Our Christmas was pretty peaceful this year, which is the usual for us. On Christmas Eve we ferry out to Peaks Island to Scott's parents' house, which is always fun. Each year someone takes their turn writing a version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" but with each of the family members names included. It's a very cool tradition. And this year we were of course quite focused on our new nieces. The evening ended with everyone rushing to catch the last boat, to the tune of what can only be described as "Extreme Caroling"~ I really can't say more than that. : )
On Christmas morning we headed over to my parents for some gift openin' and brunch. Then it was home for a nap, before returning to my parents for Chinese takeout and a raunchy movie. Although this year I must say the raunchy movie was much less raunchy than usual (usually we go with something Apatow-esque), and we watched Burn After Reading. Scott and my mom and I had all already seen it, so we were mostly anticipating my dad's reaction to discovering what George Clooney's character was building in the basement...
I have mixed feelings about the whole Christmas thing. I'm don't consider myself a Christian, so that piece of it isn't there for me. Our version of decorating for the holidays has mostly been arranging Christmas cards on the mantle and Clementines on the kitchen counter. Some years I get totally into the gift giving thing, and others years I feel like it's all a superficial clusterfuck. After my brother and other loved ones died, I had a really hard time wanting to celebrate at all. But this year I was mostly thinking about how different next year will be, with a little dude crawling around getting into everything (or as one friend so kindly put it-- he'll be walking around, because of course he'll be quite advanced for his age).
When I was a kid, each year my grandma Jeanne would proclaim that it was the "last of the big Christmases." I'm not sure if it was about all the money that gifts cost, or if she, like me, had some ambivalence about the holiday (she was also brought up Jewish, which might be part of it too), but each year she'd make sure to let everyone know that this was it. And yet, the next year, there we all were again, opening Skeletor's castle or heaps of books. So I declare this year the "last of the little Christmases." Not that I plan to spoil our child too much, or hit the eggnog, or start wearing sweaters with prancing reindeer because that would be very, very scary. But there could be a Christmas tree involved next year, and maybe even some lights, too.
Plus, does it mean you're really, totally, completely a grown up when you ask for a Crock Pot for Christmas? And receive one? I fear it does...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Today a headline on AOL caught my eye-- "Apocalypse Now Star dies at 53." This rang a bell for me, and I clicked on the link and sure enough, it brought me back to a former life (not in the literal sense-- I'm hormonal, but not totally out of it!).
A few months before I decided to come back to Maine, I ended up moving to L.A. with a friend to do an internship at a movie production company. It was pretty spur-of-the-moment and kind of nuts, especially for a homebody like me. I ended up interning at a small production company for the woman who had just won all sorts of awards for Traffic. I was pretty sure I was going to meet Benecio del Toro and have a bunch of dark little babies, but (fortunately) that was not to be.
I drove down from Olympia, Washington to L.A. right after 9/11 and so I was also pretty sure that the Universal Studios lot where I was working would be the next target of the terrorists. Getting the underbelly of my car checked with mirrors for bombs every day as I drove onto the lot didn't assuage that fear.
Both my roommate -- who had set me up with the internship, as she had one at another nearby studio--and I quickly grew to hate L.A. It was sunny every friggin' day which was jarring to this Southeast Alaskan girl-- where was the rain? I began to fantasize about winter coats in place of Benicio-- a sure sign that the end was near. Besides, the people-- at least the ones I worked for--were pretty ridiculous. One day I was asked to drive to the home of the head of the production company and fetch her special "meeting shoes" as she'd forgotten them. It was on this occasion that I briefly met her husband, Sam Bottoms, who had been in Apocalypse Now. He seemed nice enough as he handed over the shoes, but I wasn't much a fan of his wife-to-be. On one particularly bad day, while she had asked me to listen in on a phone call of hers (in Hollywood there are generally at least four people on phone calls-- the "important" ones and a few others to do the actual dialling and note-taking) she badmouthed me to the person she was speaking to, knowing full well that I was on the line.
Still, there were some good times-- mostly created by my roommate and I. This being right after 9/11, we both developed crushes on Tony Blair and created a Tony Blair shrine over the mantle of our fireplace. We'd purchased one of those Mexican "Our Lady of" candles and taped a small perky newspaper picture of Tony Blair's face over the face of the saint. And there was the famous poo in the pool incident that I won't go into, but suffice to say that a trip to the pet store and dark hooded sweatshirts were involved.
But, my roommate and I broke our lease and headed back to Olympia. Never was I so happy to see rain, and I even splurged on a J. Crew pea coat before I left L.A.
Not long after that, my roommate and I broke our lease and I made the drive back to Olympia. Soon I decided to make the next road trip-- the one that brought me back to Maine and set my life here in motion.
That other life seems like a million years ago instead of seven. Sitting here in our nice, old home (my brother-in-law is currently crouched at one of our windows with a hair dryer trying to fix the symptoms of an ice dam on our roof-- ah, home ownership!) with a big baby belly and a sweet husband. Life is good, and I won't be fetchin' anyones shoes but my own these days.
A few months before I decided to come back to Maine, I ended up moving to L.A. with a friend to do an internship at a movie production company. It was pretty spur-of-the-moment and kind of nuts, especially for a homebody like me. I ended up interning at a small production company for the woman who had just won all sorts of awards for Traffic. I was pretty sure I was going to meet Benecio del Toro and have a bunch of dark little babies, but (fortunately) that was not to be.
I drove down from Olympia, Washington to L.A. right after 9/11 and so I was also pretty sure that the Universal Studios lot where I was working would be the next target of the terrorists. Getting the underbelly of my car checked with mirrors for bombs every day as I drove onto the lot didn't assuage that fear.
Both my roommate -- who had set me up with the internship, as she had one at another nearby studio--and I quickly grew to hate L.A. It was sunny every friggin' day which was jarring to this Southeast Alaskan girl-- where was the rain? I began to fantasize about winter coats in place of Benicio-- a sure sign that the end was near. Besides, the people-- at least the ones I worked for--were pretty ridiculous. One day I was asked to drive to the home of the head of the production company and fetch her special "meeting shoes" as she'd forgotten them. It was on this occasion that I briefly met her husband, Sam Bottoms, who had been in Apocalypse Now. He seemed nice enough as he handed over the shoes, but I wasn't much a fan of his wife-to-be. On one particularly bad day, while she had asked me to listen in on a phone call of hers (in Hollywood there are generally at least four people on phone calls-- the "important" ones and a few others to do the actual dialling and note-taking) she badmouthed me to the person she was speaking to, knowing full well that I was on the line.
Still, there were some good times-- mostly created by my roommate and I. This being right after 9/11, we both developed crushes on Tony Blair and created a Tony Blair shrine over the mantle of our fireplace. We'd purchased one of those Mexican "Our Lady of" candles and taped a small perky newspaper picture of Tony Blair's face over the face of the saint. And there was the famous poo in the pool incident that I won't go into, but suffice to say that a trip to the pet store and dark hooded sweatshirts were involved.
But, my roommate and I broke our lease and headed back to Olympia. Never was I so happy to see rain, and I even splurged on a J. Crew pea coat before I left L.A.
Not long after that, my roommate and I broke our lease and I made the drive back to Olympia. Soon I decided to make the next road trip-- the one that brought me back to Maine and set my life here in motion.
That other life seems like a million years ago instead of seven. Sitting here in our nice, old home (my brother-in-law is currently crouched at one of our windows with a hair dryer trying to fix the symptoms of an ice dam on our roof-- ah, home ownership!) with a big baby belly and a sweet husband. Life is good, and I won't be fetchin' anyones shoes but my own these days.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
It's all in the eyes...
This week, I had the routine eye exam I'd been putting off for almost a year. All was going well until the doc said it looked like my right eye was a little dry but she wanted to look closer and make sure it wasn't a virus. She squirted some dye in there and took another look and said "well, it looks like a virus. It looks like the herpes virus."
Huh?!?
"Not that kind," she said quickly, waving her hand vaguely over her genital area.
I've had the cold sore strain of the Big H since I can remember, but this was a new one. It just sounds so gross~ I'm already not feeling my cutest~ my cheekbones have entirely disappeared, my stomach is getting larger by the minute, and my energy level on a lot of days is equivalent to one of those drugged polar bears at the Anchorage zoo. So now we're going to add "eye herpes" to the list? Which, my doc explained, meant I couldn't wear contacts for "at least weeks." Now, nothing against those who wear glasses, but I just don't like to wear them. It brings me back to what we refer to as "6th grade Lynn." 6th grade Lynn had very short hair and Tootsie glasses and was a bit of a chubster. And when I wear glasses, I feel kind of like there's a windshield between me and the rest of the world. And not in a good way.
So I came home to call Scott and my mom and tell them the good news. Now lest you think I've been putting unsavory things in my eye, ocular herpes are the same strain as the cold sore variety. Apparently the virus lies dormant in the nerves of one's face until something like undue stress brings it out of hibernation and it travels to yer eye. I figured that the compromised immune system that pregnancy brings (which is pretty brilliant as it ensures that the mother's body doesn't reject the fetus) had spawned this new treat. We had an appointment with the midwives that same afternoon, so I asked about the eyedrops my doc wanted to prescribe me, since they were of course a category C drug-- with unknown side effects on the fetus.
The next day I had to go back to my eye doctor. Much to my amazement, when she peered again into my infested right eye, she proclaimed that it was in fact dryness, and not the dreaded Eye Herpes. Never before had I thought to put "not having eye herpes" on my gratitude list, but there you go.
Huh?!?
"Not that kind," she said quickly, waving her hand vaguely over her genital area.
I've had the cold sore strain of the Big H since I can remember, but this was a new one. It just sounds so gross~ I'm already not feeling my cutest~ my cheekbones have entirely disappeared, my stomach is getting larger by the minute, and my energy level on a lot of days is equivalent to one of those drugged polar bears at the Anchorage zoo. So now we're going to add "eye herpes" to the list? Which, my doc explained, meant I couldn't wear contacts for "at least weeks." Now, nothing against those who wear glasses, but I just don't like to wear them. It brings me back to what we refer to as "6th grade Lynn." 6th grade Lynn had very short hair and Tootsie glasses and was a bit of a chubster. And when I wear glasses, I feel kind of like there's a windshield between me and the rest of the world. And not in a good way.
So I came home to call Scott and my mom and tell them the good news. Now lest you think I've been putting unsavory things in my eye, ocular herpes are the same strain as the cold sore variety. Apparently the virus lies dormant in the nerves of one's face until something like undue stress brings it out of hibernation and it travels to yer eye. I figured that the compromised immune system that pregnancy brings (which is pretty brilliant as it ensures that the mother's body doesn't reject the fetus) had spawned this new treat. We had an appointment with the midwives that same afternoon, so I asked about the eyedrops my doc wanted to prescribe me, since they were of course a category C drug-- with unknown side effects on the fetus.
The next day I had to go back to my eye doctor. Much to my amazement, when she peered again into my infested right eye, she proclaimed that it was in fact dryness, and not the dreaded Eye Herpes. Never before had I thought to put "not having eye herpes" on my gratitude list, but there you go.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Negative Nelly
Hi, I'm Negative Nelly. Cousin of Grumpy Gus.
Seriously.
So I'm no Pollyanna (clearly) but I generally am patient with strangers. I get a little kick out of friendly cashiers and waiters, and when speaking to people like telephone surveyors or insurance representatives, I like to overcompensate for all the folks that treat them crappily. But the last few days, I've been a total beyatch.
It might be because I'm sick for like, the third time in the last two months. Or because heartburn plagues me, and even made me throw up the other night, and I can no longer eat the spicy foods I enjoy and I have to slow down and chewwww my food. Or because the cat was vomiting last night, and managed to sandwich in a ridiculously stinky crap in between the vomitting and howling. (I think Max is somehow fetally communicating to her so she can train us for his impending arrival.) Or because dragging around an extra 20 pounds or so is a little tiring, or because I keep getting dizzy spells even when I'm sitting down.
But yesterday I finally spoke with the woman at Mercy who is in charge of Childbirth Ed classes-- I'd sent my registration in months ago and had never heard back from her about registering for classes. So I called her, and despite the fact that someone from Mercy received my registration because they called me to verify info on it, she never received it. Then when I tried to call her this morning on the direct # she gave me, the woman who answered could not seem to put me through to the lady's voice mail. I just kept ringing back to the telephonally impaired woman, who kept blissfully answering "hello?" as my low blood pressure began to rise. I finally managed to leave a message and stomped upstairs to spread my joy to Scott. "Those jerks at Mercy are a bunch of Schmorons," I declared, merging our favorite words to describe annoying strangers-- Schmohawk, derived from the fabulous "Curb your Enthusiasm," and "morons," which is Scott's favorite word to use when he gets the occasional burst of road rage. Combined with another word that starts with an "f."
Then I went to the grocery store because I'm sick and I need peanut butter. As I gazed at the shopping cart blocking me from unloading my heavy basket onto the counter, my blood began to boil. I began thinking some very nasty thoughts about the sweet-faced elderly woman ahead of me, purchasing perky wreaths. Except it wasn't even her cart. Whoops.
Normally this stuff wouldn't bother me. I generally save my aggression for those closest to me. And I guess I did this time, too, because Scott wasn't all too impressed with my outburst.
So. I wanted to make a little gratitude list to try and counterbalance my unfounded rage with some cheery shit:
~ I got some sprouted grain english muffins at the grocery store today.(it really all comes back to food, doesn't it?)
~ The cat no longer seems to smell bad and is curled up next to me.
~ I have not yet experienced hemorrhoids or constipation.
~ There should be a disc of CSI, Season 8 arriving in the mail soon.
~ There's a little Snuggle Puppy twirling around in my belly.
~ Scott made me French Toast last night for dinner.
~ We had a nice, mellow Thanksgiving.
~ Alice Hoffman books.
There's plenty of other stuff, like being generally healthy and having a loving, supportive family and a sweet home and good friends, too. But you wouldn't want me to get too Pollyanna-ish, would you?!?
Seriously.
So I'm no Pollyanna (clearly) but I generally am patient with strangers. I get a little kick out of friendly cashiers and waiters, and when speaking to people like telephone surveyors or insurance representatives, I like to overcompensate for all the folks that treat them crappily. But the last few days, I've been a total beyatch.
It might be because I'm sick for like, the third time in the last two months. Or because heartburn plagues me, and even made me throw up the other night, and I can no longer eat the spicy foods I enjoy and I have to slow down and chewwww my food. Or because the cat was vomiting last night, and managed to sandwich in a ridiculously stinky crap in between the vomitting and howling. (I think Max is somehow fetally communicating to her so she can train us for his impending arrival.) Or because dragging around an extra 20 pounds or so is a little tiring, or because I keep getting dizzy spells even when I'm sitting down.
But yesterday I finally spoke with the woman at Mercy who is in charge of Childbirth Ed classes-- I'd sent my registration in months ago and had never heard back from her about registering for classes. So I called her, and despite the fact that someone from Mercy received my registration because they called me to verify info on it, she never received it. Then when I tried to call her this morning on the direct # she gave me, the woman who answered could not seem to put me through to the lady's voice mail. I just kept ringing back to the telephonally impaired woman, who kept blissfully answering "hello?" as my low blood pressure began to rise. I finally managed to leave a message and stomped upstairs to spread my joy to Scott. "Those jerks at Mercy are a bunch of Schmorons," I declared, merging our favorite words to describe annoying strangers-- Schmohawk, derived from the fabulous "Curb your Enthusiasm," and "morons," which is Scott's favorite word to use when he gets the occasional burst of road rage. Combined with another word that starts with an "f."
Then I went to the grocery store because I'm sick and I need peanut butter. As I gazed at the shopping cart blocking me from unloading my heavy basket onto the counter, my blood began to boil. I began thinking some very nasty thoughts about the sweet-faced elderly woman ahead of me, purchasing perky wreaths. Except it wasn't even her cart. Whoops.
Normally this stuff wouldn't bother me. I generally save my aggression for those closest to me. And I guess I did this time, too, because Scott wasn't all too impressed with my outburst.
So. I wanted to make a little gratitude list to try and counterbalance my unfounded rage with some cheery shit:
~ I got some sprouted grain english muffins at the grocery store today.(it really all comes back to food, doesn't it?)
~ The cat no longer seems to smell bad and is curled up next to me.
~ I have not yet experienced hemorrhoids or constipation.
~ There should be a disc of CSI, Season 8 arriving in the mail soon.
~ There's a little Snuggle Puppy twirling around in my belly.
~ Scott made me French Toast last night for dinner.
~ We had a nice, mellow Thanksgiving.
~ Alice Hoffman books.
There's plenty of other stuff, like being generally healthy and having a loving, supportive family and a sweet home and good friends, too. But you wouldn't want me to get too Pollyanna-ish, would you?!?
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