As a kid, my dentist’s office played music. Elevator music. You know, Old people music. Soft rock. Stuff like the BeeGees, and Journey. “Don’t stop believing” makes me think of fluoride. Why did they play that stuff, and who liked it anyway?

This week while sitting in the chair for the root canal, I was trying to stay calm so I listened to the music.

Chumbawumba, Smashmouth, The Fray, Coldplay.

I liked every song.

Elevator music. In the dentist’s office. And I liked it.
Please excuse me while I go tell the whippersnappers to get off my lawn.

I want to be that person who is put-together and friendly enough to remember to casually invite people over when the opportunity comes up. I want to be that person who can see the opportunities.

I want to honor the people who keep me sane throughout the week, they don’t know it, but I need them. I want the courage to call and check up on people without burying myself in Facebook.

Eloquence. I used to have it. I used to have a Right-Brain that wandered and kept me centered at the same time.

The things that I see, that are beautiful. I want to stop long enough to notice, and stop long enough to write them down. I want to be able to find that voice that I’ve lost. That voice inside me silently recognizes the things that should be shared, but I can’t hear it.

Memory. I want to remember the feel of the baby wrapped up in the sling. The way he laughs when I swing side-to-side with him. The scent of real baby’s breath.

I can feel myself slipping in and out of mental organization. I’m losing my glasses, and losing my train of thought. The dishes aren’t getting done. Nothing is. Not nothing, just bottles and diapers, nothing else.

Escape. Part of me knows that television is not an adequate escape, or friend, or comfort. But I just need a break. Just a break, just a day, just an hour, just a minute. Please, just a minute.

Oh. Today.

Today I’m trying to grasp the energy to get up off the couch. I’m tired. So, So Tired.

The babysitter is here. I’m paying her for a full days work. So that I can sit on the couch and stare at nothing.

Yesterday was a bad day. Ducky cried all day. I fed him lunch and dinner. I held him. I rocked him. I nursed him. I gave him bottles. I changed him. I put him down for a nap. I picked him up. No repreive. He never stopped crying.

Today was supposed to be different, better. Today, the babysitter came. Glorious Me Time that I’ve been without this month. But me, I am not different today. I’m stopping in between paragraphs to put my head down on my desk. Trying.

I called a friend. That felt good. An hour later, she’s gone to pick up her kids, and I’m not any different than I was yesterday or this morning.

This sucks. My head is “over there” doing the things that are on “the list.” I’m here, sitting, wishing I could enjoy the quiet.

I wish I didn’t have to ask for Help. I wish Help would arrive with a bag of diapers, a burpcloth, and a pot of chicken soup. I wish Help would stop expecting me to chit-chat, go shopping, and plan dinner parties. I wish Help didn’t think I was one of her girlfriends.

I wish I deserved help that doesn’t cost $75 per day.

It sucks. I’m crying.

Dooce is in WeHo tonight promoting “It Sucked and Then I Cried.” I wish I could face driving 7 miles in traffic. I need to go.

I got out for Girls Night last night. We saw “He’s Just Not That Into You.”
The movie was cute, just exactly the kind of thing to see with girlfriends. Don’t drag your man, he doesn’t need to be tortured with this one. If you’re going to make him see it on Valentines day, well, you’d better at least… nevermind.

Forget the recognizeable cast. I spent the whole movie watching the eyebrows. Yes, eyebrows.

I am mis-mactched. My hair is fine, wavy, and blonde. My eyebrows are coarse, thick, and b-l-a-c-k. They should name mascara after my eyebrows. I’m just a wee bit self consious about this. Thanks to the miracle of digital photography, I can’t escape The Eyebrows. This is my engagement photo, the one that My Dear Husband put in a frame and placed prominantly in our livingroom!
Be afraid! Be very afraid!

If I was a muppet, I’d have Bert’s black eyebrows, and Zoe’s feather-blonde hair. My eyebrows could be their own Muppet character, like Oscar’s pet worm Slimey.
(Why isn’t there a Muppet Avatar maker? There’s one for building your own Southpark character, Simpson’s character… why not a Muppet? It would really help me make my point, right about now.)

I’m going to have to do this the hard way. I was watching the movie, and the whole time, I was obsessing. “Should I try to shape my eyebrows like Jennifer Connelly? Or maybe Drew Barrymore? Jennifer Goodwin gets away with ultra-thin eyebrows… Maybe I could try to mimic Scarlett Johannsen’s? Sasha Alexander’s? Forget Jennifer Aniston, I don’t have her bone structure.

I’ve been to dozens of astheticians, and I find that even they are puzzled about how to manscape wax me. And, of course, when I try to groom them myself, I end up with a bald spot. ON MY EYEBROWS! Because I’m a classy lady. I’ve tried stensils, scissors, drawing “borders” and plucking, arching, bleaching, yanking…

My son sprouted eyebrows at three months. Threemonthsold! I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

A bunch of rides were closed for “redressing” for the holidays. Why do I have to miss out on the Haunted Mansion? I don’t even like the cheesy Nightmare before Christmas decorations – two dimentional cardboard cutouts painted with flourescent paint and lit with blacklight does NOT add anything to this ride. Why close it for DAYS to do the redressing?

A college buddy is working on the Small World remodel (I guess it hasn’t had new boats since it was built). I thought it was funny to be “allowed” to see under Disneyland’s skirts from the train ride.

I guess I can’t get too mad at That Guy for taking pictures of Port-a-Pottys. I saw these in every bathroom at Disneyland and couldn’t resist taking a picture.

But, I gotta love him, because he knows exactly why this is funny.

Yup. This is the guy for me. No, ladies, you can’t have him. He’s aaaaaaaaaaall mine.

My Father In Law has a thing for random factoids and small talk. I’m just not good at small talk, so last time we went to visit him, I wanted to find a book that might generate some chit-chat.

I went into a bookstore and told the clerk that my FIL was that guy emails nearly every day with pictures from space, random websites, jokes, PowerPoint slideshows, Francine comic strips, or a glitter email with animated gifs of Jesus and puppies. The bored clerk perked right up, said “I know the perfect thing!” and directed me to The Book of Useless Information.

Some of the forwards are hammy, but it is nice to have something other than spam and clearance sale advertisments in my inbox every morning. In honor of yesterday’s prenatal appointment, I thought I would share this morning’s daily email from my Father In Law.

A woman and a baby were in the doctor’s examining room, waiting for the doctor to come in for the baby’s first exam.

The doctor arrived, and examined the baby, checked his weight, and being a little concerned, asked if the baby was breast-fed or bottle-fed.

‘Breast-fed,’ she replied.

‘Well, strip down to your waist,’ the doctor ordered.

She did. He pinched her nipples, pressed, kneaded, and rubbed both breasts for a while in a very professional and detailed examination.

Motioning to her to get dressed, the doctor said, ‘No wonder this baby is underweight. You don’t have any milk.’

I know,’ she said, I’m his Grandma, but I’m glad I came.

That Guy I Married promised Facebook that he would scan and post the ultrasound picture. I’m lazy, so I’ll wait for him to do that, and repost the picture here later.

Alert! Alert! ALERT! I say! Danger Wil Robinson! Danger! Woman, can you hear me? No, I won’t be quiet until you tell me that you heard me sound the alert. Ok, you heard me, now I’ll stop barking. Now WHO IS IT? Can I go out and see? Can they come inside and play? Please? Let me go see, PLEASE?

Oh GOODIE! Someone’s coming inside!

Hi, I’m The Dog. I answer to Dakota, Babba-Dog, Babbas, Bob, Puppy-Girl, Super-Dog, and Parvo-Dog, you can call me anytime! I know I’m in trouble when they call me DOG!

Who are you? I’m sure I’ve never met YOU before. You smell good. No, really, really good! Can I lick you? What – You want to come all the way inside? Oh, OKAY! Great! This place is really boring until people come visit. Let me lead you to the livingroom.

Pet me? Oh, right, you have two legs, that means I have to keep all four paws on the ground. See!? Four paws on the ground. Now pet me, pet me, pet me, PET MEEEEEEE!

Here, let me show you where the couch is!

Come on in, have a seat, where are you going to sit? There? There? In that seat? That’s my seat! Don’t tell The Boss and The Woman Who Walks Me that I sleep on that couch cushion when they’re not home.

You have a dog, no, two dogs! And a squirrel… no, a cat! And a baby!? Why didn’t you bring the baby with you? WHERE is the baby? I’d love to lick your baby! I’m really gentle, I swear! Come on, show me the baby!? Can I come over to your house and play with your dogs? I love everybody!

Wait? You’ve stopped petting me? Why are you just sitting there? Hello!? Helloooo!?
Aren’t you gonna pet me? How bout some more? I love you! Pet me! Ooooooooo thank you, do it again!

Ok, fine, I’ll go lay down on my mat, for a minute. But no one’s gonna notice if I army crawl across the room to come back and say hello to you! SHOOT! I got caught again. Fine, I’ll stay on my mat, but there had better be a cookie involved.

See look, I’m quiet and I’ve pretended to calm down. I’m allowed to stay in the room. Really!

Why are you just sitting there? Hello!? Helloooo!?
Aren’t you gonna pet me? How bout some more? I love you! Pet me! PET MEEEE! You know, it’s been really hot out, you smell like you need a bath. Mmmmmm, you taste so good. Wait, I missed a spot. Come back here, I’m not done with your bath yet. COME BACK HERE!

Where are you going? The bathroom? Yes, the bathroom is right over here, let me escort you. No! Don’t go in that bathroom, I’m not allowed in that bathroom! This one, over here, I’ll come with you to make sure you can find the TP. Wait? Why did you close the door!? Are you okay in there? I know how aweful it is to get stuck in that bathroom aaaaaaall alooooooone! Are you still there? What are you doing? I can hear you! Are you peeing? Aren’t you done yet? Come back! I miss you!

You’re back! Here, throw my rope toy! Please! Oh Goodie! Got it, do it again!!! Come on, throw it again!? Please, please! Pretty Please.

Now wait a minute, you’ve stopped looking at me!? Why would you be so rude? Look at me, see, I’m still here, feel my wet nose? LOOK AT ME!!! Rope!? Please?

Fine, I’ll get back on my mat. Where’s my cookie? Yum. Can I have another one?

See look, I’m quiet, can I get up now? Goodie!

You know, you look awfully cuddly. And I just love you so much. See how calm I am? I’m such a sweet little doggie, I only weigh 65 pounds. Can I climb up here and sit in your… ACK! Why is The Woman Who Walks Me yelling at me again? Fine, I’ll go sit on my mat, for a minute. Maybe.

I guess I may as well take a nap. Sigh!

Oh!? Are we going OUTSIDE? Let’s go, see, look, grab my leash. WAIT! You’re leaving without me and The Woman Who Walks Me. COME BACK!? Please?

Tomorrow maybe? Or the next day? How bout I come to your house? Dog Park? It really was a pleasure to meet you. DON’T FORGET THAT I LOVE YOU! Bye now!

Sheesh. I’m exhausted. I’m gonna sit down for just a… zzz ZZZ zzz ZZZZ zzz…

OK, Time to stop telling myself I’ve got nothing to write about, just because it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

Time to take a risk and say what’s really going on (novel concept on my own blog, imagine that).

It’s been a long, hard, emotional week. Between uncontrollable circumstances, facing demons, Stupid Pregnancy Symptoms, and nightmares, I spent most of last week just praying for a break.

That Guy has been working inhumanly long shifts at work. I’ve been facing inhumanly long periods of time with just The Dog to talk to. The Dog has spent the last week pouting because I’m too nauseous to walk her. Then I turned around and started taking pot shots at That Guy’s use of time, because it’s just easier than pouting and sobbing (wailing like a needy little hmm-hmm).

I finally got my rear end into therapy last week. The truth is, “I’m fine.”
If you ask me “How are ya’?” I’m fine. Really. See: perfect happy life, everything I ever wanted, exactly on track with life goals, nothing to complain about here, move along.
If you ask me “How are you?” Why do I always start tearing up?

The truth is either that these pregnancy hormones are kicking my rump, or maybe the truth is; I’m not fine.

::wail:: I’m loooooooooooonely!
::wail:: How will I ever meet anyone in this gosh-darn-enormous city?
::wail:: I’m worthless unemployed.
::wail:: (Hi, I’m twelve years old) She didn’t return my phone call, I thought she was my friend.
::wail:: The churches here are weird! I hate to admit my Christian walk is falling apart without a church home.
::wail:: How will I ever be strong enough to protect this baby from the stuff I wasn’t protected from?
::wail:: How in the world will I ever raise this kid without making my baggage into their baggage?
::wail:: I’m too uncomfortable to sleep through the night.

The psych resident listened to me not cry (dammit, I’m not gonna cry) for 40 minutes, and then went to consult with the attending psychiatrist. TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they came back and told me several things.

“All the stuff you are worried about is completely normal for the 7th month of pregnancy.”
“You do have some family circumstances that would be hard for anyone to deal with.”
“Sleep is very important for you. That’s going to be an issue when the baby comes home. You may want to consider hiring a nanny or a wetnurse to handle the night shift. You need to know that your baby is not okay if you are not okay. If that means you have to use a breastpump or formula to have someone else help feed the baby at night, then that is what’s best for you and your baby, It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks is best.”
“We spent most of our time brainstorming ways for you to meet new people. Sign up for mommy classes (gag)!. Try pregnancy yoga (gag)! Take childbirth classes just to meet other people!”

OK, fine. I’m obviously not completely fine. All of this crap is supposedly normal. But, I better do as they say, because my way isn’t holding much water right now (::sniff, sniff, stiff upper lip::).

So I registered for a breast pump, and a pack of 2oz jars of formula. Steph did warn me to have formula *in the apartment,* so I wouldn’t have to make a frantic trip to the store in the middle of a desperate night. It is nice to have a Ph.D tell me that I have license to tell the La Leche Vulchers to step off. I want to breastfeed and cloth diaper, but I don’t want to be strapped in a long-sleeve white coat for trying.

I went back to the Pumpstation, and picked up more flyers on seminars and exercise classes. Lord help me, I signed up and paid money for a group class on staying sane after having a baby. I found a twice-a-week walking group that starts tomorrow (I think it starts tomorrow, the flyer isn’t very well-made), but I can’t figure out if the class is for prenatal or postnatal walkers. I’m such a socially awkward Boob that I really don’t need to show up at a class full of newborns in strollers.

I’m guessing it’s not ok to bring The Dog to a new-mom group, right? We have a stroller that accommodates up to 50 lbs, but the dog is pushing 65 lbs.

How lame is it to start a story with the line; I got a Fisher Price cassette player for my 8th birthday? Someone had given us a briefcase full of Disney songs and Disney read-a-long cassette tapes, but Dad kept them locked in the trunk of his car, I think they annoyed him. When he was around, we listened to some form of Dueling Banjos or another.

I asked for a Paula Abdul cassette tape for Christmas (is anyone else going to fess up to liking Forever Your Girl?). I had to hear about the cost of the fifteen-dollar cassette for six months. “That ain’t no five-dollar tape!”

It was easier to swipe a tape from my mother’s premarital stash, than it was to ask for any more cassettes. In her car, we listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, as those where the two bands that my little brother could stand. My mother kept a sewing machine full of cassette tapes. Mostly variations on pop mixes called “Songs from the 60’s,” Peter, Paul & Mary, Jim Croche, Linda Ronstandt and Billy Joel. I was a kid, and the Fisher Price tape player was a piece of junk, so I broke a few of my mother’s cassettes.

Years later, my mother confessed that she would only give me the tapes that she was sick of, and then she always regretted it because I played them over and over and over.

But, I love Billy Joel songs. Really. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that Uptown Girl is a horrifically cheesy song. But, I’m a Horrifically Cheesy girl. It was upbeat, and peppy, and I ate it up. It fit right in with my penchant for musicals.

I wish I could paint a picture of how broken our family was, I wish I could reach out and make somebody understand how that brokenness makes me who I am. American Beauty opened in theaters right before my parents divorced. Two hours of heaven; somebody out there, some screenplay writer gets me! I day dream about writing an auto-biographical dinner scene for a dark comedy on television. But that is not just my story to tell, and too many people would get hurt or misunderstand, so I’ll skip to the part after dinner.

Every night after dinner, I ran away went for a three mile jog. I wore my running shoes to the dinner table, and I couldn’t wash the dishes fast enough. There was nothing better than looking forward to drowning in the too-loud headphones and the cover of the cool night air. I’ve ruined my hearing, and my neighbors all thought I was weird; jogging up and down the hill while singing and talking to myself.

Nothing defines Angsty Teenage Years better than listening to a Reba McIntire cassette tape. On loop. For two years straight. I listened to it until I broke it. I’m not sure if that was more or less destructive than the year I spent listening to Pearl Jam and Nirvana.

I still do that. I’ve become so picky about music that I’ll miss an entire year of radio hits, because I’m stuck listening to Alanis Morrisette’s 10-year remake of Jagged Little Pill, or I Wish We All Could Win by The Afters every time I get in the car for a full year straight. I think I’m the only person I know who can survive a 3-day road trip without a 6-disc changer or an Ipod in the car.

Today, I finally, officially got sick of Billy Joel albums. Now what?

What albums tell your history?

-Today I dug up No One Cares What You Had For Lunch by Margaret Mason, this was taken from #77: “Show us your B-Side.”

I miss you.
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