Home - Part I

A lot of different emotions and mental pictures come to mind when I think of that word. What is home? Four walls with a roof and rooms… pictures of memories and the people that live there? I’ve been thinking about home the past few days, what it was, has been and what it is now.
The thing I remember most from home as a child is stair landings. The houses changed throughout the years, and sometimes that stair landing was just a bend in a hallway, but that landing/bend in the hallway, was home.

When I was little, if I was upset, angry or somehow not what my mom wanted to deal with, I was sent to my room and told I couldn’t come down until I was ready to act the way I was supposed to. It was never about the why. Why was I upset, sad, angry or whatever? The why never seemed to matter.

I remember for years my mom boasting about how I always just went to my room until I could calm down…like it was some big accomplishment of hers somehow. She loved to tell the story of how it all started. With me, at age 4, getting upset about being teased by my parents, and storming up to my room with my parents laughing at me all the way there.

So up I went to my room, and I remember that landing…the turn in the stairs where my mom couldn’t see me anymore, where I was allowed to finally feel the way I actually felt. I spent a lot of time in my room over the years. I learned from a very early age that whenever I couldn’t smile and act like everything was perfect…when I couldn’t hold the façade in place anymore, I went to my room.

The smile, the façade, just needed to hold until I got to that stair landing or bend in the hallway. Then I could be me. I was allowed to cry, or be hurt, or angry, or frustrated…and sometimes just peaceful. I would shut my bedroom door and sit silently until I was able to slip the façade back into place and hold it there.

Until I was able to pretend I felt exactly how I was supposed to feel, be what I was supposed to be.

This is my dance space - aka: Respect the perimeter, son!

Ok...brace yourself for a pregnant lady rant.

I understand that a pregnant belly seems to give off vibes of, "touch it.  Touch it.  TOUCH IT."  But what I fail to understand is taking that odd compulsion and randomly touching a stranger's belly, just because she's pregnant. 

Imagine a scenario - random strange guy walks up to a woman and just touches her.  At the very least he would get yelled at, probably slapped, and possibly arrested.  And baring mental illness, a fully functioning person, man or woman, should be able to cognitively reason prior to reaching out a hand and laying it on a woman's belly.  Thinking process should include:  1.  Do I know her?  2.  Would I like someone to randomly touch me?...and 3.  Do I want to be slapped today?

After answering all those questions "no", it's time to back away from the hormonal pregnant woman who probably has no qualms about beating you over the head with a very large purse.

I mean, I don't get all up in your bidzness, touching your bits because they seem interesting...so what makes you think I want some random guy that I don't know touching my bits.  Without asking.  Hell, even if you ask...  Creepy random guy stranger danger...hello.

So after my first brush with this I have come up with rules regarding the belly. 

The Belly Rules

1.  Don't reach out a hand and raise your eyebrows - use your words.  So then I can use mine.

2.  Just because you think my belly is interesting - doesn't mean I have to let you investigate it.

3.  I don't care if it is the miracle of life - whilst it is encompassed within my personal space, I am the supreme ruler, queen and rebel leader...what I say goes.

4.  Just because someone else some other time let you - doesn't mean I have to.

5.  If I don't know you - the answer is always no.

6.  Respect the perimeter, SON! 

And on that note - I am off to design a t-shirt that says, "Handing out slaps one touch at a time" across the belly.

Wake me up when there is an ACTUAL tornado!

Saturday mornings are all about sleeping in, staying in your pajamas, and generally being a schleb all day - it's absolutely glorious. 

But this morning - I was woken up by the tornado sirens shrieking outside my windows.  Now, these sirens are tested once a month on a Wednesday, so since it was a Saturday morning...I thought it was legit. 

Heart pounding, I threw on sweats and shoes, grabbed my computer and radio, and hustled the cats downstairs to the basement.  Made a bed out of blankets and pillows on the floor and tried to get reception on my radio. 

The siren was blaring still, the cats were totally freaked out and then I hear it... A completely calm radio announcer telling me that the city of Omaha has decided to randomly test the sirens this morning.  All morning long.

Asshats.

Gosh, I miss California sometimes.  Only sirens you hear are the old air raid ones when they malfunction and only in the older neighborhoods.  I'll take earthquakes any day over a tornado.

So you thought it would be easy to name your child - horror stories from name trauma

So pretty much all of you know that I'm pregnant, expecting my first child.  It's still a few weeks until we can find out the sex of the baby...but being the list maker/planner that I am, there exists already (and for some time now) a list of "approved" names.  Both for boys and girls.  I've shared the list with Thor and while he doesn't approve of all the names, it's at least a jumping off point.

I've heard too many stories of parents waiting to name their kid until they have it in hand and it's crunch time, with the nurse standing by to fill out the birth certificate.

And both my husband and I have serious childhood name trauma ourselves from our names.  So while the smart ass in me (and him!) want to come up with something TRULY spectacular...I am feeling a moment's pause and caution lately.

I don't want my potential daughter to be tormented like I was with the 1980's Star Wars trilogy name all through her school years, because in a moment of "oh, that'd be soooooo cute" I decided to hang the proverbial sign - sending her to school with donut braids and a name that screamed IRONY at the top of its lungs. 

(Disclaimer:  My mother will claim that I asked her to do the donut braids.  But, as I was only 6 years old and couldn't begin to understand the complexities of life, I maintain that she, as the adult, should have known better.)  Love ya mom, but totally gonna pin that one on you.

Or a cocktail waitress' name, or a stripper name, or the name I SWORE to my grandmother I would never, never, NEVER name my child.  Which my mom actually likes. 

And I don't want my potential son to have a name that seems like a cool, unusual name...like the parents are from some other country - let's say Norway, for example.  But is in fact an attempt by academics to place that sign again on a poor defenseless child.  Who will come to realize torment for said name, right about the time he's discovering girls.  And while it's cool to be named after the Norse god of thunder...telling a cute girl at a party that you were named after a drawf king in MiddleEarth doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

And so...here I am contemplating the poor Apples, Kal- Els, and Rumers of the world - they aren't ever living that shit down...trying to think of a name that sounds good with our last name, won't cause undue trauma, hasn't been used 5 million times, and won't get the poor kid beat up in school.

Boy, this is going to be harder than I thought...

I've been the victim of pilferage...shameless pilferage.

Once upon a time (sometime this past Winter), I met a lovely woman at a craft show.  She and I started talking and laughing like old friends in a matter of minutes.  She made these Cuddle Babies - soft fleece guys that looked like gingerbread men.  The babies had a velcro flap that held a linen pillow of fragrant brown rice that you heated up in the microwave, put in the baby, and then cuddled with it.

I LOVE this thing.  It's awesome, I put it in my bed on cold nights to warm up the blankets.  Sometimes I use it as a neck pillow to relax my muscles.  I love it.

Today I was the victim of shameless pilferage of my Cuddle Baby - The minute I turned around, someone took it.  And here's the culprit!

The best weight loss plan even Kate Middleton doesn't know about...

I stumbled upon the best weight loss plan I've ever run across about 4 months ago.  Wasn't looking to lose weight, in fact I was engaging in planning for an event sure to pack on the pounds.

So how did I do it?  Well, let me run through the 5 easy steps to my weight loss.

1.  Get knocked up.

2.  Be nauseous 24 hours a day for 3 months solid, resulting in eating very little.

3.  Sleep all the bloody time.  Sleep like you have a raging case of mono.  Sleep like a college student crashing after a Redbull binge for finals.  Hell, sleep like a fuzzy, one crossed eye house cat named Munchkin - actually I think I put even him to shame.

4.  Have a human being growing inside you that takes between 300-600 calories from you a day.  Every day.

5.  Drink water like you are stuck in the middle of the desert with no hope of ever getting out.  Or like you are half camel.

And voila! 

I've lost over 25 pounds so far.  Crazy.
I'm going to call it the Pod diet.

Brought to you by Butler.  Pod Butler.

Just when you think drinking orange goo and being poked 4 times is bad...

So the weekend was nice and uneventful - but it didn't start out that way. 

Friday morning at the butt crack of dawn I dragged my ass outta bed and drove across town to the base clinic to have a 3-hour glucose test that my OB ordered.  Yes, I know it seems really soon to be having such a test during my pregnancy...but with my family medical history of type 1 diabetes, my OB is being super careful and testing early. 

So I show up and am immediately poked - the base line checked - all good at 110 after fasting for 12 hours.  Then they have me sit down and make me drink 10 oz of this thick, vile orange goo - that is sooo sweet I kept gagging.  

Wait 1 hour.  Although after about 20 minutes, my heart is racing and I feel lightheaded so I ask the nurse if that is normal.  Sure, she says...it's just a sugar high.  Ok??  I've never had a sugar high in my life...I felt like I was having a stroke.  Struggled to keep it down, chugged through like 32 oz of water trying to dilute some of it.

After 1 hour I was poked again.  That's 2 so far.  Then sent to sit back down and wait another hour.  About halfway into the second hour my heart wasn't racing anymore which helped me feel better.  Worked on the baby swaddle I was making since there was nothing else to do.

After the second hour - poked again.  They couldn't find a vein so it took a couple tries.  That's 3 times.  Sent back to my seat, finished the baby blanket and waited out the last hour.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  After about an hour and 20 minutes...they FINALLY poke me the last time.  Both arms totally bruised...yay.  Poked 4 times.  So they send me home, told me I would have my results by 5pm.

Great.  On the way out of the office, I was bolting back Gatorade and munching on a Cliff bar...since it had been about 17 hours since I'd eaten last.  The pod was not happy. 

Walked to my car and saw about 3 car lengths away that my rear bumper had been hit.  Asshats!  Sometime while I was taking that test, someone hit my parked car.  No note.  People are vile.  Sit on hold with my insurance company while I walked around the parking lot looking at all the red vehicles looking for matching damage - no luck.  Progressive was great - took my info in less than 5 minutes and had an adjustor call me within 15 minutes.  Awesome.  Totally easy to deal with.

Security forces patently refuses to even take a report since both parties aren't present.  Guess they've never heard of "leaving the scene of an accident" or how to do actual police work.  *eyes roll*  So glad I live off base...cuz heaven forbid there was an actual crime in their jurisdiction, I'd be totally screwed.

Fast forward to today.  Just got back from having the collision estimate done on the damage.   Purely cosmetic - yay.  To the tune of nearly 800 bucks.  Boo.  

On the plus side - can't get any worse, right?  Oh wait...still waiting on the test results.  Maybe I should hold off on that...