BigFoot

Here's something I didn't think I'd be saying for another 50 years...I have to go buy a shoe horn today.  And just so you know, while I'm there shopping around in Oldpeopleville, I'm going to buy one that I can use standing up so that I don't have to break a sweat bending over to put my damn shoes on.

Me.

And I'm not sure if this is irony or not, but I have to buy said shoe horn to help me put on a pair of boots that I bought at American Eagle Outfitters, a store that everyone tells me is shopped at by tweens.

Ugh.

The Year of the Blue M&M

My favorite/most horrific Halloween happened the same year.  It was 1995, the year of the blue M&M...

Most years I would dress up like a gypsy.  My mom would lend me her cuff bracelets, I'd put on one of her weird hippy skirts with an obnoxious clinking gold belt, and she'd paint super thick eye brows and a giant fake mole on my face with her eyeliner, because "all gypsies have moles."  

This year was different.  Mom was feeling crafty and decided to let me choose my own costume for her to make from scratch. I think she was also feeling a little sorry for me because we had just moved to a new school in rural Kentucky and I was a giant loser, literally and figuratively.  Lucky for her, my taste has always been simple, yet classic and innovative.  It was a no-brainer, I had to be the blue M&M.  She stuffed some fluffy cotton in between two circular fabric panels, sewed and fastened them together and put a giant white "M" on the front and back of each.  Basically, I was sandwiched in between two blue pillows (you can go ahead and add functional to my repertoire).   

So the month before Halloween, my 3rd grade teacher instates this contest where we all have to guess what costume she's going to wear.  Which is totally self-centered and nobody cares right?  Wrong.  We cared.  We cared as much as a 3rd grader cares about cooties and Billy Ray Cyrus and Pogs.  For 31 long days and nights, we toiled over what Ms. Hammond could be.  She was pretty plump and very sweet so I remember thinking she would for sure pick like a pumpkin or a beach ball.  I made some pretty solid guesses with the hopes that I would impress the pants off of my 3rd grade love interest, Brady.

October 31, 1995 rolls around and I'm feeling amazing.  I dress myself in my standard blue M&M undergarments like denim overalls and a white long sleeve shirt (I really wanted to let the costume do the talking) and head off to school.  Because she wants us to be semi-productive that morning, Ms. Hammond makes us wait until lunch time for The Great Costume Reveal.   We all retrieve our respective costumes and begin assembly.  Because mine is genius, I gently slip it over my head, probably don't even bother to calm my static electrified hair, and take my seat.  The suspense is too much.  Brady says something stupid and everybody laughs, I probably blush.  But then everything goes silent, the door to the bathroom opens and out steps Ms. Hammond...

In a f*cking orange M&M costume.

And just like that, the mole-ridden unibrowed gypsy made a comeback.

Dream Job

Back in 9th grade, I took one of those career tests to match my skills set with potential career options.  Some people were told they would make excellent accountants or lawyers and others were told they could be actors, models or comedians.

I got matched as a funeral home director.

And so began my search for an inspriring career!  Considering I write blog posts about my lady parts and exes who LARP (live action role play) for fun, you can tell I haven't gotten very far.  But it's something I've been thinking about and here are a few of the most enviable positions I can come up with:

1.  The parking lot attendant at the gym near my house.  His job is to navigate people through vacant parking spaces and when he's not doing that he has to stand in a 6x8 foot metal box and do God only knows what, but he seems a lot happier than Donald Trump.  I wave and chat him up every morning but little does he know, I'm out for his job.

2.  The person who changes the billboards and bus station signs.  They are basically superheroes in my mind.  It does not get more mysterious than this job.

3.  A candlestick maker.  Those actually exist, someone who makes candlesticks! I wanted to open a candle shop when I was little because I thought it would be bad ass to play with wax all day.  I was definitely on to something.

4.  A wedding DJ.  I've vocalized my interest in this one before but was reminded that "no one wants to hear Fleet Foxes through their entire wedding reception."

5.  A funeral home director.  You're around sad people a lot, true, but you're also around dead people a lot, which means you can pick your nose at work and no one will catch you.

Playback

I came into work this morning and had to re-record my voicemail message on our fancy new phones.

Turns out playback's a bitch...

#1.  I know I've been in Chicago for almost a decade, but when did I start to sound like this?

And #2.  I knew I had a nasally voice, but when did I become this guy??

To make things worse, it took three tries to figure out how to say my name without sounding at first confused, and then scared, and then like Hitler.  

It took another six tries to figure out how to get through the suggested recorded greeting without stuttering "To b-b-bypass this greeting..."

Oy vey.

Stuck in my Turtle Neck

You know when you put your favorite turtle neck on and you stick your head in the arm hole and your arm in the head hole and squirm around trying to figure it out while you're still in the shirt? 

This is what learning how to use my breast pump at work is like. 

Breastfeeding is supposed to feel like one of the most natural things for a mother to do.  Pumping, it turns out, feels like one of the most unnatural things for a mom to do.  I remember when the farmers at the county fair switched to electric milking machines and the dopey eyed cows would line up with their fat udders hooked up to giant tubes and suctions and they'd get milked to oblivion, just absolutely milked.  That's me!

It all goes down in what is called the "Mother's Room":
Two weird things about the Mother's Room.  1) Prior to being a mom, I used to use the room to take naps when I felt like I was going to puke.  Knowing that 90% of the staff probably uses it for that purpose really grosses me out.  2) There's only one other mom who schedules the room to pump at alternating times.  I don't know why but even though she's not in the room, I feel like two sets of naked boobs* in that chair is just one too many.

Once I'm actually in the room, it's not terrible.  If we're referring back to the turtle neck analogy, this is the point where you just chill out and enjoy the peace and darkness that is the inside of your shirt.  I play a little candy crush, relax a bit, and try not to think about secret cameras that could have been set up by some perv employee. I pump some milk, bag that biz, and then sit there for a minute trying to clean the milk I splattered all over my outfit.  Usually I forget my cooler to store the milk and have to walk upstairs with the goods just hangin' out there for the world to examine.

Then I go back to squeezing an arm out of this stupid shirt. 

"How am I going to sneak out of here and clean my boob receptacle in the break room without everyone watching?"

So far, it's impossible.  I ran into my boss who asked me if I was down there because the microwave on that floor was better.  I said "of course."  I ran into another young guy trying to wash his coffee mug with his eyes closed like he was afraid he'd got breast milk in them and go blind.  The only people who don't acknowledge what I'm up to are the seasoned mom's too busy watching HGTV to care.  Some day I will be that mom.

I know it will get easier the more I practice, but basically I've come to terms with the fact that hey, if people want to picture me topless hooked up to an udder machine, then I should probably just shut up, enjoy my new rack, and take it as a compliment.



*Note:  I'm too immature to say breasts and too prudish to say tits, so boobs it is.

Loves First Touch

I'm not much of a planner.  I'm getting a little better now that I'm going to be partially responsible for setting the moral and physical framework for another human life, but still...baby steps.  So to really dive into this planning business, a couple months ago I booked a getaway for last weekend to scenic Galena, Illinois for me and my baby daddy. 

For most women, I don't think this is a big job.  Small town tucked away in a snowy-hilled part of Illinois she didn't know existed?  Check.  Intimate room with fireplace and whirlpool tub?  Check.  Friendly inn keeper?  Check.  I was looking for all those things, plus a couple more.  For example, staying in a room called "Loves First Touch" was a no no.  Number 1, I was booking the room at work so I refused to say "yes, we'd like Loves First Touch please" and number 2, I have a pineapple sized bump in my belly and loves first touch just seemed like a lie.  I compromised and put us in the Grand Romance Room which I tried to discreetly book in my office as "Sure, we'll take the GraRomsRoom please."

Before you judge me, please note this was my first time staying in a B&B and I've seen a lot of movies that end with divorce and severed heads at B&Bs. I needed to get it right.

At first I was set on finding an inn sans wall-to-wall dead people portraits but as it turns out they don't make B&Bs like that anywhere in the United States, so we settled on a night of peaceful slumber with Ulysses S. Grant and Abe Lincoln look-alikes watching from above.


It was also really difficult tracking down a room that wasn't plastered with an s-load of giant floral print wallpaper and matching comforters.  One of my old babysitters had a room she'd make us take naps in that had all of these features plus a bunch of creepy porcelain dolls and smelled like oatmeal.  My sister and I not ONCE shut our eyes in that room.


http://uglyhousephotos.com/wordpress/?cat=85&paged=2

 I ended up finding a place that mostly fit within these strict guidelines and it was an awesome, relaxing weekend.  Truth be told, I could be hanging out anywhere with my main squeeze and we'll have fun. Probably because we both get creeped out by signs that say "Welcome to the Inn!  Where you come as strangers and leave as great friends!"  And we both appreciate eating breakfast with random strangers who describe themselves as aspiring actors who currently choose to be liquor salesmen (a/k/a cashiers at a liquor store).  Always an adventure!

Moosh

Pregnancy is turning me into a big pile of moosh and I like it. I cry watching Dick's Sporting Goods commercials, I get giddy seeing miniature shoes and people, I create schedules, I plan meals in advance that don't include peanut butter or kraft cheese, and sometimes I make the bed.  It's remarkable.

Apparently my newly visible baby bump is turning everyone else into a big pile of moosh too.  Five months ago, I never would have imagined myself snuggling up in the warm embrace of a female Fed Security Guard on my way into work but that happened and guess what?  I lingered.    Fed Security generally makes you feel like a member of Al Qaeda for bringing a metal travel mug through the metal detectors.  That said, I didn't see it coming.  First she called me "honey girl," then she asked to put her hand on my belly and the next thing I know she's arms-out going in for the kill.  It felt like the time I hugged my 3rd grade teacher...I didn't want anyone thinking I was a kiss-ass, but it just felt so damn comfy.   I think I need to be cautious with this new familiarity that being pregnant seems to bring with strangers.  This is one of those situations where I will probably try to go in for the hug again tomorrow and find myself at gun point restrained by a pile of Fed Security guards.