Friday, October 28, 2011

I love quizzes

You are The Star

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.
The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised
The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Not much of a post

Oi vey.

In the middle of the night I write brilliant posts in my head about the inequalities of the world, or assholes that need a swift kick in the taco, or silly things my child has done.

But as I sat here with an hour on my hands, a precious hour where the Spawn was being walked in her stroller by the DB, an hour where I had no laundry to fold, okay, maybe I had dishes to wash but screw them, and no pressing need to shower, I could sit down and write one of those blog posts.  I just couldn't bring myself to write a single one.
  • A post about how people need to stop asking the childless-by-choice people when they're going to have children and going on about how "I don't want kids" is somehow not a good enough reason or deemed selfish, god only knows why, and this leads to justification, which leads to those of us with kids to justify (if only to ourselves) why we decided to have kids, and there's frankly no good reason other than "I wanted to pass along my genes and my knowledge" but because this is also deemed selfish, what you get is two groups of people yelling "you selfish bitch" at each other and really, seriously WHO THE HELL CARES?  By God, if you don't want to have kids, you should be able to say, proudly, "I don't want to have kids" and people who can't accept that should be shot.  Because I'm sick of hearing from each side how much better they are than the other.  The only reason we find ourselves doing that is because of the assholes who keep demanding that people have some deep reasoning behind their procreative choices.  GAH!
Unless your parents turned in a well-constructed essay on why you deserve to exist, as well as a balanced budget, letters of recommendation from people who can testify to their abilities to parent, you shouldn't even BE here, you planet-cluttering sprog!
  • A post about how shocked I was to discover that while I am at the perfect BMI number, right between too skinny and too fat, I STILL don't fit into any clothes.  I know from my plus-sized friends that clothes don't fit big girls.  I know from being rail-thin that clothes aren't made for the skinny (no matter how much you may whine about "only models fit these clothes," I tell you, not the clothes on the rack, nosireebob). So now at the perfect size and shape, if I still don't fit into anything, I can only come to one conclusion - clothes were not made to be worn.  They are made only so that closets, chests of drawers, and wardrobes have a function.  It's a plot from Ikea to sell more flat-pack furniture.
Looks a lot more insidious now, doesn't it?
  • A post about how the Spawn continues to teach me about life, the universe and everything.  Including: Mommy can pick Mommy's nose.  Baby can pick Mommy's nose.  Nobody on this planet is going to pick Baby's nose!  Back off bitch!  I bite you!  NOM NOM!  
Trying to get the snot out of my child's nose is like reaching into a sink garbage disposal in a horror film.

    That's not soap bubbles!  It's Soap Slime from Space!!
    It kills you DEAD!  And leaves a nasty waxy coating on your wine glasses!
    • A post about how culture shock makes friendships hard because you're all moving through the stages at different times so one day you are all Honeymoon stage and hating on the haters and then the next day you are telling the newbies to take off the damn rosy glasses and then suddenly you are over it and focusing on the important things in life, like who ate the damn After Eights because *I* sure as hell didn't get any and people are telling you that you've drunk the kool-aid and you're all, take that back or I'll cut you and then you feel like you can't even tell people that you're happy because they get all nasty and tell you that you must not be paying attention or are deluded or are naive and you start thinking deep thoughts like "misery loves company, while happiness is a solitary pursuit" and think about changing your name and leaving no forwarding address.
    Or until you block me, whore
      • A post about teething and why did Mother Nature arm infants before they learn how to understand "NO" and "OUCH"?  Mother Nature is a total bitch.
      I did a Google image search for Mother Nature and the hippistaria overwhelmed me.
      I feel like I'm having LSD flashbacks and I've never even DONE LSD, so how sucky is that?
        In the end, I just couldn't be bothered to write those posts, or finish those posts.  Maybe in part because I know that some people might read one of those posts and get offended or hurt or pissed off, even though I'm not writing about a specific person or event although I am inspired by a collection of people, events and no small part by some rather violent mommy-forums that I am SO not going to read any more.  (Childless-by-choice friends - if you ever feel like the Mommies of the world are judging you, don't worry, they are saving their major judgements for the Other Mothers.  Google "cry it out.")  Maybe I'm too distracted because I've gotten a damn head cold, which I am sharing with the Spawn.  She gets the runny nose, I get the stuffy head.  Maybe it's because just one hour to be brilliant and focused is just too much pressure.

        So instead I opted for this post which isn't much of a post but a series of post-lets.  Which took me all damn day to write anyway.
        I was going to say "post-it" but that term has already been taken.

        Monday, October 10, 2011

        Damn You Danish!!

        I have a really hard time with certain sounds.  Vowel sounds, especially.

        Danish is all about the vowels.  Silent consonants they have aplenty, but not so many silent vowels.  In fact, half the time Danish just sounds like a string of vowel sounds interspersed with sharp intakes of breath.  It's the perfect inverse of Polish.

        Not that I know much Polish, apart from some choice swears and random animals, and I couldn't spell it to save my life... but... still...

        Where was I going with this?

        Right, so, there are a few Danish vowels that sound exactly the same to me.  Å, O, and Ø.

        Danes will immediately tell you, no, they sound completely different.  They sound like å, o, and ø - DUH!

        I spend a lot of time apologizing and saying "I just can't hear the difference!" and the Dane keeps saying "å - o - ø" again and again and all I hear is "o - o - o" and really, I JUST DON'T HEAR IT!  If the person over pronounces, THEN I can hear it, but since most Danes don't pause and over-pronounce the vowels in words, I'm often confused, or worse.

        Confused because:
        tog - train(s)
        tåge - fog

        Should someone tell me about one in the road, perhaps it would be a good idea if I know which one I should be looking out for.  Presumably I would see the train... but what if it was lost in the fog??

        Worse because:
        hore - whore
        hår - hair
        høre - to hear

        Sometimes I tell people I cut my whores.

        Sometimes a conversation with me goes:
        Them: Did you hear what I said?
        AG: I whore.
        Them: Over-share much?


        Saturday, October 08, 2011

        He doesn't know the half of it

        The other day the DB and I had... a discussion.

        In the course of this... discussion... I explained that I tend to get irritated quickly but then I get over it whereas he tends to become annoyed by something slowly and then he obsesses about it.  And that this irritates me.

        He panicked.

        Another irritating trait of his.

        He was worried that I was voicing some deep-seated problem that would fester in our relationship and, if left unsolved, would somehow destroy the very fabric of our marriage.  More worrisome, by far, was that I stated that I didn't see this problem as being solvable.  Because that would be the end of our marriage.  OH MY GOD I WANTED A DIVORCE!!

        Okay, maybe he didn't get that far in his reasoning, but there was definitely panic and "what do you mean you don't think it can be solved???" Because in his world, when there are problems in a marriage you solve them and being irritated with one's spouse is obviously a problem.

        Immediately I wanted to hit him over the head with a cast-iron skillet.

        Then I got over it.

        'Cause I'm calm and collected, y'all.

        I explained that we're different and that being different does not mean I'm going to divorce his ass.  I mean, he eats bananas - BANANAS - and I had a baby with him.  I just ask him not to kiss me after eating a banana.  SO GROSS!  Slimy and *gak* I think I just threw up a little in my mouth!  Bananas!  Did I demand he give them up?  Nope.  Did I say, "bring another banana in this house and I'll see you dine in Hell?" No.  Did I dramatically fling the bananas from the house and ask for compensation for my mental health? No I did not, but I totally should.  Ugh.  SLIMY!!  Bananas!

        And he calmed down.

        But the whole conversation left me with this surreal feeling.  Like, seriously, did he think that it was a problem every time I was irritated with him?  Did he really think that if we didn't discuss it or figure out how one of us could change to be less irritating our marriage would fail?  Because, honestly, I want to hit him with a cast-iron skillet at least once a DAY.

        And he wants to have a discussion every time?  Oh hells noes!  I really will take a skillet to his skull should he try that shit.

        Just now he took the Spawn off my hands for a bit, so I could have a break.  He then asked "okay, so what's the plan?"  Plan?  Uh, you take the Spawn for a bit and I sit here and have a break, that's the mofo plan!  I don't care what you do with her, but I am doing SOMETHING ELSE.  I'm still not sure what he wanted.  I folded the clothes.  I'll do dishes with him in a bit.  I'll get on the sorting of the bathroom boxes at some point, just not right now.  Right now I am having me a Spawn-free moment.  Go away before I hit you over the head with this skillet!

        But him asking about The Plan is only a little bit irritating.  Having a half-hour long discussion on why I'm irritated would be VERY IRRITATING!  By the time that I'm done writing this post, I'm going to be over it, so what is the point?

        The point, he would say, is so that this situation doesn't happen again.

        Right.  Okay.  Never talk to me again!  Then you can't possibly say something that might irritate me!  Except I'll probably be irritated by your silence!  Or the way you stand!  Or your breathing!!


        Saturday, October 01, 2011

        Finger Pies

        At 6 months old, the Spawn has passed many well-known milestones.  In no particular order: she rolls over, crawls, stands with help, smiles and makes eye contact. Recently she began using her fingers to pinch, poke, and prod things.

        Okay, poking things isn't on the list like "first smile" or "first step" but it's important.  Right next to bipedalism and lack of cranial ridges, manual dexterity (that amazing opposable thumb) is what separates us from the rest of the apes.  So when she adeptly pinched my nipple between her thumb and index finger, I cried out with pain joy.  

        Well, at least there were tears.

        She's learned that not only can she experience things by putting them in her mouth, she can also touch and feel them with her fingers.  Usually right before or right after she puts the object in her mouth.  This poking and scratching is how she knows something is real.

        But I really wish she'd take things on faith.  Like my aforementioned nipples.  There is no reason to stop mid-nurse to pull back and have a good pinch and prod at my nipples.  That hurts, dammit.  Trust me, kid, the nipples are there, the milk is flowing, you do not need to stop and investigate the process.

        She's also discovered that she can poke her finger in my belly button.  This, judging by her laughter, is great fun.  I'm pretty sure I've got to get better at cutting her fingernails.

        For a while there, she'd nurse with her hand in her mouth - which, if you've ever tried to drink a milkshake while sucking on your fingers, you'll know is almost impossible and when successful, extraordinarily messy.  Now she puts her fingers in my mouth, because maybe I want something to suck on too.

        Being more dexterous has not led to more intelligent use of the fingers, however.  Does she pick her own nose?  Nope, I'm still doing that for her.  Which is probably why she then picks my nose.

        You know the saying, "you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"?  Apparently there is an addendum, "you can't pick your mom, but you can pick your mom's nose."

        At some point we'll have to clarify who's nose she should be picking.  And that it's very bad form to pick your mom's nose and then try to stuff that hand into your mom's mouth.  Because I gave up buggers for Lent.

        In 1983.

        She's also started on "grown up" food.  If grown ups eat spelt porridge and pureed apples.  Does any one else remember baby food being mashed peas OR mashed potatoes OR mashed carrots?  Because last night my child sat down to pureed corn, potatoes, and turkey.  It was a full-on three-course meal inna jar!!

        Of course she's gotta help me while she eats it.  She grabs the spoon and helps me bring it to her mouth.  I try my best to keep it upright, because she hasn't quite understood the effect gravity has on semi-solids.  She also has to touch the food.  To feel it and then scoop it off the spoon into her mouth.  Which she then shoves her fingers into.  And tries to swallow.

        Try this sometime with mashed potatoes.  Preferably when no one is around and assuredly NEVER in a restaurant on a date.  Trust me, bad plan.  Try to see how far you can shoot your spuds.

        And if they land on the table in front of you, go on, give 'em a good slap or two, to speed them on their way.

        Oh well, as a wise woman said to me the other day, "you can have a clean baby or a happy baby."

        That said, my child is a furiously happy baby!