Thursday, March 26, 2009


Bird is the word. Subtitled: If you ring my doorbell, duck.

Oh, what a lovely door and an even lovelier spring wreath -- you might say. That's what I said, at least.

And then I got a closer look.

And an even closer look.

It seems that in a matter of less than two weeks, my new wreath and not-new door have become home to a knocked up, single mother bird who desperately needed a spot to harbor her eggs. Momma bird works fast.

I do not have any strange bird paranoias (unlike some Besties I know, ahem.). My main thing with birds nesting on my front door are thusly:

1) The high potential for bird poop on my door and surroundings.
2) The higher potential that a startled bird -- Momma or otherwise -- may fly INTO the house when the front door opens. Then I have cats who will go bitchcakes. Or keep sleeping. Either is likely.
3) Everytime someone attempts to ring the bell/knock, there a flurry of bird flying at their head. My sister in law can attest to this -- in fact, this is how we found said nest.
4) The constant cheeping and worm barf that comes with newborn birds.

I addressed my concerns with the Mister who believes that we ought to leave the birds alone. Not because he has any real, deep bird love, but because he does not want to mess with "baby-things karma". Addling birds eggs might not leave us in a favorable light, karma-wise, considering our current baby-thing and nesting tendencies. A fair point.

So the bird & eggs stay.
1) Bird poop will be cleaned up on an as-needed basis.
2) Birds in the house will be dealt with -- either with feline intervention or a broom -- I feel we can't really be faulted for this.
3) My aunt suggests a note of caution to those entering the porch.
4) Wikipedia says baby birds stay in the nest for 2 weeks. I can deal with the cheeping for that long.

In that case, I decided to align myself with the bird and potential birds. I named them. Robin is the mom. Duh. And her babies are: Shadrach, Meshach, Abendnego and Egg. I thought there were only 3 eggs, to learn upon my camera footage there were actually 4. And by that point I had already hit my creative contrete wall of bird names.

Bird updates to follow?

Saturday, March 21, 2009


For a show I don't fraking watch, I sure do know a lot about it.

No, I don't watch Battlestar Galactica. I'm married to someone who does and have occasionally stumbled into the room to see it, but, again, I reiterate, No, I don't watch it. And no, I really don't care to. Yeah, I know. It's a great show. No, no, "It's a deep, complicated, engaging show!" says my Mister. In fact, and I mean this with no ill-intent, I usually sleep through it. The Mister lovingly cues it up on the Tivo about 20 minutes after 10pm each Friday night, and that somehow Pavolvian-ly triggers me to begin my 40 minute nap on the couch.

I know, I know you're going to tell me if I would just watch the first few episodes I'd be all hooked. No, really, thank you. And I certainly have no intention of ribbing those of you who have chosen B.G. as a lifestyle choice.

Part of my problem is that I'm in too many T.V. show committed relationships already. I can't get involved with who is or is not a cylon. Who fraked a cylon. I can't manage mental tallies of who we know for sure would appear in a cylon directory.

And for all that not watching I do of B.G., I have a few complaints.

1) And I think you'll all agree: Does it just bug the nuts out of you when an actor whose character not yet dead on one show appears on another show as a different character -- like you weren't going to notice. Like you can totally watch show #2 and not think that, say, Starbuck has really cashed in her B.G. chips when she's all geared up to play the tattooed, oversexed anesthesiologist on Nip/Tuck. Incidentally, I wouldn't have noticed this except that the Mister, who does not watch N/T (He has no intention of watching it except that he's married to someone who does and occasionally stumbles into the room when it's on.), blurted out in one of his passing-bys, "Hey, that's the chick who plays Starbuck."

2) Starbuck, by sheer mention of her name, makes me want coffee. They ought to have given her a more clever name. Or hell, at least a brighter disposition to carry such a sunshiney name.

3) The Mister assures me I am mistaken, and maybe I, by my presence alone, just bring it out in shows -- but B.G. seems like soft porn. I know, coming from someone who watches Nip/Tuck. But for real. As rarely as I'm in the room, someone's always having some serious space-sex. And they aren't always too terribly discriminating about that whole "with-whom" part. Dead people, real people, real robot looking people, people with creepy eyepatches.. I thought their world was being destroyed? I thought each one of them was plagued with creepy, reoccuring dreams? I thought their junk-heap ship, La Galactica, was on its last space leg and they were pleading to their too-numerous-to-count gods for answers? Peeps seem pretty down with all that to be getting it on so much.

4) And why did Creepy Eyepatch Dude choose a skin-toned eyepatch? That just made it extra creepy, sir. And how did C.E.Dude land the hottie with such a creepy eyepatch? See, it could only happen in space. Though pirates are near and dear to me, an eyepatch on a man is a deal breaker. Unless the eyepatch is obtained post-first date. And even then it demands some reconsideration. Be honest, you agree. I'll say it, I'm an eyepatch-ist.

5) Funny that all of your little baby fighter ship things run just fine, but that big one that you park them on is falling apart. Might want to have the mechanic take a look at it.

6) Where's the funny guy? The guy who lightens up the mood with a great one-liner? Perhaps if the show is pre-Earth they haven't made anti-depressants yet, because everyone's so gloomy. Or if the show is post-Earth they didn't have enough cargo room to store the medication for 38,000 people tooling around space.

I'd go on, primarily about the finale, but I fear that a few of you have not yet seen it and I'd hate to fill your mind with questions at that, the most final of finales.

Seriously. I don't watch the show.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009


A blog for my Mom.


"Some people have cats and go on to lead normal lives."

Still being relatively childless, I do frequently find myself photographing the antics of my cats. We have two of them. Bernini, the first born, has grown into quite a large, voluminous cat of massive proportion (The Mister calls it '"fat". I call it "extra".). He's sweet, simple and functions entirely on instinct. Hershey is our petite, conniving and cunning cat. She thinks things through. She processes. I dare say, she reasons it out. I'm very thankful she is without the capability of speech because she would best me at debate.

Bernini, sweet and simple, I think, frequently forgets that Hershey exists. When he discovers her, which it seems like several times a day he has to introduce himself for the first time to her, his instinct tells him to Alpha-Cat himself on her. She really loves this, let me tell you. And it's a good thing she's about 1/3 of his size because she darts a lot more efficiently than he can chase. Sometimes, though, size counts. And often we'll hear her cries and find Bernini firmly entrenched on Hershey, who is helpless to escape. (At this point you're like, "Holy crap. Have the baby already and stop writing deep and thoughtful explanations of your cats in your blog.")

I give you: The Anatomy of a Cat Fight

First, there's some pushing.

And then there's some shoving.

Then Bernini asserts his Alpha-Catness and sits on Hershey.

Then Hershey finally dons the look of submission.

Then Bernini leaves.

...And a little something for dog lovers:
A woman at work was telling me that she has a beautiful, 12 year old pure-bred Labrador. That she hates. She bought the dog as a puppy years ago from a breeder and has since had nothing but years of dog pee, disseminated, chewed kitchen trash, barking, jumping, humping, etc. She lives on several acres and over the years has seen the dog take off out the back door into the wilds of her acreage, unable and unwilling to be caught. A few hours, sometimes days later he returns covered in who-knows-what, but lovingly covers her furniture with it.

A few weeks ago the dog took off, as usual. Only this time he hasn't come back. And she's not all that terrifically upset about it. No one in her family is. Maybe he's happily eating someone else's trash. And that someone else is really happy about it. Last week as she shopped at her grocery store, she saw the sign from her local SPCA with a giant picture of HER dog on it.

"The poster has his picture on it, and under the picture it says 'Labrador-mix'," she told me.

"Well, I mean, that's great, right? Are you going to go get him?" I asked.

"Hell no I'm not going to get him. But I am thinking I might call them anonymously."

"What, to tell them that he's yours but that you can't keep him and he has behavioral issues not conducive to your home life?"

"No. To tell them that I paid $700 to a breeder for him 12 years ago -- he's not a MIX. He's pure-bred. He's got papers!" she said.

"So, you want to correct their advertising."

"Yes. I was insulted that they called him a 'mix'. So, do you think the SPCA has caller ID?"

Thursday, March 05, 2009


She's having a baby. Subtitle: Let's not get stupid, people.

So I guess the beans have been spilled, the cat's out of the bag, the fertilized ovum left the fallopian tube.. It's visually and theoretically impossible to deny that I am growing a new human being in my body. And it's all been good news so far, so I don't mind penning a little tongue-in-cheek blog about it (since that tongue-in-cheek's what got me into this mess to begin with! BA-DUM DUM).

First off, it's freaky weird to be doing this. At first, it seemed like quite the bum deal to be so sick all the time -- and so spontaneously, too. I told the Mister that he better love this one a whole heck of a lot because I couldn't guarantee that any amount of mother nature's pregnancy-amnesia hormones that everyone talks about could make me forget lying on the couch unshowered, nauseous, starving, weepy and praying for death -- and want to do it again. Let's not forget my strange, very sudden and ridiculously strong aversion to poultry. Who knew?

And who let the hormones in? Shortly after our brand new, cherry red washer and dryer were delivered -- by "shortly after" I mean: 4 hours -- the washer broke. So all of that enviornmentally sound, tree hugging goodness that the washer assured me of, was lost after running for 4 hours on the first load (that first load pictured in the last blog..). I fell asleep on the couch (Oh yeah, pregnancy induced fatigue boarding on narcolepsy... Good thing I have always been a friend of "the nap") and awoke 4 hours later, not to my nearly-dry-spun clothing ready for the dryer, but to a load of clothing that was being washed, spun, drained, washed, spun, drained over and over. I called the kind people at Sears only to explain my washer/dryer dilema through a completely unexpected and unwarrented haze of tears and wimpers. The lady on the other end of the line seemed understandably confused at my emotional upheaval over appliances. "I'm *sniff* really sorry *wimper*, ma'am. I'm not *sniffle* this upset about the *wimper* washer, I'm just pregnant *snort* and have just found myself in *wimper* tears. Really, *big snort* I'm fine." Then I got, for the first of many times, the relieved response (because now she's dealing with a hormonal pregnant lady and not a certifiable nutjob who really loves appliances), "OHHHHHH! Honey, it's ok. We'll get it all fixed up." (And they did -- new washer and dryer chugging along enviornmentally well these days, thank you.). Meanwhile, my Mister comes home to find me in the kitchen sobbing over the calander, working out a new delivery date with the now-very-understanding Sears lady thinking that judging by my current emotional display I must have been molested by the new washer and dryer. Through the tears I explained that I was fine, the washer didn't lay a hand on me and that the Sears lady was making it all better.

I recently found online a shirt that I'm seriously considering purchasing. It reads:
Yes, I'm pregnant.
Yes, it's my first.
It's a boy.
No, we don't have a name yet.
He's due in June.
I am feeling fine, thanks.

Because that's all I'm saying anymore. Which brings me to my next point -- if women have been having babies for thousands of years -- the platitude that everyone seems to offer a pregnant woman when she worries about any aspect of her pregnancy -- then why does EVERYONE else get to say ridiculously stupid things to said pregnant woman? Pregnant women should be old-hat. We should blend right into society like the elderly -- just another sect of the population that we all know exist but don't need to make asinine comments to/about -- but mainly "to", in my case.

So I've been keeping this mental tally of all the comments -- however unintened -- that have come my way. I joke that I ought to write a book about them, but in actuality, it would be like 3 pages long, since the comments are short. And no one but pregnant women would buy it. And they wouldn't buy it because they're penning their own books about the stupid things said to them. So I figured I'd just go cheap and blog it.

#1: I'm now 6 months pregnant. Which means I've been pregnant for 6 months. Which is a long time. I was sick -- like, pregnant-sick, for the first, say, 3 months of that time. And in all that time, I've had the same job with the same co workers. So why is it that everytime -- and I mean, probably twice a day -- I see this particular nurse that I work with -- she asks me if:
a) I had any morning sickness. (clearly she forgot about my cracker inhaling, ginger-ale slurping filled days all those months ago)
b) if I'm still feeling sick anymore.
Now, I get that she's asking out of concern and sincere interest. But you asked me that 3 hours ago and I told you:
a) yes, a lot. and
b) no, not in the last few months.
And when you asked me that yesterday, twice, I told you:
a) yes, a lot. and
b) no, not in the last few months.

#2: Earlier on, I was having lunch with another co worker -- I add, a coworker I rarely see, am not terribly acquainted with and had never eaten with prior. It was a rare occasion -- both the 'having lunch' and the 'with a coworker' aspects. Hey, my job is busy. We chit chat about stuff and then we have this dialogue:
Her: So how far along are you?
Me: Uh, about 11 weeks.
Her: *disgusted face* Ugh, that's when I had my abortion. I couldn't wait. I was showing and everything, I was disgusting. Are you showing yet?
Me: .....

How does one find an appropriate retort to the old "that's when I had my abortion" comment? I get that we had a lot in common with eachother -- the commonground being pregnant-to-11-weeks part. But I feel our paths diverged from there.

#3: I'd like to group these comments into one section just because it was outburst of commentary on my physique that I appreciated. These comments explained to me why there are shirts for pregnant women that say, "No, I'm not fat. I'm just pregnant.":
"I can tell you're pregnant. Your face has gotten all fat."
"Oh! There it is! You're waddling!"
"You're pregnant? Oh, ok. I just thought you were getting a fat stomach."
"You can see that you're pregnant by your ass."
"Are you sure you want to be eating that? Seeing as how you're just going to be getting fat anyway, I thought you'd be wanting to cut back."

If I didn't have a husband who honestly and sincerely tells me how beautiful I look, good friends who comment on "the glow" and a scale that says I am gaining exactly what I ought to be gaining, I could see how I might be calling the Sears lady back to cry legitimately.

And what is with all the touching? People I work with touching me is weird enough, but strangers? I know this is, like, the most commonly hated aspect of pregnant women -- and people joke about it -- but people still touch you. Oh, right, I know. I should be glad to share this wonderful thing, and I should be glad that people, even total strangers, are happy for me. That's great. I'm happy that they're happy for me. But you touching me, and rubbing me BELOW MY BELTLINE is unacceptable. You might as well touch and rub my boob. Because it would be equally as weird and inappropriate. Plus, Hi. I'm a healthcare worker. I know what is, or what could potentially be on your hands. Thanks for rubbing it on my shirt and a mere few inches of skin and tissue from my unborn, immuno-comprimised child.

I was explaining this phenomenom to my Mister and he says, "What's the big deal? People are just excited for you." I say, "I know they're excited, but can't they be excited with their eyes and not with their hands? How would you feel if you told people you were an expectant father and everyone grabbed and rubbed your crotch to congradulate you -- just because they were excited for you?" He says, "Well, what would be bad about that?"

I am admittedly just starting to sigh and let the touching/rubbing just happen. I am helpless to stop it. I feel like I just need to join the ranks of the molested pregnant woman. What kills me is now at work, the older women -- the touchers -- will have one or, ha, two hands on my belly and carry on a totally non-baby-related conversation with me. For example, "Hey, Cathy. *two hands on and rubbing* Did you page the doctor about that patient yet? I was thinking *rubbing, rubbing* that we might want to move that patient to a different unit."

I once read a Dave Barry column that said that you ought not to comment on a pregnant women actually being pregnant unless you can see a baby physically emerging from her body. I think that's a fair statement. Yesterday I had my first spontaneous-stranger-spotter. I was in the elevator at work. Reading a Newseek. So I wasn't rubbing my belly. I wasn't saying outloud, "Oh, hello baby in my womb.." (Yes, I read Newsweek and, indeed, I read them in elevators at major metropolitan hospitals. I work on the highest floor. It's a long ride down. I take reading material. What?) A woman comes onto the elevator and after a moment she says, "Oh, when are you due?!" And for a moment, I panicked. Thinking: Christ, am I that big?! (And then we went into the usual script: June. Yeah, it's my first. Very excited. It's a boy. Nope, no names. I'm feeling great, thanks.)

But you know what? It really is exciting, for all my huffing and puffing. I've spent a blog complaining about the freaky parts, but the wonderful parts are the sincere excitement of my friends and family. The friends who haven't seen me in a few weeks whose mouths go agape and say, "Holy crap! You're having a baby!" Being woken up in the night because my little human is kicking/punching/mamboing wildly in his cramped quarters. The box of children's books that magically showed up on my front porch from a book-loving college friend (we've already started reading them to him, C, thanks!). The sister in law who arrived with little blue baby shoes with airplanes on them for my piloting Mister -- to counteract all the pirate stuff I've been buying.

And when, and if, #2 comes along I hear the fanfare is way, way less enthusiastic. So I ought to zip it, let the belly hang out, encourage people to feel me up now in these next three months before I have an actual baby for them to rub and hopefully not molest in the truest sense of the word.

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