About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Random Tuesday thoughts: Corn and ham
Every night Junior crawls out of bed, walks into the bedroom and says, “I have to ask you something. Would you try to eat a moose?” Chuck and I say yes, and he goes back to bed.
I thought stalling toddlers were supposed to ask for water.
When Chuck and I first moved to Mulletville, Chuck was way into all things Viking. When we looked at colors for Junior’s room and Chuck saw “Viking Blue” he was S-E-T. I didn’t like the color, so I asked the woman at Home Depot if she could give me a different shade but put the “Viking Blue” label on the can. She could. She also said it happens quite frequently. (You know who you are.) I thought my little secret was safe until Chuck said he’d go to Home Depot and get another can so we could paint Junior’s new room the same color. “Um, honey...”
There are worse things to lie about.
I love ivillage, but I wish they hadn’t picked corn. All I can think about is how easy it would be to birth an ear of corn. I don't want to think thoughts like that. Corn is for BBQs.
People keep asking me if Chuck and I have picked out names for kid #2. This is my least favorite question. I started saying that we're thinking of the name Diddlydoo. The problem is, I’ve said it so many times that I’m actually starting to like the name Diddlydoo. How can you be in a bad mood when your kid is named Diddlydoo? On the other hand, how can you reprimand someone named Diddlydoo?
“Dammit, Diddlydoo! Did you diddle in your dinosaur pajamas?”
I’ve been having a lot of Braxton Hicks contractions, so I saw the doctor yesterday. She really worked me over. Since I’d never seen that particular doctor before, I asked if she was new. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling off her rubber gloves, “I should have introduced myself before cramming my fist in your crotch.”*
It reminded me of being labor, when random people would wander into the room to check on the progress of my woman cave. They could have been janitors (and at that point I didn't really care).
Thinking about labor reminds me of something Blossom star Mayim Bialik recently said: “There are those among us who believe that if the baby can’t survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully. I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily.”
"Those among us"? "Some feel"? Who are these mysterious beings? And look, without modern medicine, neither Junior nor I would be here right now, and there would have been nothing peaceful about it. Shit like that really pisses me off.
*Ok, the doctor didn’t really say that. But she should have.
Do I win the ham now?