Dear Little Man,
We regret to inform you that your housing unit has been set for deconstruction at 1700 hours today. We had hoped it wouldn't come to this but unfortunately your move out date has come and gone and since the house is no longer live-able and your latest rent check bounced you must be forcibly encouraged should you choose to not leave on your own accordance within the next 5 hours.
Sincerely,
Taylor-Murat Housing Authority
Jessy AKA Mom
...and other equally fun symptoms.
Baby is sucking out all my creativity and giving me nothing back except heartburn, horrendous kicks in my ribs simultaneously punching me in the vagina and hiccups in my butt. He’s a tiny multi-tasking phenomenon. His head is down, has been pretty much since the gender revealing ultrasound of 20 wks. When he gets the hiccups it literally feels like tiny jolts in my tushie. Awesome. It’s as though my tookus has a mind of its own or my insides have been so completely re-arranged by the ninja inside that my diaphragm is now near my ass. Either way, it’s not good.
My abdomen feels like it might explode, belly button as the initial point of exit. I can slather oils and lotions on my bread-basket of joy till my fingers are pruney and still my skin is taut and stretched to the limit. My limbs no longer resemble or even feel like what I remember due to their various stages of swelling; even my armpits are pudgy, seriously?! pudgy pits. How is that even possible? I began noticing this about a week ago when I tried to shave them. Do I need to describe the state of my hands and feet? I’ll only add that holding a pen or a paintbrush has been problematic if I expect my output to resemble anything legible or recognizable. No matter how much water I drink, my skin sloughs off at an alarming rate, making me appear like a snake in a constant state of shedding. This could be due to the fact that I’m pregnant in Colorado or that this bambino sucks all the water out of my skin to keep his little ocean filled. I’m aware of the other symptoms that are listed in numerous prepare-for-your-baby-enjoy-your-changing-body websites but there are some they don’t tell you about. I’m thinking this is the case because if they told you everything, people might just stop this pro-creating nonsense. While I try to maintain a state of hygiene and shave my legs, its getting harder to reach them, I’m not going to lie and say it wouldn’t be nice to pop them out at the hip joint, Barbie-doll style, hold them up, shave them, and pop ‘em back in after they are silky smooth. Then there is the increase in getting up to pee at night. If this baby doesn’t explode out my belly button the other option is: he drops just a tad lower and falls out my butt. I’ve been assured this isn’t physically possible but it sure as hell feels like it. He’s squished my bladder so hard that I have to get up to pee at least 14 times a night and I’ve nearly reached my limit. I’m contemplating wearing depends and un-potty training myself just so I don’t have to get up anymore. Yeah, that’s right. I’m actually considering wearing adult diapers and peeing my pants in my sleep. These are the dark thoughts one has when you’re running on increments of 2 hours of sleep or less. I also hear they now come in fabulous pink and purple colors.
As I increase in both size and weight moving like the zippy squirrel I used to has become an issue. There are still moments when I forget just how far my belly protrudes and I try to squeeze through tight spaces and fail. Haltingly. Miserably. Up until my maternity leave started last week there was an ongoing battle between myself and another coworker. She insists on turning the photocopier in our office space perpendicular to the wall, unfortunately for me, my agility or current lack thereof doesn’t allow me to get around it with ease thus ensues the constant banging of the tender belly on the protruding paper trays. I pushed it parallel to the wall every chance I got. Ahh, how I long for my zippy squirrel days. And while I’m ordering, I’ll take it with a tan and a pair of my sexy pre-pregnancy jeans. Thanks.
ease. There’s only so fast I can dash out of a room to create some distance between myself and the gas that I can no longer control, but I try, because I don’t have or want the kind of relationship (with co-workers) that involves “dutch ovens” or any other form of gas humor.” I will add that one of my co-workers, who shall remain nameless, but is the one who insists on setting the copier up as a deathtrap, has the WORST gas of anyone I know. And she doesn't leave the room or acknowledge that she’s even let one. Add to that combo a bionic nose and this pregnant gal is gagging. Thank God I got my maternity leave on! Just before this baby falls out of my butt.
We had a tad bit of a scare a couple weeks ago. I woke up at 3am with heartburn so bad I was choking and couldn’t breathe. At first I was more annoyed than scared. But that’s me. Get angry first and then cry. I got up and went to the living room so my husbandito could finish his REM cycle. I sat down with my legs propped up trying to catch my breath and decide whether to call the firefighters to knock out the wildfire in my throat. Suddenly my hands and feet swelled in a frighteningly short amount of time and a headache ensued. Since I haven’t had a headache in months I thought it wasn’t a good sign. I retreated to the bedroom, woke up Paul who of course wants to call the OB nurse. I’ve decided that whichever nurse you call they are ALWAYS going to tell you to go in to the ER. Working in the ER myself we get countless amounts of minor issues who say, “the nurse from the hotline told us to come in” of course she did, she can’t see you and even though she’s probably thinking “you’re fine, you ninny-muggin” she’s saying, “get it checked, sir or m’am”. I knew this but I panicked and worse, Paul panicked in his deliriously sleepy mind, so we listened to her. It didn’t help that she added, “Well, it could be preclampsia or a blood clot in her lungs”. Oh sweet. Those two options sound nice. So we get in the car and drive and so starts our trial run.
Problem #1: We weren’t quite sure how to get there. We hadn’t been to our hospital before. (The one I work at is less than two miles from us, but the one we're supposed to go to is 20 minutes away…damn insurance restrictions)
Problem #2: Gas gauge says empty and a couple miles into our drive the light comes on. Just peachy.
Problem #3: Headlight is out. We’d known about this for a couple days but our work and sleep schedules had prevented us from making it to the mechanic during opening hours and we’d been told we couldn't change it ourselves. Believe me, I tried.
Problem #4: Police noticing the missing headlight decided to follow us. And when we crossed city lines, another took up interest. Sweet alfalfa, an escort.
What we learned:
A. The hospital is father than we thought
B. There are 5 gas stations on the way there, 2 of which are not open 24/7.
3. One road has construction. The other has a LOT of red lights.
D. Get a mechanic who will do house calls.
5. Oh, and pack a bag in case we have to stay.
I think that about sums it up. So far, no more embarrassing ER visits where they run your lab work, tell you everything is fine and add, just for good measure, this your first? um hmm.
The acclaimed bout of second trimester energy was short-lived and I’m back to being exhausted most of the time as I enter my eighth month today. And of course, comments and horror birth stories from co-workers, patients, strangers and friends are never in short-supply. “I have this friend who…” “I know this gal who…” “How much time do you have left? Geez. Are you sure you’re not having twins?” One more twin comment and I’m going to start handing people a Doppler heart monitor and say, “If you can find a second heart-beat, I’ll give you a prize.”
Swimming flutter kicks and arm strokes: 6a-8a
Chicken dance routine: 11a-2p
Zumba, M/W/F: 3-3:30 (it’s more intense so I’m assuming he likes to break it up)
Pull up to Umbilical Bar for some refreshments
Intermittent personalized stretching: 5-10p
*All this to prepare him for his favorite nightly workout:
Cage-fighting!!: 11p-4a
Can the inside of a uterus get bruised? Because I’m pretty sure mine is.
I’ve created a liver, lungs, lips and the bones are hardening. My biggest challenge now is to maintain the delicate balance of eating while appeasing the fire-breathing dragon parked in my throat. One minute I’m so ravenously hungry I could absolutely picture myself eating the entire buffet at a Ruby Tuesdays, then after only 3 bites, I pull my shoulders back and crane up at the ceiling, hoping that my table aerobics will create even the tiniest more room for food that I desperately want. Two more bites after that, the dragon is back, spitting tiny balls of flame, reminding me, he indeed exists.
My recent inner dialogue is not unlike that of a deep-sea divers journal entries while trapped under the sea in some lengthy bizarre experiment:
11/15/11: There is a strange burning sensation in my throat. I’ve eaten the rations I’ve been provided. Could I have possibly swallowed some sea water? I’ve been under orders to increase my portions to allow for the increased burning of calories but I’m finding it harder to consume it all.
11/20/11: A severe increase in bubbles emitting from the lower valves accompanied by a noise I have never heard before. Could my wetsuit be compromised?
11/20/11: I believe I crop-dusted some unsuspecting sea life.
11/21/11: Abdominal muscles are beginning to appear severely distended. Could it be the illusion of my mask or am I weakening? The fish are starting to stare.
12/05/11: An increase in the burning sensation. At first I was able to link it to certain rations. It now appears to come and go at will. I have taken to nibbling kelp.
12/07/11: Crop-dusted a whale. I do not feel bad.
12/10/11: My export is not matching my import. Something needs to be done about this or my abdomen might explode its already stretched capacity.
12/13/11: My endurance is lessening. I am weakening. This is not good. I am not exactly sure what lies ahead but I’m beginning to think I am less prepared for it than I’d like to be.
12/15/11: I have increased my exercise regimen. It’s not helping. My abdomen continues to distend further.
12/16/11: Burning sensation increases. Is my throat permanently scalded?
12/22/11: My ability to take a deep breath has officially begun to diminish. It is as though something is creeping up from below and pushing, nay, shoving up on my lungs. Must surface soon. Alas, while I’ve been told my specimen is now viable, my surface contact informs me that at least 3 more months is optimal.
12/23/11: Burning sensation constant. Bubble emitting constant. Distended abdomen now constant and possibly suffering irreparable damage. Formulating a proposal to the big boss man in which my partner will undergo the experiment next time.
*to you when you're pregnant.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
I start by practicing all the infamous lines. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “You’re a great guy, just too good for me.” “I just can’t see myself in this for the long haul and why waste any more time, we’re not getting any younger.” Who am I kidding, though? If I was being completely honest I’d tell him, “Look dude, you and your staff stress me out and at this time if my life where Zoloft is a distant memory, because I certainly don’t want to contribute to any possible birth defects, I need to cut out stressors and you are one of them. It’s also hard because I loved my last chiropractor before he up and moved back to Philadelphia to help his wife with her ailing parents. Parents, Schmarents.
I know some of you will be the first to guffaw and say Chiropractors are quacks, but let me add that I’ve gone to several, at various periods in my life, since I was 5 years old and to me they to make a difference. Maybe I’ve been certifiably brain-washed but I like them (usually) so get over it and just read my story because if you didn’t like them already, you won’t after this.
I was told about Dr. T a couple months ago by a co-worker of Paul’s. We were given the impression that One: he took our insurance and Two: he specialized in pre-natal chiropractic care, as attested by the co-workers wife during her first two and now currently third pregnancy. Two is true but One, well, when he asked what my insurance was, and I told him, he made a face and sarcastically added, “Oh, we love them” I didn’t catch the sarcasm until I asked, “Oh, really?” to which he replied, “Uh, no.” Strike one. Strike two was a slower reveal: his front office staff. I’m fairly reasonable when it comes to professionalism in the work place. I like a friendly atmosphere and don’t want office drones handing me my paperwork and charts so I let it go the first day. Assistant #1 garbed in droopy tattered khakis, an ill-fitting baggy shirt and a lacy sweatband, aerobic style, holding back her unkempt hair led me to an exam room where she made me watch a video on subluxations (I’ve seen these types of videos thousands of times) “Well, you haven’t seen this one so we just need you to watch it first.” She comes back 15 minutes into the already mind-numbing presentation and says, “Whoops, wrong one, you’re supposed to watch the 8 minute one.” So what does she do? Makes me watch the 8 minute one. She comes back a little while later and proceeds to interview me. Apparently it’s a new questionnaire they had me fill out ahead of time so it’s taking her longer than usual to get through it. She says things like, “Oh, I’ll skip that bit” and “Uh, um”. A lot. After the grueling process, which seems to have absolutely no affect whatsoever on the care I receive in the following days she releases me to what I refer to as the torture room. The main room in Dr. T’s practice is filled with tall metal contraptions with ropes and belts and steps and chairs and kitchen timers. It looks like it was conceived in the ‘50’s and hasn’t been updated or cleaned since its birth. People are tied up in a variety of positions in what is referred to as “traction”. Timers go off at random intervals and the entire scene is sound-tracked to loud repetitive praise and worship music. There is a time a place for praise and worship music and in my humble opinion, a place where you’re painfully immobile for at least 8 minutes at a time is not one of them. The whole scene is very unnerving and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Eventually the assistant directs me to one of four adjusting tables by the front window where everyone and their dog can walk past and see your spine being skillfully manipulated. Dr. T does a muscle test on me, performs a few minor adjustments and starts into his first of many soliloquies on the merits of chiropractic care during pregnancy due to all the “relaxin” in the body. He asks me to come back in a couple days, bring hubby and bring back my x-rays at which time he’ll review them. You can’t just look at them now Dr. T? I wanted to say. I thought the whole point of making an appointment was to get all the initial introductions of my spine out of the way. Nope, times up. Come back in a few. Turns out his sales pitch is saved for a later date.
I come back with Paul a couple days later where we’re led to a different room and I’m forced to re-watch the longer video, (I’ve already seen the first 15 minutes, remember?) the last bit filled with patients giving their testimonies. What sales pitch video is complete without the testimonials? At a certain point you forget what they’re promoting: a timeshare? a Tempurpedic mattress? a weight-loss drug? They all become one, which is when Paul and I add our juvenile banter and Mystery Science Theater type voice-overs. After the video finally finished, as if on cue, Dr. T stands at the doorway and leaps into the room like a motivational speaker onto his stage. This dude has waaaay too much energy. He delves deeper into his subluxation and pre-natal relaxin speech as well as how important it is to receive care even though insurance companies only cover so much. Yeah, we get it. We’re looking at out-of-pocket expenses. Quit trying to convince us and just get to the bottom line. The more a salesman delays at getting to the price the higher you know its going to be. It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself its worth it. He finishes up, adjusts me and as we start to leave Dr. T stops us. He says, “Paul, do you mind if I give you a blessing?” I’m thinking, ok, maybe this guy is just really religious and wants to recite a quote or something. Paul says, “I don’t say no to blessings.” Dr. T pulls out what looks like a check-book and writes one out for $200. Paul and I look at each other incredulously. He slips it into an envelope with some ceremony and hands it to Paul. We look at it after we leave. Turns out he wrote it to himself, it’s towards an initial exam (for Paul) and only good till the end of the month (15 days from now). The truly weird part is: On the back of all their hours of operation business cards is a coupon which states “Come in or bring a friend for a free initial exam” So the whole writing of the check was just another ploy of a salesman. Not cool Dr. T. I trust you less and less.
So I was willing to overlook all the weirdness. If this was really going to help me and, as Dr. T so eagerly added every time he saw me, how much easier it was going to make my labor in the end then I was all in. Now I just wanted to get to the bottom line of how much this all was going to run me, but that, I discovered was something you did with his financial office assistant or whatever her title was, who, turned out to be more elusive than their minimal hours of operation. So, a couple weeks later I finally was able to get into the office when both the doctor and financier were in. I had missed a few days by this point. It was harder for me to make it to their open hours than I initially thought. I was further reminded that I was missing important adjustments with phone calls and voice messages of “relaxin” from the good doctor himself. Oh, sure, lay it on me with a healthy dose of guilt. Something I don’t already struggle with in various avenues of my life. So, one morning, after getting off a 3am shift the same day, I promise myself I’m going to get there before they close at noon. My exhausted self trudges out to the car, scrapes it out, sans scraper (where is that damn thing?), from under the layer of ice from the previous night’s snowstorm and heads into town. The check engine light comes on. Oh, perfect, what next? I make it into town on slick and snowy roads calling ahead to make sure they’re even open. A young man mumbles into the phone that yeah, they are. I’m greeted by the same young man, in faded t-shirt and jeans who has me sign in. He hands me someone else’s chart. I hand it back saying, “This isn’t mine,” he says “Are you sure?” I reply, “Yup, fairly certain my name isn’t Tatiyana.” So, we’re back to Strike Two. This time it’s revving up to be a major unforgiveable strike two. He hands me the correct chart and I head to the first torture chair of the day. The neck stretch. Those of you who know me, know the Incident of the Summer of ’04. My neck is a sensitive subject and I don’t trust it into the care of just anyone. Dr. T assures me this is the best thing for it. I sit through 10 minutes of torture while a sweaty stained chin strap is pulling my head up with 10 lbs of weight and another is pulling my neck forward with a separate 10 lbs. Dr. T needs to look at my x-rays for the 4th time before he can tell me what my next torture position will be. I had left all my x-rays at his request the last time so he could have this figured out already but alas he had not. One of his minions happily sets the envelope down on the table. I pick it up. It’s too light. I had brought in every x-ray ever taken because he’d asked me to. I open up the envelope. There is only one small one inside. I start to panic. Where are the rest? I tell an office person I’m missing some x-rays. Again, they ask, “Are you sure?” (Why do they keep asking me that?) They retreat and come out empty handed. “That’s gotta be your only x-ray” “Nope, it’s definitely not. I brought in over 50.” A different person goes back this time. She comes back smiling, “There you go, it was filed under your maiden name” (I never gave them my maiden name.) This envelope is still too light. I hate to burst your triumphant bubble you sloppy dressed half-wit but I’m still missing some. “Are you sure?” We go through this exchange 3 more times before I have, what I hope, is all of them. How the heck did they all get separated? They try to laugh it off but I’m no longer in any mood to be jolly. I’m turning into grumpy pregnant lady. Dr. T looks them over again and says he knows which position of traction I need. This time it’s my turn to ask, “Are you sure?” He instructs mumble-voice-jeans-and-t-shirt dude to tie me up. I balk the entire time. He pulls the strap tight around my abdomen and I cry out. “This is way too tight, PS that’s a baby in there, not straight up fat.” He looks up at Dr. T and in the whiniest voice a young guy can muster, “Dad? I don’t know if I’m doing this right, maybe you should do this.” OH GREAT! This kid is his son! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? I’m trusting the future of my spine and my fetus to this kid. Dr. T, ahem, his dad, comes over, takes one look and says, “Looks fine, you’re doing good.” Hey, listen Doc, I’m a person here, not a craft project! I was so close to losing it. I wheeze out some therapy breaths, thank you Dr. May, and survive the 8 minutes. I get adjusted and since finance gal was finally in, I decide to get the money talk over with once and for all. Is this going to be the difference of putting my kid in an actual nursery or a dresser drawer? I had been told several times by Paul’s co-worker, that Dr. T was great at working with your budget. So far, I had yet to feel this phenomenon. Finance gal hands me the “5 month care plan” and I about choke. It’s equal to a little over six months of rent, two years of car payments or putting a Sleep-Number bed in every room of the Brady Bunch’s house. I try to compose myself. A hormonal deluge of tears are lapping at the floodgates. I ask if there is any sort of way to work out payment plans. She says, “Oh sure, we work with two credit companies that run a credit check and they can break it down to lower payments.” A credit check? For a chiropractic care plan? No flippin’ way. I’m already dealing with the skeezy car salesman of the past summer who ran my credit, twice. I eke out a, “Let me think about it.” I gather my x-rays and walk out the door. Strike Three. I’m out. I make it to the car before calling Paul, releasing the floodgates and formulating my break-up plan. Here’s what I came up with:
"Dr. T, it's you. Not me."
Week 20
I’ve been taking a pre-natal yoga class. Generally it’s been great. Mostly I love it. I appreciate that there are other women in the room who have embraced the fact that their brains and waistlines are deteriorating as rapidly as mine. Today was different. Our usual Thursday instructor was out for her second week in a row and we had a sub. It’s not entirely unpleasant to have a sub but I never know what to expect, what their style will be, their breathing techniques, what stretches and poses they’ll have us do and sometimes, honestly, it can be more stressful than relaxing.
The sub asks for introductions after our initial warm-ups (‘warm-ups’, can you tell I’m not a guru?) She wants us to say our name, how many weeks and how much yoga we’ve done. Name and weeks? No problem, but amount of yoga? Do I rate myself like a skier about to rent a pair and say I’m ‘intermediate’ but not ‘expert’ because I don’t want the shitty skis? Do I say “expert” and hope she doesn’t expect me to stand on my head? Do I add up in my shrinking brain how many times I’ve done yoga in my head and squawk out an exact number? Do I include the number of times I’ve drunk a cup of yogi tea and followed the instructions on the side of the box? Up until the sub today, introductions meant name, how far along and how pregnancy is going or just sharing about anything. I liked it. It was a chance for hormonal verbal vomit. Sometimes some of us cry, sometimes some of us laugh, we share our bizarro pregger dreams, how bad our acid reflux and heart burn has gotten, how our husbands and partners have given up fighting the pillow pirates that we’ve become, and generally anything that may or may not be appropriate or related to the small humans in all of us. Not today. It was all biz-nass. The other two students in the room, neither of whom I had ever seen before, had me second guessing that I was in the right class. Pregnant female in far left corner had a perpetual look of annoyance on her face, pursed lips, tight jaw. Female next to her was as cheery as a mall Santa at Christmas, but with a black eye. (Don’t know, didn’t ask.) So maybe Santa post Black Friday scuffle. Miss Pursed Lips stayed that way the entire class. I would steal glances in between poses just to make sure. Black Eye apparently had done a lot of yoga before and was hell-bent on showing all of us just how much she could do. She started off by taking off her shirt, revealing her thick muscular abs. (None of us strip down to our braziers.) Not your typical thin sinewy washboard Boulder yoga abs either; they were like a circus performing heavy weight champion’s. I thought, maybe she’s just taking this yoga class for the fun of it or maybe she’s not very far along, because according to her belly, there was very little evidence of a baby inside. She gave her name and pregnancy in weeks and her yoga resume. She’s how far along? Further than me? Did I hear her right? If she is that many weeks, where’s the damn baby? In her butt? She further wow’d us by incorporating every move and then going all out, full blown splits, back-bend, feet over head. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. I am fully aware that everyone is different, every pregnancy is different but it’s hard not to compare yourself every once in a while. I mean, c’mon. The only back-flips I’m doing are the ones in my head when I’m trying to climb, dig, grapple my way out of bed to go pee for the umpteenth time in a night and even then I sometimes have to ask Paul to give me a little shove. And just when I feel like my stomach can grow no larger I’m hit with the realization that I’m only half-way and expected to more than double in size. Yay, stretch marks. Cheers to belly butter and cheers (reluctantly) to preggers who can still do back-flips at week 21.
I’m counting it as week one because I’m just now aware of the poppyseed.
I’m looking at it and not believing it, the little magic wand, not the poppyseed, obviously I can’t see that. The advertised comfort handle doesn’t do much to distract from the two pink lines, although it is quite nice. I’m suddenly thinking, why pink? Why not blue? Or green? Are they insinuating that it’s going to be a girl, or maybe because you’re a girl you’d be pre-disposed to want a girl? Color aside. Its positive. I wait two more days, another magic wand. Still two pink lines. I should probably call and set up an appointment with a doctor. Maybe I’m still in shock. Maybe I’m still thinking its not real. Maybe, if I don’t go to the doctor, I can still just stay in my own little world. Well, our little world. Paul’s in this as much as me, granted, his body isn’t going to be dramatically altered, distorted, but his life will be.
I guess I always assumed I’d have kids at some point, but leaving work today it hit me that I never processed that I would, or what that actually looked like. That my life is going to definitely change. It changed somewhat on the 4th of July when we picked up our puppy Zooey from Hays, KS but a dog is something that you could possibly return. There is no shoving a 2 year old back into your uterus. Sure, I see cute kids and I think, uh, I could have one of those. But reality is, it’s not like you’re staring at the menu at Noodles & Co and picking out lunch for the day.
Maybe I want to stay in the excitement of the unknown but maybe the going to the doctor, and, horrors, having a pelvic exam, will shove me into reality.
Maybe part of me wonders if this is even for real. That I’m going to wake up and discover it was just a long dream. I think I want it, I’ve thought about it for years but what if I’m not ready. What if he or she hates me? What if I’m not a good mom? All kids hate their parents at some point right? I guess I'll find out, because I'm on the train now and it ain't stoppin'.
There is a very real misconception out there and I’d like to take the time to correct it. Backpacks are meant to be worn on your back and not down about your butt. I know…I know it’s confusing, “why would they put such long straps on a backpack if you aren’t suppose to extend them all the way?” But, we’ve seen this kind of mistake before.
I’ve decided to take a stand. I am wholeheartedly against spandex. I realize, that spandex, in and of itself, may seem harmless enough; but in the wrong hands (read: on the wrong behind), I assure you, it’s deadly. You might argue that it looks fine on some people to which I would say, that may be; but on the vast majority of us it does not look fine. And because of that said vast majority I am recommending, nay demanding, that spandex be ban in all its forms. Let’s face it, being naked, without really being naked is not okay. Let’s not allow these “decent” exhibitionists to literally stretch the moral fabric of our society. You don’t see nudist colonies anymore, that’s because they’ve all purchased really expensive bicycles, “clothed” themselves in spandex and now flaunt their goodies at every neighborhood coffee shop in America. Don’t let their friendly banter or disarming smiles fool you, they’re the same shaved legged perverts who used to play “all natural” volleyball behind privacy fences. Thats right forlks, they've taken their “show” on the road, but it doesn’t mean we have to stand for it. Unite with me in stopping this very real threat to the very sensibilities that made us great. Say, no to spandex and BAN THE BULGE!
Paul and I are heading up to the mountains for a Labor Day Vaca. Being the responsible tenants that we are, we called our landlord to ask if he wanted us to pay next month's rent before we left or if he wouldn't mind waiting till we returned on the 2nd. I should preface the following story with some anonymous details of our landlord.
So this update is long over-due and I have a list of excuses, yadayada yada so let me just get on with it.
In all fairness, I will now admit that we have more than 2 readers. I guess I just didn't realize people cared as much as they do. My apologies to you Grandma, the queen of rok, and anyone else offended by our measly count.
By now hopefully all two of our readers have caught up on the fact that we are no longer in New Zealand. We have returned to the land of the Obama's, Clinton's and McCain's. We aren't making this political, we are only mentioning this because we thought we might miss this very controversial election, come November, and seeing as neither of the choices are good ones we were not unhappy about missing all the ensuing drama.
Ludolph McGaffin is the named opaquely emblazoned on the glass window of the shop i walk past on my way to work. Its a symmetrically square shop/house. It boasts a well manicured, though tiny, yard and an inviting glow from within. Centrally located cement stairs lead up to the main door while two show windows on either side display the designer gowns of the week on cotton muslin mannequins, one per window. Its a rather classy shop. Surrounded by doctor's office buildings, a police station, St. Mark's Church, a rival preschool and what appears to be a house taken over by alcoholic cockroaches. It sits immediately next to Ludolphs, separated only by shrubs. The yard seems to never have less than 36 beer cans and/or bottles. An abandoned couch sits on the half porch and a pinic table takes up what little lawn the property affords. Graffiti covers the windows and a crack runs through one of them. The first couple times i passed it i thought it was abandoned. I decided it wasn't after noticing how the bottles and cans rotated and the recycle bin on the edge of the sidewalk was always on a new level of full. On the morning after St. Patty's day i had to step over a puddle of puke that appeared to have projected across the lawn and onto the sidewalk, probably originating 5 hours before my daily trek to work. I wondered at how a designer shop ended up next to such a frat pad. I noticed something on the windows of the rubbish abode, the opaque font, identical to the design shoppe next door. I asked the girls at work. Turns out that the designer used to rent what was now the trash house and then the lease ran out so they moved next door. They weren't sure of the details but apparently the previous site of the afore mentioned shop had been left in pristine condition and then decimated about 3 hours after the new tenants moved in. They thought that either the new guys were relatives of the owner or the owner was overseas and was clueless to the demise of his property. Either way, they had sufficiently demolished the place, making it look days away from being condemned. Way to go guys. Bringing down the property value for everyone, even in Newmarket.
Paul usually leaves for the university, or 'Uni' as the peeps refer to it here, 20-30 minutes before i leave for work. I putter around our dime sized apartment, finishing my breakfast, watching the morning news with Paul and Pippa and count out my train fare for my pocket. Then, its out the door to Bear Park, learning center for little ones with small legs and arms and in the process of graduating from nappies to knickers.
