-pissed that they let the dogs out at 4am, unattended, to do their duties (which also means the shit is not getting picked up) and then let them howl and bark outside the front door when they are ready to come back in. Eck. I already got issues with the guy, his wife is cool, but he seems to be completely oblivious to the fact that parking a monster boat on the street, with two monster trucks nearby is a pain-in-the-ass to the rest of us blindly backing out of our own carports in the morning, let alone the fact that they park an extra car in the handicap space (not that we have any disabled folks living nearby, but if we did...) and whatever. I'm washing my hands of them.

4. Got Grass?
P has decided to grow us a lawn in back of our place. The way the condo is set up, we have a little 8 by 10 foot sheltered spot right outside out living room window that was, until yesterday, covered in drought-resistant bushes. So while I was washing/blowdrying/curling my hair last night I smelled the BBQ going and thought P was just making dinner. Turns out her was slash-and-burning those poor plants to clear a spot that he plans to roto-till and grow some grass. I'm trying to figure out if it's for the dogs or Taryn. Maybe both? And I'm just hoping the HOA doesn't get all vindictive on us and make him re-place the stuff he tore up if we're found out. But if they do find out, I'm blaming the Great Dane people or the gardners. They are the only ones who go back there besides us.

5. On Family
Yay! Two of my aunts are coming to visit next week. I'm stoked, especially so they can see Taryn and hopefully the weather will be nice for them. Too bad I probably won't get an RDO while they are here, but maybe I'll happen to be sick so I can get a long weekend. Heh. Heh.

6. Little Overborad, Doncha Think?
I have the attendee list for T-Boog's birthday, and oops. From the people I invited we have 5-7 infants, 8-10 children, and 25-31 adults who will be there. Which means we'll have to feed and entertain enywhere from 40-60 people that day. Damn, I'm so glad I didn't decide to do it at my place. But double damn, I have to FEED all there people! 'Cept the babies of course, not my job.

Happy Father's Day

I know I rag on P a lot in this blog. It's just venting. I love him with all my soul, but I'm not going to lie on here just because it's a holiday and say he's the World's Best Papa, because he's not.

But he is an incredible father to his daughter when he takes the time out of his day for her. I know he loves her more than he loves anything on Earth, and he would do anything in his power to make her happy. And for that, I am so grateful.

"They" say you marry your father, and in many ways I think that's true. I did find a man who had some issues with being a husband and being a father, different issues than my own father does, but one way that they are very similar is that they each recognize their shortfalls, and at least in regard to their daughters they both would move mountains just to see one sweet smile. Neither of them had a good role-model as to how a good father acts, so they are winging it, and doing a fantastic job as they go.

So to all the fathers out there, especially my dad Jeffery, and my husband Pedro, Happy Father's Day. You guys are doing an awesome job, and I appreciate you.

Money Comes, Money's Gone

For the past year, P and I have been dropping loose change into one of two piggy banks for T-Boog. I'd normally empty my purse a couple times a week of singles and silver change, and I'd empty P's pockets nightly of his change too. We also recycled bottles and cans for a couple months, but it was too much work and too messy, so now we just throw them in the big blue bin and let th egarbage folks take care of the recycling part.

I counted up the money today from both biggy banks and was shocked shitless to find out she had over $150 in them. Only about $30 was actual bills, the rest was mostly quarters and dimes.

I'm glad I thought to do this, and what trips me out even more is that The change collected was mostly from the last six months, since I've been back from maternity leave. Because before that, I wasn't contributing much since I paid for everything on my credit cards, and P was off for a while too and wasn't using as much cash.

I'm planning to add another couple hundred dollars to this and open up her college account this week. Then I can start deducting $25 per paycheck to deposit into it, until I get my raise. Yay!

And of course, I spent another $75 on party favors for her birthdy today. That's like $100 just in stuff, no food yet. I think I'll have to bring some back, because this is just craziness. But I'm excited for it, and to finally see all the kiddies all otgether and just hang out like we used to do.

Dead Eyes

I don't normally get angry at clients. I feel like for the most part I can empathize with those people with mental health issues, and sympathize with the ones with serious medical problems. But yesterday I had a client who not only made personal attacks on me, she became hysterical, made a complaint about me, and was generally difficult when I was giving more time and effort to her than I do to most clients.

And I don't know when my frustration turned to anger, but I felt all the emotion drain from my face and I just sat and stared at her blankly while she ranted and raved, calling me immature and inexperienced, saying I was too young to know what she was going through and after spending close to 4 hours with her over the past three days, trying to piece her situation together and get a determination as quickly as possible, she got angry that I hadn't processed her case yet.

And I had to break it down for her that she was not my only client. And that the four hours I spent with her could have been used to process cases, and if that was how my time was being spent, and if she had all her documents back to me, I may have been able to tell her something difinitive.

But she didn't get me everyting. And she still wasted my time.

And after I left work, she left me three more messages, apologizing for how she was acting. But obviously the apology came after she complained to my supervisor about me. And I'm not taking the complaint personally. She may have had a personal problem with my age, but I know the over-arching issue was the process she was frustrated with, and my age was the only part of my involvement that she could attack. So fine.

But I'm still miffed as to why I was so angry with her. I think a part of it was I did expect some gratitude for my going above and beyond my job description to try to help her get things straightened out. Partly I think I was tired and frustrated with my ineffective attempts to get her to understand me and how the program is going to treat her income.

So I gave her the dead eyes. I stared at her, trying to rationalize her behavior in my mind. Not giving away how much I just didn't care anymore. That really bothers me. That I was so angry that I just didn't care what happened to her anymore.

Kensei

I've been reading the same book for weeks now, and I'm bored. It's not that the book isn't good, it's just that it's the same damn book I started over a month ago, and I'm over it. But I'm not the person who can just stop reading something once I've started, because if I get more than 20 pages into a book, I finish it, regardless of how much it sucks.

I'm just weird like that.

I normally go for psych-mystery books, and maybe one of the issues here is that this is more of a techno-geek-espionage story, rather than my normal anticipation-laden genre, and it just seems to drag on and on and on. And while the cultural breakdown is interesting, the last 20 pages seem like they are never going to end. It's hard to convince myself to sit down and read when I'm really not enjoying it, so I have to keep the mantra up that as soon as I finish, I can start something better. Which is quite an enticement because I went to the library earlier this week and picked up a few novels I can't wait to dig into.

But wait I must do.

When I first had Taryn, I was reading four books at the same time. I had a baby-soothing technique book in her room that I would read while I nursed her in the rocker, a novel in my room for those sleepless nights when my internal clock was jacked up, a breastfeeding book in the crapper, and another book downstairs for when she fell asleep on my chest and I didn't want to wake her up to go get my books upstairs. And then, in my sleep-deprived state I could follow them all at the same time. But not anymore. I get lost and confused so easily, it's not even funny. I get lost and confused if I read a Parents and Time magazine at the same time.

So I figured out that I probably read very quickly so that I don't get bored. I can go through four or five books a month if they really interest me, just reading here and there before bed, or while I'm waiting for water to boil...whatever. But evidently that didn't happen with Kensei and now I'm ready to burn the damn thing, just so I won't be tempted to go back and finish it before I whip out the next one.

But really, I'll probably just finish it tonight before I get caught up on the Sopranoes so that this weekend I can devote some time to a worthwhile novel while T-Boog is sleeping, instead of dreading having to finish this damn thing just to start another one.

Compromise

I just got out of the shower, moisturized, grabbed a beer to help with the milk flow tomorrow (since the long weekends are always hell to pump after), and had to decide whether I wanted to blog before bed, or read some more of my book.

So I chose to blog about the fact that I'm going to read instead of spending time on a real post tonight.

I've had an awesome, relaxing weekend, and I kind of want to keep it tucked in my pocket, my own little secret from the blog-o-sphere, so I can smile to myself at work and people will wonder what I'm so damn happy about.

But tomorrow, I'll tell ya'll why I read so fast. Probably.

Only Once Each Year

Happy Birthday to Me!
Happy Birthday to Me!
Happy Birthday Dear Aletta....
Happy Birthday to Me!

The big 24. I'm almost a quarter of a century!

The "Right" Way

I've heard a lot of talk lately about doing things the "right way" and while that sounds nice and all, it got me thinking that I've rarely done things as expected, but they seem to be working out okay so far.

P and I were married after dating on and off for a year and a half. Some people think it was too quick, some people told us we weren't stable enough to maintain a marriage, but five years later, we're still together.

I attended two colleges before I graduated from Sonoma State. Unlike a lot of folks, I went straight to a private college after high school, then left after a year to transfer to a community college for a year, then transferred again to a State University for the last three semesters.

I bought my home a month after I turned 21. We applied as newlyweds on the fluke chance that one day five years down the road we'd be eligible to buy a home, but less than two years later we received the keys to our very own condo. We signed our souls away to pay a mortgage while most of our friends were still in their club-hopping faze.

I went through childbirth without an epidural. Need I say more?

It seems like some of the most poignant and influential events in my life didn't happen as I expected them to, but I wouldn't change any of them. I think they all helped me learn how to handle diversity, because as cliche as it sounds, I became who I am because of them.

No, maybe I really just more sharply defined who I am through them, but either way, I'm glad I didn't do it by the book. I think things get dropped into your life to teach you how to handle different situations on a whim. P and I hadn't planned to get pregnant with Taryn, but we did, and we lived through my pregnancy and her first year, and I couldn't have imagined a more perfect time to have her.

It's weird, because yesterday I was blogging about gaining the control over my life enough to not be in control, and the only time I see that happening is when I'm with Taryn. She helps me to see that life is imperfect, but that it is so perfectly imperfect that I wouldn't have it any other way.

Stop and Think Before You Do Anything

I've just spent the last hour reading Paulo Coelho's blog. I love it. I feel inspired by his words and wisdom, and at the same time reassured that there is no need for me to struggle to acheive anything. He mentions a lot that we are each on a path, and that our attitude towards life will affect our journey, but we still have the same destiny to fulfill.

I feel like I'm always struggling. And not always for a purpose. Self-imposed deadlines and imagined competition. I'm always trying to do better than I did before, but without the acceptance that maybe it was good enough. I focus so much on the details and try to stay on top of things, but I'm missing the bigger picture. And I worry that my mindstate is inborn, that I don't have enough control to be less in control.

In an almost out-of-body sense, I truly do not feel in control of my actions very often. I feel like I'm deing driven by some invisible force, that I am constantly reacting to the world instead of slowing down and taking the time to make conscious decisions. Ha. I have to take control of myself, in order to be less in control. Oxymoron much?

I don't really want to stop and think before I act. I want to be at a slow enough pace that I don't have to stop in order to think. But I lose my mindfulness when I'm stressed, and I get stressed when I'm angry, and I get angry when anything isn't how I expected it to be, and I know my expectations are a huge hurdle to overcome but when I feel like I'm struggling just for survival, it's hard to focus on the little things. Even when it's the little things that make it easier to survive.

Final Countdown Begins

Sick of the titty-talk yet? Too bad, because really, pumping is a major part of my work day. If I spend 30-45 minutes per day, that's like ... two and a half hours per week that I'm in here, all alone, trying to feed my child. Which means in the last five months since I got back from maternity leave, I've spent at least 3000 minutes pumping. Wow. You know what I could do with an extra 50 hours of my life?

Sleep.

And now, as of right now, I only have eight more days to go. I haven't decided yet if I will actually pump on her birthday. Maybe not. Because if I'm still only sqeezing out an ounce per day (thanks tequila!) it's not really worth it. And since I'll have to use up the freezer supply getting her used to regular milk, may as well start sooner than later, right. Right?

I am immensly proud of myself for pumping this long. I can't even tell you how many times I wanted to quit, though of course I blogged about it a lot, but on almost a daily basis I was frustrated with the process, with the results, and I had to set a very clear end to the suffering in order to be able to make it through.

Two more weeks.

I don't think I'll miss it. I'll still be nursing four or five times a day when I'm at work, and seven or eight when I'm home with her. I'll be able to take this grid paper off my office window and see outside during the day. I'll be able to bring plants into my office and not have them shrivel up and die from lack of sunlight. I'll have a whole 'nother corner of my desk to decorate once the pump is gone. And I'll have the self-satisfaction that my child never had formula. Not that in the scheme of things it makes a difference, but to me it was important, to my budget it helped a hell of a lot too.

So yay! And now I'm really going to buy some shoes, because I'm wearing my funky-ass black sneakers from Payless that I bought while I was working at MERVYN'S and they such. They are ungly. And I want new shoes as a present for myself for my birthday.

Yep, Another Rant

I don't know why, but I get so frustrated when I am in the kitchen cooking, and someone walks in and eats something else.

On major holidays, it's acceptable. I don't expect anyone to wait 6 hours to eat on Thanksgiving or Christmas, especially when my butt is in there chowing down on whatever scraps I have left from stuffing or sweet potatoes or greens.

But on a Monday night when I am cooking dinner at a reasonable hour, I fully expect you to wait until dinner is finished to eat. If I'm making fish and rice with steamed veggies, why would you eat a bowl of mushy cereal? Because really, tilapia doesn't take that long to cook, and okay fine, I took as short break partway through to put T-Boog to sleep, but the rice was cooking anyway.

I don't know if it's because I feel like my cooking isn't appreciated, but really, I don't cook for myself. If I'm alone I'll make a salad or throw together some leftovers to feed myself. When I cook, it's not for me, and the fact that she would rather have cereal irks me like no other.

Heheh. Ya'll know that's a lie. I'd rather eat alone than sit across from someone who chews with their mouth open. Or see someone not pick up their puppy poops so Rosco and Ka'i try to eat it. Or ... well you get the point.

But anyway, I guess it's fine in a sense because now there's more for me. That girl worries me though, she doesn't eat enough, and when she does eat, she binges. I have an issue with dieters. I don't see why the focus can't be getting healthy, rather than being thin, but I know, hate on the skinny bitch. I may be skinny, but I'm still skinny-fat.

Thin but not exactly healthy? Me. All the way. I eat healthy, but I need to be more active. Which reminds me, I really noticed myself losing weight when I first got pregnant, and I think it's because I did three small things.

I stopped eating fast food more than once or twice a week. And since T-Boog was born, I still don't eat out, but more for a money reason as opposed to health. Mostly.

I also stopped watching TV. Now, when I was pregnant I kept falling asleep and missing the good parts and when you're not up on the story, it just isn't as fun to sit on your butt for an hour staring at a big-ass TV.

And. I started walking the dogs twice a day. It's only for about 10 minutes each time, but it meakes me feel better emotionally, and I'm sure it helped a bit with the swollen ankles too.

That's it. It's not like I diet, and maybe I was blessed with a faster metabolism than most, but it's not like I rely on just that to stay this size.

Somehow I just don't think she's going to do well eating Corn Flakes three times a day. It can't be healthy. So that's why she needs to eat my odd-flavored American cooking.

Wasted Day

And I started it out wasted too.

We went to Cache Creek last night. Or this morning. Whatever. Had dinner at Moylan's around 9, on the road to butt-fuck I don't even pretend to know where by 10:30-ish.

Wait, rewind. Beer at Moylan's. Cazadores at Teresa's right after. More Cazadores at the gas station while P bought water and B filled up. More Cazadores when we arrived at Cache Creek. Some gambling, a margarita, and more Cazadores. Then a late dinner (I think we sat down to eat at 3:30am? Maybe 4?) and headed home to arrive back home at 6am.

Ohmigoodness. My head was pounding. I can still feel the monkey in my brain beating my skull to get out. Didn't get anything done, and wasn't I just saying this is exactly why I don't go out partying much anymore? Fun times though, and I'm glad we got to have some sort of celebration for our birthdays.

I'm going to slepe now. Hopefully I'll be sober by tomorrow morning.

I Know, it's Cheating

But I really love taking T-Boog shopping for her own birthday presents. I think this will probably be the only time I can do it, handing her toys to see how she likes them, buy it, wrap it up, and she'll still be suprised when she gets it in a couple weeks.

And also? She loves the Costco boxes. She moved into a big one, she's got her Nonny's blanket, a couple books, some toys, and a cookie. She can sit there for hours a day playing, climbing in and out, walking around it holding onto the sides, and for a kid her age, it's kind of amazing to see her so engrossed in one thing for so long.

Gives me time to fold laundry without her throwing clothes and socks all over the living room.

Not Going to do It

I decided not to apply for the promotion at my job.

I don't think I'm ready for it, I don't know enough, I'm not on top of it yet.

And really, I don't want the responsibility.

I kind of like the fact that I have my list of stuff to do, and when it's done, I still get paid to pay my bills, or blog, or surf the 'net. I don't have people knocking on my door for questions (mostly) I don't have to stay later if a client drops in and it;s time for me to go, and when I get someone pissed off, I can hand them over to someone else to deal with.

And I get paid pretty well as it is, for the amount of work I have to do.

Maybe next year.