Tag Archives: babies

Bipolar Weather & Causes For Affect

2 Apr

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Our spring here can’t seem to make up it’s mind what the hell is going on. 

…It’s confusing the hell out of the blooming plant life that I’ve been taking walks past, while either in bluster winds on a sunny day or in pissing down rain.  One doesn’t let rain stop you from doing things here, else you’d never get anything done…but the point is: it’s sunny for five seconds today and was yesterday too, and both are cock teases.

Yesterday was down for the count thanks to a particularly suicidal Joan Crawford visit beginning at 4 a.m., with alllllll her bag of upset tummy-curling-into-a-ball-while-crying awesomeness.  The only up side was doing month-end from my laptop in bed…at 5:30 in the morning…only cuz it meant that when I finally DID fall back asleep, I could tell the alarm to go fuck itself, take another fist full of pain meds, roll over, and drift back to sleep again. Fitfully.

…Today’s repercussion of paperwork, and the forest of trees waiting to slaughter, has kept me too busy to even look out the window until about five minutes ago.  Roughly about the time I realized I hadn’t so much as gone pee yet, I’d been so busy today.

…Anyway…a bank of clouds is ominously starting this way, blowing north-bound, and bringing shadows in it’s wake since my first look out the window for the day.  This means that by 4, It’ll be dark clouds and cold with zero vitamin D’s left for me to soak up.  And rain, rain, rain projected for days now to follow.

Of course.

In Other News: I did survive the detox-from-hell…celebrating at midnight on the 21st day, with some 16 year-old Redbreast whiskey…which was the most decedent thing from my bar.  A fitting “fuck you” to the odds and celebration of WINNING!

…So now onto the six days on, one day off, trend until the rest of the weight is dumped. And may I never so over-indulge as to have to go through that whole nonsense ever, ever again.

I’d ONLY wish it on my worst enemy.  Really.  Not even a Nagging Irritant deserves to go through something like that, on purpose.

Meanwhile…

…We are three days to tech week, in a show which the jury will prob’ly still be out on till the second we open, or possibly even after.

…The Gnome has reached 13 weeks, and 20 lbs of weight gain…so she no longer looks like a starving waif-child who could blow away in a stiff wind…she looks like a waif child who swallowed a softball, and might bounce along instead.

…WHS Pimp has fucked up his back so badly, the MRI techs are talking a fusing…which he’s taken fairly well considering he won’t be able to tie his own shoes anymore and he’s only 33…but apparently that’s what kids are for, anyway…he says.

…And…after a couple weeks of deliberation, I decided to join my first organized group since brownies and the theatre. Mama be kickin’ it now with the HRC…only not just passively. I’m actually volunteering to do things and stuff. Which’ll be weird. Cuz I’m socially awkward as fuck and super shy. But, this comes from reflections, via lots of sources, telling me if I want the world to be a better place for a lot of my favorite humans, (and the rest of us), I gotta put my actions where my mouth is. So I’m gonna. By and large, politics piss me the hell off, but equality ain’t a policy it’s a right, and that I can get behind. So, P.S. prob’ly expect to hear about those shenanigans here, too.

…And so goes life.

Hope you find your second of sun and play and joy on this spring day. Go chase it down if you have to. Cuz I’m gonna. Just as soon as I can hit the freeway ๐Ÿ™‚

~D

Little B Gets Official

20 Feb

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The Gnome just returned from her first prenatal appointment, getting poked and pried for two hours. Little B (as we will call the baby) is now official.

After eating some chicken I forced upon her to help combat the blood work woozies, she decided it was time to bite the bullet and finally tell her mom she’s pregnant.

…I guess this is a not-great thing to have to do.

…Which she decided to counteract by texting it.

…Just now.

…You know…along the daily line of, “don’t forget the milk, and also: I’m pregnant,” kind of deal.

They have that on auto-text right? (And if they don’t they obviously should. Option #2.)

We don’t know much about the familial life of The Gnome, just pieces she’s shared here and there. Mom isn’t much in the picture, though (until recently) she did live in Grandpa’s attic, who likes to watch old John Ford movies on amp 3,000 at 2 am, cuz he’s mostly deaf and can’t sleep well. We chalk the deafness up to natural causes of aging, but the lack of sleep we assume goes back to his younger days in work habits. He used to be a Pimp, apparently, and was kind of a big deal.

This is not “code” for another actual profession.

…We have our reservations on this in believability, only cuz we’ve seen his “Pimp mobile” which is what The Gnome currently drives to work in each day: a blue Astro van with tinted windows, only one working door, and no hubcaps.

…Not that “hubcaps” make the car…but I think you might be sorely lacking in trades dealing if you can’t even hold onto a couple sets of shitty fake-chrome discs on your tires.

…Or your tires, for that matter.

One day last month she was late, cuz someone in the neighborhood he used to work and still lives in, had put the whole thing on blocks and stripped even those off.

…Now, I don’t know much about Pimping, but I would assume the street cred must run similar to the Entertainment route in the, “I don’t give a shit how big a deal you USED to be, what have you done LATELY,” kind of deal. So, obviously, he’s been outta the game for a while now. But I still think that’s pretty ballsy to just go stripping another Pimps shit on his own turf…even if he IS 103 years old and packs only a Winchester rifle by the Lazy Boy. That shit will still fuck you up. Even with iffy marksmanship.

…I assume there are bodies hidden somewhere which attest to this. Naturally, I want to know more, but I’m going for the slow and subtle pump for info on this one. This is not a work history that just comes blurting out…like a pregnancy announcement, for God’s sake. This takes care and finess.

In Other News:

Thanks to the “Burn Notice” work-out, I’ve already dropped five pounds this week and gained excruciating stomach muscle spasms in my abs. I blame the Yoga Ball sit ups.

…You know that hard contraction of your guts when you’re throwing up…how it just clenches and holds like its the only thing gripping you to the side of a mountain for which if it relaxes even a little bit, you will slip and plummet to your death at the bottom of a giant ravine?

…My tummy feels like that right now.

Pretty much all the time.

It’s making even eating, uncomfortable. I’m full in five bites and feel like I have to swallow twice as hard to clear it down to my actual guts before the abs trampoline it back up again.

Fitness is stupid.

~D

Bad Ads & Baby Growing

17 Feb

Today is unbearably slow at the office. Rain all weekend left us with shit sales, and all reports done by 9:30.

…I’ve let the Gnome go home even.  No calls for about an hour at least…plus she’s moving today, and quesy.

…The last part is on account of the fact that she is in the first month of currently growing a mini-Gnome in her belly. 

We have much concern for the child, due to practicle purposes of common sense adaptations of it’s mother.  She’s a sweet girl, so affection won’t be an issue, but we do ponder its mental and physical future. The first weeks of pregnancy have been a big enough heads-up to show us that this is sure to be a wild ride of “how comes,” “what if’s” and “why nots” from the Gnome.

…I’ve already lectured on the importance of “going to the doctor,” “eating,” and “getting prenatal vitamins,” because apparently, those things never occured to her. Nor the fact she can’t just pound IB Profin for a headache and twelve kinds of tummy antacids, in lieu of breakfast. After an Urgent Care visit, she’s been forbidden to lift anything, and when I asked her if she was put on “bed rest,” she didn’t know what I meant.  To which I told her, it was exactly like it sounds, and she’d know if she was on it, cuz the Doctor would have told her so, to which she replied, “Well…I guess not, then.”

…I advised her to get an actual note with all her restrictions written on it. “So I can add it to your file.”  And, therefor, actually know them, and inform her of them, as needed.

I also advised her, before letting her go today, NOT to lift anything in the move. 

…This was followed with a pang of realization, directly after she left, that I prob’ly should NOT have let her go early, in order to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself today by doing things she isn’t aware she isn’t supposed to be doing, because she doesn’t “think” before undergoing most of her day-to-day routine and I dunno why that would suddenly change now.  Only I also realize that I can’t babysit her every move for the next nine months, and at some point she is gonna have to either wise up…or not.  On her own.  But then there’s this whole person dependent now on HER “good choices” and outside of about three, I’ve yet to see her really make any, in the six months or whatever, that she has been here.

…For a person with like zero maternal instinct, she is totally stressing me out with worry.  And it’s only week four.

Meanwhile…

…As the office is silent today, I’ve filled the time walking back and forth to the coffee pot for refreshers, and pulling 60’s ads for the the new show trailer I’m working on.  I’m looking for ridiculous faces and clothes, so went straight to the print-ads…where I know the worst offenders reside, and I have been gafawing, (actually out loud), at some of the particularly most horrible, for the past hour.  Since it’s Monday, I’m sure you could use a grin yourself…so am sharing the wealth of a few favorites.

Like:

* The Gran Prix of Circulation…
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* Fashion for the Literary…
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* The Doctor’s most recommended…
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* Plastic: Not JUST for furniture and food anymore…
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* Fuck breath mints!
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* What wives are for…
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* Really…?
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* Um. Wow.
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* For your convenience…
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* Just…what does the photographer even SAY to get this pose?
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And…the winner:

* Thank you, Canada

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Happy Monday, friends ๐Ÿ™‚

~D

Post On The Move

21 Oct

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I’m taking you with me today. Out into the streets and rehearsal and friend meets and pub hang time.

…Its a sunny fall day in the Metropolis. I’m currently sitting in the UW district, drinking hot vanilla bubble tea (minus the bubbles), waiting for “K” and “A” to meet up. They just finished a 5k for Charity. I just finished brushing my teeth and putting a hat over my gross unshowered hair. Clearly, they are better people than me. This has never been disputed.

…Also, they are more hip and adventurous.

…For instance, I would never suggest consuming Bubble Tea on purpose. Usually, when shit gets gelatinous and gooey at the bottom of a fucking glass, you don’t drink whatever’s in there, cuz its obviously gone bad. But “K” and “A” are like, “Fuck that noise, ya’ll! This shit is delicious! I love chewing what I drink!” (They don’t really talk that way, P.S…but in my head, when I “write” them, they do.)

…Ooo! Bonus! “J” and Mr. Cuteness are enroute as well, I hear!

***Later***

We sit, (they chewing, me drinking), our teas as Mr. Cuteness is passed hand-to-hand. We, all commenting on how big he’s getting, and how red, the red hair has become, now the peach fuzzes have disappeared. He gnaws on me with his sharp new baby teeth, and I keep interrupting the line of conversation to stop and smell him constantly.

…His smell is like nothing else more delicious on earth.

Every time we all get together, it gobsmacks me that for months across this time last year, we were all working on a show together, and he was merely a robust belly bump we all petted and talked to and admired daily. We know this boy more intimately than legit blood family babies. We are his Aunties, and dote and pinch and play and love on him (and Mama), by turn, to ridiculous levels of necessity. Because we cannot help ourselves.

…It’s good to know that kind of pure, total, instinctual love and devotion can exist, in old maidenish, never-want-to-have-children-of-my-own-in-a-million-years, people like me.

…I missed these guys. We gotta figure out our rehearsal schedules to fit in meets between. I only live one block from their theatre, so we should figure something out, I hope. Life gets so busy and complicated, and suddenly it’s two or three months since you’ve seen people that pass your door every day. We need to fix that somehow, I think.

***Later***

A walk. Too good out there to pass it up. I’m already dressed, (and prob’ly smell), so to hell with it! Grab the phone, cue up Pandora and get out it in. Breathe deep. Snuggle into the fleece, zip-up, launch out, crunch leaves and those strange pokey nut thing seeds that go three layers deep and roll all over the pavement, screwing with the joggers who try to step between them. Read the new poem post at that one house. Then back home to shower and motor to rehearsal for final Act 5 review (in which I do not figure largely, so will be all the more able to observe and report back to the yous.)

***Later***

Sun has gone way suddenly, and a spit shower starts. I turn around and speed up back towards home. Two fellas building a trellis stop their band saws and “Hullo” me with matchin’ grins. Brothers, very obviously. I nod back, marching and thumb typing on, wiping the screen by turn, as the smell of wet sawdust follows me on the wind’s breeze.

…Raining harder now. Away goes the phone, as I tug my knit hat down further and push on.

***Later***

Change of rehearsal schedule due to flu-deaths already peppering the cast. We are all in socks and slippers (because the stage floor is being diagrammed for an intricate painting process that we keep fucking up with our shoes.) “M” is in Snookie slippers, marching around being indignant in great swarthes of Shakespearean language, with cartoon feet. My god, I love her so much right now.

…In the lobby, eating cake and BSing on-call, perpetually. Plans have been made for La Palma eats after. And I’m totally ignoring them all in the corner to write this, but they keep wandering over, by turn, to see what I’m doing. Talkin’ shit, you guys. Talkin’ shit. About YOU. Oh the power I wield.

…Off to go play…

***Later***

Line runs to infinity. We are absolutely puking meter in brilliance right now…changing accents by turn, cuz we can. Midwestern, Bronx, Boston, variety of English, and cartoon voices. If theatre shows had outtake reels, they would be twelve times longer than the legit show. And funnier. And grosser. And sexually explicit. And politically incorrect. Which is why we do this shit to begin with. We are encouraged to do things at our job that other people get sued and fired for, at theirs. We may live off condiments and stale popcorn left over in concessions from last weekend’s show, but we have a good time, damn it!

***Later***

Pub time with cast-ies, after fittings. We all order different shit and eat off each other’s plates. The Fella (a particular Ninja check-paying master) grabs my dinner and drinks off the list before I even have time to take my card out. We set a gamer/pizza/movie night together with “M” for next Saturday, (post optional add-on rehearsal), and talk shop the rest of the night.

…By 10:30, I am home, contemplating PJ’s and face-washing. Maybe some book reading. Or I’ll just catch up on my subscription posts. Either way, it’s time for me to get outta these pants, and free-bird from m’bra…so, “Goodnight, say I to the yous.”

…Tomorrow is only a couple hours away, and it’s gonna take all I got, to pretend it ain’t.

Gawd, how I hate Mondays…

~D

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