I grew up watching sitcoms and movies in the 80s and 90s. Often times pregnant women were depicted as emotional basketcases who devoured large chicken legs with chocolate sauce (or something equally as ridiculous) and then gave birth in elevators or taxis while screaming at their idiot husbands or complete strangers who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then, after a minute of farcical screaming, thirty seconds of "hee hee hoos" and half a second of pushing and grunting, their work was done and they could lay back and enjoy their clean, swaddled, flawless 3-month old newborn. Oh, the miracle of birth. And television.
When it came time to give birth to my son almost a year and a half ago, it didn't exactly go down like that....
It was the day after my due date and I was anxious and bored at the same time. My husband, mother, and I were binging on the happy-go-lucky historical drama, The Tudors, to pass the time. Nothing like going to bed nine months pregnant and dreaming of beheadings....
I was loving the costumes and romantic trysts, as well as the unrealistically attractive portrayals of Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn. The execution scenes, however, were wearing on me. By the time they were getting ready to have someone "drawn & quartered" I knew I had to back my large self away from the television until the scene was over (if you're unfamiliar with what being "drawn & quartered" entails, do not, repeat DO NOT find out. It's worse than you think).
I sprang up from the couch, walked over to the landing, and that's when I had the feeling that our son was about to make his grand entrance. Was their screaming and a mad dash to the hospital with me practicing my lamaze? Sadly, no. We meandered around the house, called the doctor, grabbed the bag, and my practical husband put a trash bag on the passenger seat of the car just in case (it was not necessary). Then we drove into Sibley Hospital in DC. Parked the car. Checked in. Waited. Did some paper work. Got set up in a room. Blood pressure check-geez, I'm even boring MYSELF right now.
Fast forward 12-13 hours later (I think I took a NAP at some point, courtesy of something that rhymes with "schmepidural"). Grant was born, and he looked like a wrinkly, purple wrestler/alien. I looked like I had taken a all-expenses paid trip to hell and back. Doctors were still attending to me because (who knew?) the actual birthing of the child is only part of the labor process.
Of course, we were still over the moon with relief and happiness that our baby was healthy. And his wrinkly alien phase was short lived and he soon transformed into a blue-eyed cupcake-cheeked sweet marshmallow of an angel (too much?).
Though being a mother to our son is the greatest joy I have known, if they ever make a movie version of my life I'll be sure to have them add a car chase and, like, a mime to his birth story just to make it a little more interesting....
")
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Ski Weekend Surprise...
I promise not to make this blog all about the awkward things that happened to me in high school, but there's such a wealth of material there that I feel compelled to devote a good portion of it to the topic...
Most people can't understand why I have no desire to see another ski slope as long as I live. Besides the fact that it's an expensive sport that requires freezing weather and good balance, I've been skiing three times and each time was... disappointing.
The first time I went skiing was a hot mess disaster wrapped in a thick layer of pure mortification and I'll definitely be writing about that in the future. The third time I went skiing it was just soul-crushingly freezing. But for now I'd like to talk about the second time I went skiing. And, because this was high school, you know it had to involve a boy...
Let's call him "James". I was a senior and James was a tall, gangly underclassman with glasses and a slight space between his two front teeth. We were cast as a married couple in a play, and thus began spending a lot of time together after school. I wasn't really interested in him romantically, but when he started paying a lot of attention to me I decided that I was in no position to turn down potential suitors (see my last Valentine's Day post) so, like a judge in a courtroom, I "allowed it".
James and I had small parts in the play, so there was a lot of downtime when we'd hang out in the hallway doing nothing. It was then that he started talking about how much he loved to ski, to which I promptly replied that getting a root canal was higher on my list of fun things to do. You can then imagine my surprise when he enthusiastically invited me to go skiing up at Killington, VT with him and some "friends from youth group". Needless to say, I immediately said "No way in HECK." I didn't care if Jon Stamos (who was hot back in 98?) was going to be there, I had no interest.
James was PERSISTENT and kept asking and asking. What was his obsession with getting me to go on this trip? I decided that he must be hopelessly in love with me and want to gracefully maneuver the slopes by my side. I ran it by my mom and she encouraged me to go, gave me money to cover my skis and lift ticket, and told me to have an awesome time (yes, she is amazing). Knowing her, I'm sure she also went to Marshalls and bought me some snowflake-adorned attire to take along...
Anyhow, I very reluctantly packed my things and met up with James and his friends one evening. James' friend's dad, Mr. W, drove us all the way up to Killington to stay in the INCREDIBLE house he owned up there. We're talking "indoor-pool-and-jacuzzi-incredible." It was amazing, and we celebrated our arrival by tubing down a nearby hill that was illuminated by the stunning full moon. Snowflakes fell softly on our carefree teenage heads. There was laughter, there was merriment-this was too good to be true.
Afterwards, everyone was told to freshen up and meet back in the living room. When I got there, a large fire was emitting cozy warmth from the hearth and people were lounging in plush sofas and chairs. I sat down, put my hands behind my head, and breathed a sigh of contentment. Maybe I was wrong and this was going to be the best weekend of my life. Then I noticed James flirting with Mr. W's daughter. Come to think of it, he had been hanging around her all night. That's odd. If he liked HER, then he wasn't pursuing me. But if he wasn't pursuing ME, then why did he invite...
That's when Mr. W took out his guitar and instructed everyone to turn to a specific page in their BIBLES. Everyone complied except for me, who hadn't gotten the memo that this was a BYOB event. I then spent the rest of the evening listening to bible verses, humming Christian music, and deciding that James was not to be trusted.
I have no problem with Christian retreats. But I think we can all agree that they shouldn't be handled like surprise parties. On the upside, James may have a promising future as a missionary...
")
Most people can't understand why I have no desire to see another ski slope as long as I live. Besides the fact that it's an expensive sport that requires freezing weather and good balance, I've been skiing three times and each time was... disappointing.
The first time I went skiing was a hot mess disaster wrapped in a thick layer of pure mortification and I'll definitely be writing about that in the future. The third time I went skiing it was just soul-crushingly freezing. But for now I'd like to talk about the second time I went skiing. And, because this was high school, you know it had to involve a boy...
Let's call him "James". I was a senior and James was a tall, gangly underclassman with glasses and a slight space between his two front teeth. We were cast as a married couple in a play, and thus began spending a lot of time together after school. I wasn't really interested in him romantically, but when he started paying a lot of attention to me I decided that I was in no position to turn down potential suitors (see my last Valentine's Day post) so, like a judge in a courtroom, I "allowed it".
James and I had small parts in the play, so there was a lot of downtime when we'd hang out in the hallway doing nothing. It was then that he started talking about how much he loved to ski, to which I promptly replied that getting a root canal was higher on my list of fun things to do. You can then imagine my surprise when he enthusiastically invited me to go skiing up at Killington, VT with him and some "friends from youth group". Needless to say, I immediately said "No way in HECK." I didn't care if Jon Stamos (who was hot back in 98?) was going to be there, I had no interest.
James was PERSISTENT and kept asking and asking. What was his obsession with getting me to go on this trip? I decided that he must be hopelessly in love with me and want to gracefully maneuver the slopes by my side. I ran it by my mom and she encouraged me to go, gave me money to cover my skis and lift ticket, and told me to have an awesome time (yes, she is amazing). Knowing her, I'm sure she also went to Marshalls and bought me some snowflake-adorned attire to take along...
Anyhow, I very reluctantly packed my things and met up with James and his friends one evening. James' friend's dad, Mr. W, drove us all the way up to Killington to stay in the INCREDIBLE house he owned up there. We're talking "indoor-pool-and-jacuzzi-incredible." It was amazing, and we celebrated our arrival by tubing down a nearby hill that was illuminated by the stunning full moon. Snowflakes fell softly on our carefree teenage heads. There was laughter, there was merriment-this was too good to be true.
Afterwards, everyone was told to freshen up and meet back in the living room. When I got there, a large fire was emitting cozy warmth from the hearth and people were lounging in plush sofas and chairs. I sat down, put my hands behind my head, and breathed a sigh of contentment. Maybe I was wrong and this was going to be the best weekend of my life. Then I noticed James flirting with Mr. W's daughter. Come to think of it, he had been hanging around her all night. That's odd. If he liked HER, then he wasn't pursuing me. But if he wasn't pursuing ME, then why did he invite...
That's when Mr. W took out his guitar and instructed everyone to turn to a specific page in their BIBLES. Everyone complied except for me, who hadn't gotten the memo that this was a BYOB event. I then spent the rest of the evening listening to bible verses, humming Christian music, and deciding that James was not to be trusted.
I have no problem with Christian retreats. But I think we can all agree that they shouldn't be handled like surprise parties. On the upside, James may have a promising future as a missionary...
")
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Teenage Crush Stoops to an Impressive Low
It's that time of year again-VALENTINE'S DAY! And who wouldn't love to read a story of requited love and pure romance? I'm sorry I can't offer one...
This is a story of humiliation and absence of self-respect (or really any form of respect).
Let's journey back, shall we? The year was 1997 (yes, this DID take place in the last century) and I was a sophomore in high school with a mouthful of braces and nothing to lose. The lucky object of my affection was a boy who we will refer to as "Don" because I can't bring myself to use his actual name; that's just how far this humiliation extends.
Don was a predictable choice for being a suburban teenage crush: generic good looks (tall, dark-haired, no noticeable facial disfigurements), athletic (track team-big deal), and, well, he had a pulse. I don't recall him being very clever, but to be fair he probably didn't want to have too many lengthy conversations with the moron underclassman who was stalking him...
Anyhow, my mother (BLESS HER HEART) suggested I confidently take the reins and ask him to our winter formal dance. Don (BLESS HIS HEART) very kindly refrained with a convincing "Oh, man! I'd LOVE to but someone else just asked me this morning..." (Weeks later, when I saw him at the dance, his date had "gotten sick" and was nowhere to be seen. It took me about a decade to realize that maybe there was never a date to begin with....)
A couple months went by and our school was gearing up for it's annual "Mystery Match" fundraiser. Students were to fill out "compatibility" questionnaires for the student council to sort and ship to some lame company that ran them through a magic machine and sent them back with a list of everyone's "top matches". Students could then pay a couple bucks to get their results and find out who a computer decided they were to spend the rest of their lives with. To this day I have no idea what that money went to, but oh well...
Since Don had about as much an attraction to me as he did to his calculus book, I decided that Mystery Match was my ONLY CHANCE. If he could just see, in printout form, that we were meant to be then the rest would take care of itself. I filled out my form to the best of my ability, sat back, and waited for the magic to happen.
If the story ended there, it would be cute. Naive and idiotic, but also a little cute. But it doesn't end there...
Now I don't want to brag, but I "knew people" in high school. Almost all of my friends held pretty impressive positions in the student council, but again, not trying to brag. Anyhow, when it was time to sort the match questionnaires, they asked if I could help. Sure, why not? What else am I doing after school? I joined my friends in a room filled with hundreds of papers containing intimate details about nearly everyone in our school and we began sorting and boxing them up to mail to the magic company that was going to make all of our dreams come true...
And then one of my wiseguy friends found Don's questionnaire and began waving it around. At that moment, I knew what it was like to be Adam in the Garden of Eden. I resisted for about seventeen seconds before grabbing it and reading the entire thing. This was BAD: not because I was using my student council connections to view pseudo-confidential student materials, but because some of his answers WERE DIFFERENT THAN MINE!
I thought about it. What harm would it do to change one, maybe TWO of my own to ensure a more positive result? I mean, I could easily like pizza more than Chinese food, or enjoy the mountains more than the beach. My integrity would still remain intact, right? All I can say is, I wish I had kept track of how many answers I had changed because when the results came back, I was matched with Don at 91%. I was thrilled, until I realized that most people's highest match was in the 60's, maybe 70's... the odds of having a match in the nineties was almost impossible and reeked of foul play. As I followed Don out of class that day, I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a buddy.
"It's so weird, my highest match was, like, 90%"
I trailed close behind, my nose nearly hitting his backpack, waiting for his inevitable marriage proposal. Instead, he abruptly changed directions and walked with his friend down another corridor. My sources say he was spotted later that night, making out with a freshman who wasn't even ON his list of mystery matches...
At the time I was devastated that my air-tight plan didn't work. However, looking back 15 years later, I'm pretty happy with the man I DID end up marrying. And I didn't even need to doctor any test results to land him! Now that's love...
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day ")
This is a story of humiliation and absence of self-respect (or really any form of respect).
Let's journey back, shall we? The year was 1997 (yes, this DID take place in the last century) and I was a sophomore in high school with a mouthful of braces and nothing to lose. The lucky object of my affection was a boy who we will refer to as "Don" because I can't bring myself to use his actual name; that's just how far this humiliation extends.
Don was a predictable choice for being a suburban teenage crush: generic good looks (tall, dark-haired, no noticeable facial disfigurements), athletic (track team-big deal), and, well, he had a pulse. I don't recall him being very clever, but to be fair he probably didn't want to have too many lengthy conversations with the moron underclassman who was stalking him...
Anyhow, my mother (BLESS HER HEART) suggested I confidently take the reins and ask him to our winter formal dance. Don (BLESS HIS HEART) very kindly refrained with a convincing "Oh, man! I'd LOVE to but someone else just asked me this morning..." (Weeks later, when I saw him at the dance, his date had "gotten sick" and was nowhere to be seen. It took me about a decade to realize that maybe there was never a date to begin with....)
A couple months went by and our school was gearing up for it's annual "Mystery Match" fundraiser. Students were to fill out "compatibility" questionnaires for the student council to sort and ship to some lame company that ran them through a magic machine and sent them back with a list of everyone's "top matches". Students could then pay a couple bucks to get their results and find out who a computer decided they were to spend the rest of their lives with. To this day I have no idea what that money went to, but oh well...
Since Don had about as much an attraction to me as he did to his calculus book, I decided that Mystery Match was my ONLY CHANCE. If he could just see, in printout form, that we were meant to be then the rest would take care of itself. I filled out my form to the best of my ability, sat back, and waited for the magic to happen.
If the story ended there, it would be cute. Naive and idiotic, but also a little cute. But it doesn't end there...
Now I don't want to brag, but I "knew people" in high school. Almost all of my friends held pretty impressive positions in the student council, but again, not trying to brag. Anyhow, when it was time to sort the match questionnaires, they asked if I could help. Sure, why not? What else am I doing after school? I joined my friends in a room filled with hundreds of papers containing intimate details about nearly everyone in our school and we began sorting and boxing them up to mail to the magic company that was going to make all of our dreams come true...
And then one of my wiseguy friends found Don's questionnaire and began waving it around. At that moment, I knew what it was like to be Adam in the Garden of Eden. I resisted for about seventeen seconds before grabbing it and reading the entire thing. This was BAD: not because I was using my student council connections to view pseudo-confidential student materials, but because some of his answers WERE DIFFERENT THAN MINE!
I thought about it. What harm would it do to change one, maybe TWO of my own to ensure a more positive result? I mean, I could easily like pizza more than Chinese food, or enjoy the mountains more than the beach. My integrity would still remain intact, right? All I can say is, I wish I had kept track of how many answers I had changed because when the results came back, I was matched with Don at 91%. I was thrilled, until I realized that most people's highest match was in the 60's, maybe 70's... the odds of having a match in the nineties was almost impossible and reeked of foul play. As I followed Don out of class that day, I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a buddy.
"It's so weird, my highest match was, like, 90%"
I trailed close behind, my nose nearly hitting his backpack, waiting for his inevitable marriage proposal. Instead, he abruptly changed directions and walked with his friend down another corridor. My sources say he was spotted later that night, making out with a freshman who wasn't even ON his list of mystery matches...
At the time I was devastated that my air-tight plan didn't work. However, looking back 15 years later, I'm pretty happy with the man I DID end up marrying. And I didn't even need to doctor any test results to land him! Now that's love...
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day ")
Thursday, February 9, 2012
No, I Won't Trust You, JJ Abrams...
Ooh- J.J. Abrams has a new show on television. A new show called "Alcatraz"... well, it could be called "Babies and Puppies and Attractive Men Holding Them" and I still wouldn't tune in.
I'm sure good ol' Double J is an excellent producer, writer, and director and heaven knows he's accomplished more in his life than I have (at press time). But he is the man I hold responsible for the complete debacle that is the show "LOST" and I'm not ready to forgive and forget.
If you've never seen Lost, you can just stop reading now because you can't possibly comprehend the obscene mindKICKing (trying to keep my language PG) that the rest of us viewers endured for not one, not two, but SIX seasons. We're talking plane crashes on mysterious islands, parallel universes, obscure references to magnetic phenomena, inexplicable rules about fertility, random time travel, and a 400lb man who NEVER lost weight despite being trapped on an island for an indefinite amount of time...
We all tuned in week after week to see how it was all going to "tie together" in the end. It was as if we were in an abusive relationship for six years and kept going back, NAY, BEGGING for more... only to get engaged and be left at the altar in the series finale that would have been less insulting if a hand had just reached through the television and punched me square in the face... spoiler alert: it never tied together. And I want to throw a brick through the window of every writer on that show because I could have easily had their job: sitting in a room thinking of outlandish storylines that never have to be explained.
I could write about Lost and its shortcomings all night but now I've worked myself up and should probably go and finish making dinner for my family (priorities?) but I'll tell you one thing: I will NOT be watching Alcatraz anytime soon...
")
P.S. Unless I run out of stuff to watch on Netflix. Then it's anyone's guess what lows I'll stoop to...
I'm sure good ol' Double J is an excellent producer, writer, and director and heaven knows he's accomplished more in his life than I have (at press time). But he is the man I hold responsible for the complete debacle that is the show "LOST" and I'm not ready to forgive and forget.
If you've never seen Lost, you can just stop reading now because you can't possibly comprehend the obscene mindKICKing (trying to keep my language PG) that the rest of us viewers endured for not one, not two, but SIX seasons. We're talking plane crashes on mysterious islands, parallel universes, obscure references to magnetic phenomena, inexplicable rules about fertility, random time travel, and a 400lb man who NEVER lost weight despite being trapped on an island for an indefinite amount of time...
We all tuned in week after week to see how it was all going to "tie together" in the end. It was as if we were in an abusive relationship for six years and kept going back, NAY, BEGGING for more... only to get engaged and be left at the altar in the series finale that would have been less insulting if a hand had just reached through the television and punched me square in the face... spoiler alert: it never tied together. And I want to throw a brick through the window of every writer on that show because I could have easily had their job: sitting in a room thinking of outlandish storylines that never have to be explained.
I could write about Lost and its shortcomings all night but now I've worked myself up and should probably go and finish making dinner for my family (priorities?) but I'll tell you one thing: I will NOT be watching Alcatraz anytime soon...
")
P.S. Unless I run out of stuff to watch on Netflix. Then it's anyone's guess what lows I'll stoop to...
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Get Lost(on)
Welcome to my blog!
You may have noticed it's a little sparse; just give me time...
Full disclosure: Despite the fact that it's my favorite city in the world, I have not and do not live in Boston. I currently reside just outside our nation's lovely capital, but I did grow up somewhat near the home of the Red Sox (in a little town called Chelmsford, MA, aka "That Town Next to Lowell"). This blog is named for a musical that my friend, Lyn, and I have been fantasizing about writing for over a decade.
Sadly, I must cut this post short and head to work (don't you hate it when gainful employment gets in the way of your blogging?!) but in the words of a former California governor: "I'll be back..."
")
You may have noticed it's a little sparse; just give me time...
Full disclosure: Despite the fact that it's my favorite city in the world, I have not and do not live in Boston. I currently reside just outside our nation's lovely capital, but I did grow up somewhat near the home of the Red Sox (in a little town called Chelmsford, MA, aka "That Town Next to Lowell"). This blog is named for a musical that my friend, Lyn, and I have been fantasizing about writing for over a decade.
Sadly, I must cut this post short and head to work (don't you hate it when gainful employment gets in the way of your blogging?!) but in the words of a former California governor: "I'll be back..."
")
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