Archive for the ‘pissy ranting’ Category

I’m feeling much better after my vomiting forth of complaints (and 3 more hours of sleep.)   I’m still not thrilled about the constant mess, mind, but I do feel it’s unfair to throw out a laundry list of bitching without taking some blame myself.  It did feel good there for a minute, though.

In all fairness to my husband, I come from a long line of Women Who Martyr Themselves With Housework, and I am certainly no exception.  Not that it wouldn’t be nice sometimes to know that someone else cares about the state of the house, or at least appreciates the amount of work that goes into it, but we really don’t have the same expectations or standards of housekeeping and I tend to get into obsessive tunnel vision mode when it comes to lists and projects.  And often, the more lax he is, the more imperative it is for me to make things perfect.  And so I’ll apologize for reaming C on the internets (although doing so meant that I was able to nicely explain the cloth TP situation to him instead of doing my usual banshee act.)  Sometimes I forget that I haven’t explained things to him prior, especially when I’ve blogged about them.  I’m often glad to have my own personal space here, but there are times that it would really be nice if I didn’t have to keep track of what I’ve written vs. what I’ve spoken about.  I am Easily Confused, after all.

I have shears coming tomorrow so I can cut up some more cloth wipes, and the ones I made the other day are in the laundry (pray I don’t have to wee before they’re done.)  The only difficulty of the challenge so far has been having an inadequate number of wipes, which will be rectified tomorrow.  Unless something drastic changes, I’m sold on the cloth.  If I had it to do over again, though, I wouldn’t have bothered cutting up the washcloths with regular scissors at all but would have gotten the shears first thing.  I’m not sure why I didn’t do that in the first place, but I’m sure it was a penny-wise and pound-foolish decision.

And, hey!  Go tell me I’m hot over at GNMParents!  Pretty Please?


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Since I have gotten out of bed at 7:00, I have done the following:

  1. turned off the lights left on overnight
  2. loaded the dishwasher
  3. put the recycling in the recycling bin
  4. made breakfast for Lucy
  5. cleaned up cat puke
  6. fixed the pillows on the couch
  7. cleaned the tomato off of the rubber sink mat

I am operating on 4 hours of sleep, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent the FUCK out of the mess I woke up to this morning. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I said I couldn’t run myself around anymore? That I was pushing myself too hard and really needed to relax and rest? Can somebody please tell me how the hell I’m supposed to do that when I’m the only person who does anything around here? Because I’m a little confused right now. And seriously? There’s a frigging baby coming in 5 weeks. I’m not going to have any more time then than I do now.

I woke up in the middle of the night to pee and found 3 of the remaining 6 clean cloth wipes had been used for something and were lying, soaking wet, on the corner of the sink. Under the sink there are 12 clean washcloths, mind. Why my cloth TP? I guess maybe I need to hide it and just contort myself to pull it out whenever I need to wipe. The grocery bag situation has reached the point where I simply can’t take it anymore–in the 2 trips made since Saturday, 11 bags have made their way into the house. Forget about local/non-local food, none of the items purchased on either trip were even organic. The Feline Pine we agreed to switch to a month ago? Which I can’t do because of toxoplasmosis risk? Is sitting, still unused, in the dining room where I moved it when we got the kitchen cart 2 weeks ago. There’s a bag of fricking trash sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor because I haven’t gotten around to weighing it yet. And there it will sit until I can weigh it because heaven forbid anyone else pick it up.

And the irony? Just a few days ago I was all, ‘this reduction thing isn’t that hard, man.’ Well, you know what? It’s a goddamn bitch when other people’s complacency counts against your efforts. I’m tired of busting my ass and feeling like nothing is ever done. It would be done if I didn’t have to start over from crap every morning. I’m tired of other people’s messes and I will be goddamned if I’m going to give up the project because nobody’s helping me.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go deal with the trash, pack Lucy’s lunch, cut up some more cloth TP, wake my husband up, get Lucy dressed and her hair done, do a load of laundry, put away the laundry from yesterday, pre-certify for the hospital, find a place in NYC to buy pinking shears, figure out when I have time to go pick up pinking shears, get ready for the CSA, and see if I can set up a pick-up for all of this crap I have to donate. And maybe if there’s time I can try to catch up on all of the sleep I’m not getting.

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Blindingly bad mood today

No matter how much I clean up, the apartment is always a wreck.  No matter how many lists I make, nothing ever seems to get done.  It feels like I’m always waiting for something, be it needed to cross something off my list or someone else to do something I can’t.  I feel helpless, and I hate feeling helpless.  I just want to be able to get things done so that I can relax.  Ha, relax.

Nothing is fun anymore and it really fucking sucks.

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I cannot believe  how much my hips hurt lately.  They hurt when I stand up, when I walk, when I lie down, when I do anything but sit stock still without leaning my back against anything.  Which is exactly what I would do if that didn’t make my back hurt.  I have a heat rash under my boobs, I haven’t stopped sweating for three solid days, and I somehow have to find a way to contort myself long enough to cut my frigging toenails.  I want a foot rub, a soak, and someone to mop my kitchen floor.

I had a prenatal appointment today and boy howdy, I’m so glad I trucked all the way to Soho to have my blood pressure taken and get weighed.  The upside is that despite being huge, I have only gained a pound and a half over the past month.  The downside was the torrential downpour at the precise time I was walking from the office to the subway which soaked me from belly button to toe despite actually remembering to take the umbrella.  And to the nurse who asked me what I was having and when I said ‘boy’ replied, ‘a big one it looks like’?  Really, thanks, because I’m not in the least concerned about birth interventions and stuff.

Got home, had a bit of a snit at my husband and then went to sleep for half an hour, awakening when my lovely firstborn came home and climbed into bed with a glass of water for me.  We hauled to the CSA pickup, and are now knee deep in tomatoes and apples.  Who am I kidding?  We were knee deep in tomatoes and apples before tonight.  And the thought of trying to can when it’s 300% humidity?  Ugh.  However, I am happy to say that we received a bunch of my favoritest preggo veggie–salad turnips!  There’s a salad with my name  all over it if I can only get off my ass and wash some vegetables.

Which brings us to now, which is right in between where I pout and feel sorry for myself for being the biggest, sweatiest, rashiest, sorest mama this side of the BQE and where I put my child to bed and drown my sorrows in Balsamic vinegar.

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Or, how I learned I can no longer run about the city willy-nilly and promptly retired to the safety of my own head…

We took Lucy to the Met yesterday and after 4 hours of being on my feet, I was damn near reduced to tears every step I took on the walk back to the subway.  My hips ached, the baby was perched atop my bladder the entire time, and I was generally miserable to be and be around.  To be honest, I couldn’t even really enjoy being at the museum for having to pee every five minutes and having to walk behind C and Lucy because I’m so goddamn slow.  It sucks, and I’m feeling more than a little bit sorry for myself that I have to miss out on all the fun.

The truth is, I’m doing a lot of feeling sorry for myself lately.  I have a million complaints which seem to catapult out of my mouth and fingers despite having an equal number of things I’m excited and happy about.  I’m tired of being cranky and negative and tired and sweaty and achy and heartburny.  I don’t remember being such an insufferable person when I was pregnant last time, and I don’t want to be an insufferable person now.

And so, in no particular order, here is my lemons out of lemonade plan for the next 8 weeks:

  • The dressers and kitchen cart get here on Thursday, the computer armoire on Friday.  These deliveries coincide with Lucy’s first and second days of school, so I am well excited that I can keep myself nice and busy reorganizing and folding and nonesuch.  AND my worst fears that nothing will be ready for the baby will *not* be realized.
  • I have ordered a beginner’s canning kit from Lehman’s and have rather grandiose plans to attempt to take up canning this fall.  Don’t worry, in a past life I was taught how to make pickles so I’m not totally at sea on this one, but I am going to have to do some serious clearing out of space to make room for whatever it is I end up canning.  Nothing like planning, eh?  I figure I’ll start out with applesauce and maybe do some tomatoes.  We’ll see what we end up with from the farm share.
  • Next week will be the big Greenmarket meat stock up for the freezer trip which should at least get us through the beginning of new-baby-too-busy stuff and hopefully even longer but I’ll have to see how hip my husband is to buying huge quantities of meat
  • Tomorrow is getting another set of cannisters to stock up on rice and beans and the like (plus a drying rack that won’t fall apart the day I bring it home.)  And potting soil so that I can plant my wheatgrass and lettuce.
  • We are finally through the suckage of August and I will be getting my 90% numbers figured out today or tomorrow.  This should be the crappiest results month of the year and I’ll be happy to be done with it.  On the upside, our electricity only went up to 466 kwh, which is well below last year’s 900 so it could be worse.  Nah, I’m really disappointed about that because we were gone and had power strips turned off for about 10 days and it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.
  • By this time next week, my to-do list should be drastically different!

I’m going to try and do a 32 week photo today but I make no guarantees.  I’m torn between wanting to continue to commemorate and realizing that I’m just freaking huge.  I’m not used to being so….doughy and it didn’t really bother me until yesterday when it hit me that I’ve passed cute-roly and headed straight to very, very pregnant with legs that look like raw dough.

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We took Lucy to see Mary Poppins on Broadway yesterday.  The show itself was quite a spectacle, although both C and I were a bit disappointed that the nuances of the movie were pretty well erased (no woman’s suffrage so comments made about what women could do were taken out of historical context as well as a softening of the ultra-greed aspect of the bank.)  Plus, there was this uber-creepy toy kangaroo court deal that was just oogy.  The costuming and sets were amazing though, and talented actors, blah blah blah.  I’m not a huge musical sort of girl, at least not the newer ones.

Before, during intermission, and after the show we were bombarded by the merchandise.  The theater kindly provided people with boxes-full of programs, cds, t-shirts to patrol the aisles before the show and during.  Stands were set up conveniently near snack and bathroom passages.  The audience was full of people clutching parrothead umbrellas and Mary Poppins Barbie-sized dolls.  And so we were hit by an attack of the ‘I Wants.’  And by we, I mean Lucy.

Never mind the completely outrageous price of our seats and of merchandise at these sorts of things, we weren’t even through the show yet.  Now, lest I seem like some sort of ogre, I do remember the joy of going to a show and coming home with a t-shirt or some other bauble.  I am a huge fan of the souvenir, as is my husband.  We both grew up in families for whom memories of the show (and Playbills) *were* the souvenirs and we were lucky to hold on to ticket stubs.  What neither of us are big fans of is being hounded for stuff.  And it seems that we have reached the being hounded stage.

We explained.  We asked for the ‘asking for’ to cease.  And once we got out of the theater and were on our way, we thought we had made our point.  And then, as I used the bathroom at Port Authority on our way to the subway, the ‘I Wants’ struck again.  By this point, it’s not a souvenir she’s asking for, or even something specific.  She’s simply asking for more stuff.  In this case, a book.  A book, of which she has received 6 in the past two days–three from me and three from her grandmother.  We haven’t even read those yet.  Ok, no.

On the way home we had a long talk about how it makes people feel when they take you out to do something fun and all you do is ask them to buy you things.  We talked about people who think that they need new things to make them happy.  We talked about how important it is to me and her daddy that she appreciates the things she has instead of always feeling like she needs more.  And we gave her a choice:  she could choose 3 toys to give up (one for each new toy she had asked for after being spoken to) or she could choose to give up 3 outings we have planned for this week.  Cue tears.  For the entire rest of the ride home.

When we got back and she had calmed down, we all went into her room.  Her chin began to quiver and she began to tear up and said, ‘I don’t want to give up my clothespin dolls book.’  Aha.  C explained that we weren’t asking her to give up her 3 favorite toys, and I asked her whether 3 toys was a lot compared to how many she had.  For the first time in a long time, I saw her look around her room and really register how many things she has in there.  ‘No, not a lot,’ she said.  I asked her if she thought she could even count how many toys she had in her room, and she said, with wide eyes, ‘No, mommy, I wouldn’t be able to remember what number I was on.’  And so we asked her again if she would rather give up 3 toys or the 3 trips, and this time there was no hesitation.  Three toys it was.

We didn’t take anything away, although I am going to sit down with her before long and sort through what she’s playing with and what she isn’t because she has a crapload of stuff, even in the face of a new baby to go through the younger stuff again.  And we may end up going through this again over the course of the week when we go the museum and zoo, two places with gift stores we all love.  But I really hope it can stick with her, the idea that doing things together is more important than buying stuff because I really don’t want her to grow up into a person who thinks she needs stuff to be happy.  Stuff is nice, and stuff is necessary, but it never made anyone happy.

This segues nicely into Venessa’s latest about Not Shopping.  I’m certainly guilty of buying things I don’t need, or thinking I need things which I really don’t.  Coming on the heels of my rather defiant and not convincing last entry, it’s something I really need to think about.  Consumer spending is my Achilles heel.  Sometimes I am going to have to buy things, and buying dressers from Ikea allows me to buy my diapering supplies from The Stork Wearhouse  .  Is it the right trade-off?  Who knows.  I’m starting to shy away from using the word ‘right’ when it comes to the choices I make for the environment.  it is true, however, as Venessa says that revolutions don’t have to be loud. In fact, most of the time the best way to make your point is to just not buy something.  It doesn’t matter if Wal-Mart notices that you’ve not spent half your paycheck there.  It does matter if your kids notice, if your neighbors notice, your friends and family notice.  Maybe they’ll ask why, or maybe they’ll think you’re crazy but either way, it sticks somewhere in the back of the mind.

As an aside:  since starting the Riot for Austerity, I have had a fair amount of people ask me about what we’re doing and why.  Truth be told the response has been more positive than I expected.  I expected to have to defend myself and the project more than I have.  I expected to have people point out flaws in what we’re doing and to spend great lengths of time explaining why it wouldn’t make a difference or why it was too hard, or worse of all, be accused of letting the project be more important than ‘living comfortably.’  Don’t get me wrong, we’ve fielded comments about how much easier it is for me because I don’t work, and I’ve even been told that I needed to make sure I didn’t jeopardize my health by not turning on the a/c (like I would ever allow myself to fall ill to prove a point.)  But for the most part, the past two months have been a pleasant surprise.

This is why I have decided that I am going to continue tracking my spending after all.  And I’m going to count the armoire even though it’s a gift because it’s not an entirely unsolicited gift.  It’s hardly fair to cut out a category simply because I’m uncomfortable with the amount of money I spend, and the fact is, I keep finding myself wanting to write about how almost all of our furniture is used and we never buy high ticket items, which means that I need to own this purchase, so to speak.  Do I think spending money on one item that will last for years is better than spending the same amount on clothes and shoes from Wal-Mart or a big screen tv?  Absolutely.  Is it without its own impact?  Definitely not.

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One of the best side-effects of C’s anthropologifyin’ is that I get to learn about all sorts of stuff I never knew I didn’t know.  Like Thor Heyerdahl.  Kind of cool, no?  This is what I was reading about at eleven last night.  Then we talked about labor choices, and then I collapsed, ragdoll-like shortly after midnight.  Strangely enough, I awoke at 6:30 refreshed and ready to face the day.  I expect this to feeling to be replaced by my requisite exhaustion somewhere around half an hour before we get off the train at my IL’s.

Yes, today does in fact begin the marathon of family visits.  Unlike old Thor, we will be taking the train approach rather than balsa raft.  Train East, Train West, Train South, and finally Train North with a handful of hours in between spent doing whatever it is that people do when on vacation or recovering thereof.  I am especially excited for the day-and-change between West and South where I can water the plants, do laundry, dig through mail and change the cat litter.  Actually, the more I complain about it the more I realize that it’s really only the in transit time that I’m dreading.  Nonetheless, complain I do.  It’s like an illness, I tell ya.

I am also dreading having to shave my legs.  I’ve been doing a totally half-assed job just to give the appearance of trying, but with the whole having to wear a bathing suit thing mixed with the whole ‘I can’t really reach my legs without a struggle’ thing and then adding on the whole ‘these glasses are so not for show’ aspect of the project, and I’m wishing I had a modesty suit.  Because, really, hanging around a swimming pool with a dozen of your spouse’s relatives when you haven’t shaved in an eon is not my favorite thing.  My family knows I’m not big into shaving, but for some reason it makes me really self-conscious around people who I haven’t known my whole life.

Anyway, I’ll be spending the next indeterminate amount of time jockeying for computer time with 75 other people and/or avoiding it entirely, elbowing people who insist on trying to shove in front of me while boarding or debarking from trains, and trying not to lose the tenuous grip on both reality and my sense of humor while starting the countdown to the Birthdays of Doom Weekend wherein I turn 34 the day before my brother turns *gasp* 18.  I can’t believe that little motherfucker is going to be a legal adult and force me to admit that I’m no longer a hip, cool, young person.  Bastard.

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