On Friday afternoon I was out running errands, and I ended up at my old community college, talking to some people I used to work with and wandering around campus. The weather was beautiful, and I was in a good mood – I felt 19 again, in a good way.
That night, I was back on campus to see a play with my mom, and I saw my old college boyfriend there (he was a theater major [YES, I dated a theater geek, and NO, he was not gay], and we were in a few musicals together). I wasn’t prepared for that (one is supposed to look put together when seeing an ex, no?) – I’d just changed my shirt from what I’d been wearing since 6:30 that morning, and I was in an ungracious mood from listening to my mother all evening. And then it irritated me that my initial reaction to the situation was that I needed to “be prepared” to see him – aside from an extra 30 pounds, I have nothing to be ashamed of in my life – but still. I don’t even know if he recognized me (see: extra 30 pounds, ugh) – regardless, I didn’t have to speak to him, and I was relieved. But it put me in a bad mood – I felt 19 again, but in a bad way.
It’s weird to look at someone you once thought you knew so well, someone you imagined maybe being with for the rest of your life, and realizing that they are a total stranger, that your life is soooo much better for it, and that your 19 year-old self was DUMB.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
I am going crazy.
All afternoon, I swear I have been followed by the smell of warm urine. So. Gross.
No, I haven’t peed on myself. And I’ve been in 3 different buildings today, and I keep smelling it, so it’s not like I’m mistaking the smell of old microwaved burritos for a bodily fluid.
Ugh, it’s making me feel all pukey. I’m going home.
All afternoon, I swear I have been followed by the smell of warm urine. So. Gross.
No, I haven’t peed on myself. And I’ve been in 3 different buildings today, and I keep smelling it, so it’s not like I’m mistaking the smell of old microwaved burritos for a bodily fluid.
Ugh, it’s making me feel all pukey. I’m going home.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
J always calls me during his lunch break. Actual conversation we just had:
J: “We should do it tonight.”
Me: “That’s funny, I was thinking about that in the shower this morning.”
J: “Well, why didn’t you come wake me up, and we could have done it then?”
Me: “I wasn’t thinking about it like, ‘Heyyyy, we should have some super sexy sex this week.’ It was more in terms of scheduling logistics, like ‘Hmm, maybe I’ll cook spaghetti for dinner tonight. And maybe we could have some sex.’ (pause) Wow, that is really pathetic. I think work has poisoned me.”
J: “I think we’ve discovered the fundamental difference between women and men.”
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
To the person who happened upon my humble, boring little blog by Googling “preteen”, I am so very sorry that you didn’t find what you were looking for; alas, I have no inapPrOpRiate uNclothed images for you. Can I offer you a nice heaping serving of Wholesome instead?
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I love my husband.
I’m cutting and pasting this post from my personal blog, dated late October, because I’m too lazy to retype the whole thing over again just to make a one-sentence point. Here:
So a few weeks ago I signed up for a subscription to Bitch magazine, and ordered some back issues as well – I’d heard mention of it on a few different sites I read on a regular basis, and was in the mood for some new reading material/food for thought. Feminism, pop culture, bitchiness; what’s not to love?
The back issues finally arrived this weekend, and J brought in the package to me last night, and I got all excited and ripped it open, anxious to get started (even though it was already 11). John picks one up; “’Bitch’? What is this?” and I explain, and he gets a very worried look on his face. “But…you’re not a feminist. You, like, shave your legs [on occasion] and wear a bra and you got married. To a man.” And so of course that got me all fired up, because 1) How is it that J and I have been together for 6 years and married for 3, and him not know that I’m a feminist???, 2) Let’s not stay muddled in 1970’s stereotypes, hon, and 3) I’ve been walking around with a chip on my shoulder for the last few days anyway; it was just a matter of time before I threw a fit of righteous indignance.
After I got over my initial shock at this revelation, I asked J a question: “Do you think, all things being equal (besides genitalia), that I should get paid just as much as a man doing the same job with the same level of competence?” He answers yes, to which I reply, “Then you’re a feminist too.”
And I know that’s putting it in incredibly simplistic terms, but…uh, yeah, that’s pretty much the core of the idea. Sars put it much better than I ever could.
**Update: I sent the above TN post to J on Monday, when I wrote this. He came home that night, after working late, and admitted to being a feminist in that sense of the word, and then he voluntarily gave me the most awesome foot rub while I lay in bed eating cookies and reading more Bitch. Fuckin’ A.
Okay, all this to say: Last night, my darling husband actually used the phrase “hypersexualization of preteen girls” in a conversation. It was awesome. You’ve come a long way, baby.
I’m cutting and pasting this post from my personal blog, dated late October, because I’m too lazy to retype the whole thing over again just to make a one-sentence point. Here:
So a few weeks ago I signed up for a subscription to Bitch magazine, and ordered some back issues as well – I’d heard mention of it on a few different sites I read on a regular basis, and was in the mood for some new reading material/food for thought. Feminism, pop culture, bitchiness; what’s not to love?
The back issues finally arrived this weekend, and J brought in the package to me last night, and I got all excited and ripped it open, anxious to get started (even though it was already 11). John picks one up; “’Bitch’? What is this?” and I explain, and he gets a very worried look on his face. “But…you’re not a feminist. You, like, shave your legs [on occasion] and wear a bra and you got married. To a man.” And so of course that got me all fired up, because 1) How is it that J and I have been together for 6 years and married for 3, and him not know that I’m a feminist???, 2) Let’s not stay muddled in 1970’s stereotypes, hon, and 3) I’ve been walking around with a chip on my shoulder for the last few days anyway; it was just a matter of time before I threw a fit of righteous indignance.
After I got over my initial shock at this revelation, I asked J a question: “Do you think, all things being equal (besides genitalia), that I should get paid just as much as a man doing the same job with the same level of competence?” He answers yes, to which I reply, “Then you’re a feminist too.”
And I know that’s putting it in incredibly simplistic terms, but…uh, yeah, that’s pretty much the core of the idea. Sars put it much better than I ever could.
**Update: I sent the above TN post to J on Monday, when I wrote this. He came home that night, after working late, and admitted to being a feminist in that sense of the word, and then he voluntarily gave me the most awesome foot rub while I lay in bed eating cookies and reading more Bitch. Fuckin’ A.
Okay, all this to say: Last night, my darling husband actually used the phrase “hypersexualization of preteen girls” in a conversation. It was awesome. You’ve come a long way, baby.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Thank the Lord above, my fertile period (or as J calls it, “Smash Week” [for some reason, he likes to come up with random euphemisms for sex; I’ve agreed to let him call it Smash Week, so long as he never, ever, EVER refers to the sex act as “boning”. Ugh.]) is over for this cycle. After our last go-round on Thursday night, probably the most unromantic and mechanical sex we’ve ever had, as I lay in bed with a pillow under my butt (Gravity! To help the swimmers! Go Sperm, Go!), I looked over at J and tenderly said, “Baby, I love you so much. Let’s not have sex for, like, a week.” And his warm, sincere reply was, “I love you too. And that sounds awesome.”
And now we wait! I have 2 meetings on Wednesday afternoon, and will still need to leave work early enough to make it to the doctor’s office for a blood test before they close. I’ll go in a few days later for a pregnancy test, to see if our efforts have paid off, or if I will need to start another round of Everything again, including even higher doses of Clomid this time. I hate to say it, but I have gotten a little more used to the hormone surges and their unpleasant side effects – this time, my face managed to emerge fairly unscathed by zits, though my back is not as fortunate. (I know; cute, right? Picture a 13 year-old boy in drag with huge knockers, and you’ve got me pegged.) I know the indignities I suffer now will pale in comparison to what I will go through if/when I get pregnant, but since I’m not there (yet?), I can still bitch.
Over dinner on Saturday night, I laid out for J how, if I got pregnant this time around, it would be perfect timing: a Christmas (-ish) baby, so my family would have time off to fawn; my third trimester during holiday parties and gatherings, so I would have a great excuse to either a) eat like a pig, or b) bow out gracefully; my third trimester would occur during the cooler months of the year, rather than having to haul around an extra 30+ pounds during the miserable Southeast Texas summer; maternity leave during the yucky, gray part of the year that I only want to hole up in my house; getting back to work just before things hit a good, quick, eventful stride at work, when it will still be cool enough outside that I can cover up my still baby-chubby self without feeling like a nun. Perfect! Because life always turns out that way. Right.
So. Keeping my fingers crossed, and Wishing and Hoping and Thinking and Praying, Planning and Dreaming…
And now we wait! I have 2 meetings on Wednesday afternoon, and will still need to leave work early enough to make it to the doctor’s office for a blood test before they close. I’ll go in a few days later for a pregnancy test, to see if our efforts have paid off, or if I will need to start another round of Everything again, including even higher doses of Clomid this time. I hate to say it, but I have gotten a little more used to the hormone surges and their unpleasant side effects – this time, my face managed to emerge fairly unscathed by zits, though my back is not as fortunate. (I know; cute, right? Picture a 13 year-old boy in drag with huge knockers, and you’ve got me pegged.) I know the indignities I suffer now will pale in comparison to what I will go through if/when I get pregnant, but since I’m not there (yet?), I can still bitch.
Over dinner on Saturday night, I laid out for J how, if I got pregnant this time around, it would be perfect timing: a Christmas (-ish) baby, so my family would have time off to fawn; my third trimester during holiday parties and gatherings, so I would have a great excuse to either a) eat like a pig, or b) bow out gracefully; my third trimester would occur during the cooler months of the year, rather than having to haul around an extra 30+ pounds during the miserable Southeast Texas summer; maternity leave during the yucky, gray part of the year that I only want to hole up in my house; getting back to work just before things hit a good, quick, eventful stride at work, when it will still be cool enough outside that I can cover up my still baby-chubby self without feeling like a nun. Perfect! Because life always turns out that way. Right.
So. Keeping my fingers crossed, and Wishing and Hoping and Thinking and Praying, Planning and Dreaming…
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