Second Verse, Same As the First

Goddamit! Why does the fracking phone always ring 20 minutes after the child goes down for a nap! People! Do not call me between the hours of 1 and 5 PM!  SERIOUSLY!  Also, if I ever buy a phone without a mute button on it again, kick me in the shins repeatedly, please. It would be way less painful than having my child awoken 20 minutes after he first falls asleep.

And now there is screaming.  So  much screaming! Fun times.

There was a brief shining moment last week some time when my fingers hovered over this very keyboard and I thought about saying something about how maybe I might sort of kind of be feeling slightly better.  But no, THAT moment passed.  Today I feel as rotten as ever.  In order to spice up my usual monologue of “I really truly wish I were dead” I have taken to asking if Mr. E knows where I can get industrial grade ether or if medicinal marijuana is permissable during pregnancy (turns out NO, of course, no one wants you to have ANY fun when you’re PREGNANT). When those two bon mots grow old, I simply announce, as dramatically as possible “I JUST CANNOT DO THIS ANY LONGER.”

Of course one must continue on, no matter what.  And I do feel keenly at certain fleeting moments that it will all be worth it, certainly, absolutely worth it.  But oh, lord, it’s still awfully tremendously terrible.

Ah! You know what solves this crying problem almost instantly?  Headphones + Elliott Smith.  Highly recommend.  Plus then you can really do a nice depressive ponder of untimely death, what with Mr. Smith’s unfortunate demise, and THAT’S almost as good as actually being 13 again and wondering where to find a new pair of those fetching black and white striped tights.  If you have enough cash in your Star Trek lunchbox purse, that is.

Also! Because life wasn’t sunny enough, this week I get to add another entire category to the “food I can’t eat without wishing I was dead, no, really, DEAD DEAD DEAD”, because now not only can I not eat gluten, dairy, sugar, booze of any kind, or anything without nuclear levels of protein, but I also can’t even look at a can of tomato soup without inciting Mach 10 levels of heartburn, so, for those keeping score, that means:  no gluten, no booze, no dairy, no sugar, and nothing acidic.  Seriously, WATER gives me heartburn.

I comfort myself with an image I like to call, simply:  “After”.  I have just given birth, there’s a lovely glow hovering in the air around me, a sort of aura, you might say, and I’m surrounded by bright white clean sheets, solicitous nurses offering heaping baskets of the good drugs, and Entemann’s donuts and Taco Bell cheese sauce.

I am tired.  Tired tired tired.  I just finished reading “The Corner” and seriously, it’s awfully hard not to draw the comparison between myself and a crack addict.  Every forty minutes I have to crawl out of my cave and search for my next fix, and if it’s not calibrated to nuclear fusion levels of correctness, I feel like hot garbage for the next four hours or so.  Maybe I’ll get lucky and I’ll feel unprecedented levels of decent for up to 20 minutes at a time!, and then I get hungry again, and it’s off in search of my next score.

I should just keep a cooler of steak tartare by the side of my bed.

Oh, that might be the most revolting image I have ever conjured up in the history of all time.

Have I mentioned I. AM. TIRED. OF. THIS. SHIT?

Anyway.  Besides the miracle of conception, what else am I up to?  Well, this weekend I helped Mr. E plant a climbing rose next to the fence.  I would imagine it will be lovely come any time that’s not right now.  Let’s say – June.  Right around DONUT TIME.  And we planted raspberry bushes in the backyard and I feel a proprietary love towards them which can only be classified as unnatural.  If I name this kid Raspberry Ekd@hl don’t be surprised.

And I successfully goaded Mr. E into putting up another shelf in our closet to hold more shoes, which means the closet floor is clear of shoes, which means the CANIS TERRIBILIS can sleep in there now, and I finally have a shot at a night’s sleep in which I am not awoken by either the oppressive stench of dog or the indescribably horrendous sound of a dog licking unknown dog parts.  Hooray!

Also, I cut my hair because although I was right in the middle of “growing it out” it was WAKING ME UP AT NIGHT and we can’t have that.  I am already awoken numerous times a night by my dipshit neighbor, my child, my wildebeest husband, my stupid dog, and my traitorous bladder, so clearly I the hair had to go.  I did remember that it needs to be left much longer than I actually ever think it does, (in order to be tucked behind my ears), and I have decided that the fact that I actually remembered this means I am GROWING AS A PERSON in all sorts of marvelous life affirming ways.

Finally, do you think this:

“NO SOLICITING OF ANY KIND, PLEASE. THANK YOU.”

properly conveys that I do not want a “free” GE Security system, to find God, magazines, candy, my lawn mowed, or to be born again?  Because really, in my VERY BEST DREAMS I am the sort of person who answers the door at EIGHT THIRTY AT NIGHT and says “FOR GOD’S SAKE OF COURSE I DO NOT WANT A FREE PAPER WHAT  ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU AND ALSO CHILDREN ARE SLEEPING NOW OR AT LEAST THEY WERE EVEN THOUGH THEY AREN’T ANYMORE SO THANKS BUT NO THANKS, ASS HAT AND YOU CAN SHOVE THAT FREE PAPER WHERE THE…(well, you get the idea)” but in reality I am the sort of person who instead simply inwardly seethes these lines in my head for months, and then thinks really hard about printing a sign, and googles “No Soliciting” signs and favorites “No Solicitors of Any Kind” signs on Etsy and then asks the assembled masses curiously “Do you think they sell No Soliciting signs at Home Depot?” and then gets ALL RILED UP all over again EVERY SINGLE TIME someone tries to sell me a “free” GE security system and then I again compose a lengthy ranting treatise  (in my head) about HOW TOTALLY OFFENDED I AM BY THE PEDDLING OF FEAR AND PREYING ON THE PARANOIA OF POOR CONFUSED OLD PEOPLE and then finally finally finally prints out a sign and slaps it on the door and then really really  hopes everyone leaves her the hell alone.

But not you all, you all are lovely and can feel free to sell me candy for your “basketball team” any day of the week.  I won’t be able to eat it, but I will save it, and I will add it to the imaginary pile of drugs, donuts, and cheese sauce.

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6 Responses

  1. please name her Raspberry! I actually think that is cute! I know that we have a lot in common, but I suspect it ends here- you see, I find fruit/vegetable names totally endearing (Apple is the ONLY thing I like about G. Paltrow) and a veggie name is in my top-secret final 3 names list for my as yet un-miraculously un-conceived child)

  2. I really need to think about the garden, but every time I do ANYTHING outside I want to die. I pulled weeds in my rose bed yesterday and now I have a face filled with concrete. I get dizzy when I turn my head. GAH.

  3. I think the No Soliciting sign is fine. It is not rude. At all.

  4. Definitely I think that remembering to say “It has to be long enough to tuck behind my ears” counts as significant personal growth. It shows you are beginning to Know Yourself.

  5. Ugh. The sound of a dog licking itself has got to be one of the top five worst in the world. If you locked me in a cell and made me listen to a dog lapping his testicles for more than five minutes I would tell you ANYTHING without any further torture. Just the idea is worse than bamboo under my fingernails, seriously.
    I got horrible heartburn with both pregnancies too. Man does it suck.
    Here’s what I want to know: who in the WORLD actually enjoys being pregnant more than fifty percent of the time? Because I always run into people fondly reminiscing about pregnancy and I’m like, “WHAT?! What am I doing wrong that I think at least seventy five percent of the time, pregnancy is like the worst illness/bad mood/hangover I’ve ever had?” I think I am missing out on some big magical secret or something. Either that or those women ARE secretly smoking marijuana.

  6. Oh honey. I feel ya. Especially about people ringing my doorbell WHEN IT IS DARK. Luckily my husband is very good at inadvertently making Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses cry. They steer clear of our house now.

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