Wednesday, August 17, 2011

And that's why you should never ask me how my day is.. unless you really mean it.


Because I won't hold back.  I'll tell you how I really feel. 

Dear Checkout person who would rather be doing anything other than checking out my groceries right now because there is obviously little to no job satisfaction dragging food items over a glass scanner and periodically stopping to look up a number to a fresh vegetable item you've obviously never seen before in your life (they're jalapenos FYI dumb-ass), so if you are going to ask me your customer service company protocol line of "How are you?/How's your day going?"  I hope you really mean it.


Because, yesterday, the day that Joseph unplugged my iPhone from the computer while it was updating and ERASED ALL CONTENT ON MY iPhone, I was NOT having a good day.

But thanks for asking, I'll go on and tell you all about it.  

Don't act surprised that I didn't answer "Fine, thanks" or "Just peachy and how's your day going?" Like we BOTH don't give a shit what each of our answers are but we just go through the motions before you give me my total. 

It's also not like I usually say to the checkout person "Just fine, thanks".  I usually go on and tell every single one of them, EXACTLY how my day is going, fabulously good or horribly, horribly wrong.

You asked. 

Now you get to know.

Obviously, it starts out with my iPhone crashing, and a 4 year olds life that hangs in the balance.  Never mind the 6 week old I have that is craving to be fed or needs attention or has poop exploding up his back, my iPhone has just been erased and there is an alien-to-me image on the screen that instructs me to connect it to my iTunes.  Pressing buttons at random in a desperate feeble attempt to resuscitate life back into my device won't do any good, connect to iTunes so we can say that you need to RESTORE YOUR IPHONE.  SHIT!!!!!  Devastating, to say the least.

In the grand scheme of things it isn't that horrible, like a flesh eating bacterial disease, but this was close enough for me.

So, with Joseph's existence dangling by, but a thread and by thread, I mean like dental floss thread, this is how my day went.  And this is how I told my red headed Walmart grocery check out person:

"Just awful, my day has been traumatic this far, I'm not sleeping, the baby is back to wanting to eat every three hours and I can't seem to get my ass in bed before midnight, not sure why, my four year old ERASED my iphone and I have spent all of this morning trying to get it back, which was a total of 4 hours strapped to my home phone and my laptop and only at 2pm was able to get dressed and start my day, I had so much to do today and in a precise order which was kept as a notes feature on my iphone that got ERASED that I'm wondering around midlessly trying to remember what it was that I had to do today and what the hell I have to do everyday because I can't remember a damn thing these days, my house is a FEMA disaster and I get no government assistance, turns out George Bush also hates me, and I don't even know how much laundry I have to do, my iPhone still isn't loaded with all the songs that I had on it before the crash and I'm just ready to throw in the towel... We should probably stop talking, I'm on the verge of crying publicly....... again."

But thanks for asking.  Jerk.

I got my total and sheepishly the checkout person said, as we parted:

"I hope your day gets better."

Me too, asshat, me too.

And that's why you should never ask me how my day is.. unless you really, I mean, REALLY mean it.

Friday, August 12, 2011

It's time for another game of Good Idea/Bad Idea.

Let's play a game of good idea/bad idea.

For $200:  Cutting your own bangs in the midst of a self inflicted tizzy fit as an effort to feel better about ones self?

Alex, What is a BAD IDEA. 



I'm almost 6 weeks post baby, unable to exercise worth a damn, due to my skin cancer scars (and yet another reason why you shouldn't get skin cancer) and with my doctor recommendation:

What he said: "Due to your excessive breast weight, exacerbated by the fact that you are breastfeeding, exercising during this delicate time such as running or walking that would encourage strain on this sensitive area could re-open your scars, cause further damage and extend your healing time, not to mention make any scarring worse, should this happen."

What I heard:  "Your boobs are are so enormously huge (embarrassingly so I don't even WANT to give you a size) and if you bounce them they will tear apart your scars and reopen a bloody mess on your chest, so you'll just have big tits on some big hips and look like you got attacked by a zombie/vampire and have to wait another 10 million years AGAIN before you can think about exercising to lose your fatness, fatty."

So I'm still (though no real effort such as trying to curb my excessive amounts of chocolate consumption -what?  are you CRAAZY?), "over my ideal weight range."

Translation:  I'm currently STILL (bloody hell) a fat, fat, fatty, McFat slobby fat arse.

Hence, the not feeling so good about myself and being trapped in a villa on nowhere island in the middle of a storm with the misdirected urgent need to boost my self esteem and thinking I can do this by either dying (Ahh Sarah, remember how many times I've tried to go from Brunette to Blonde with mere box dye and turning up Ginger Balls?  Those were the days...) or cutting my hair, and since there is no dye within reach, but there are scissors......  I am subsequently chopping my locks off in the blind ignorance that this time, this time in my thirties, not my teens, it will turn out better.  Yes my "I've lost count how many times I've convinced myself that doing this AGAIN it wil turn out right THIS time.. because I'm older and thus, much wiser", trick is going to work this time.

You'll notice that I said "this time it will turn out better"  and not "I know better this time".

Sadly, I do not. 

What's the definition of insantity again?  Oh yeah... thats right.


So, I grab the scissors, but this time it's different. This time it's not going to look crooked or look like a one eyed with glaucoma axe wielding homicidal maniac has not chopped my locks off with his axe, during a homicidal rage.  Not this time.  This time, I'm going to do it right.

I'm going to You Tube how to do it first.


It's O.K., I know you're in awe, take a step back, catch your breath and sit back down, I've got more to tell you.

Of all the horrible things that I'm SURE have been you tubed in the safety of one's home that has at LEAST ended up in the emergency room, this is by far, the most benign.  I didn't you tube anything like "removing a large splinter and self stitching the wound."  Just how to cut my own bangs.   VERY BENIGN.

I you tubed the selection and I decide upon the most attractive looking fourteen year old (looking and sounding) white person with the least looking crooked bangs who has a self acclaimed aspiring career in hairdressing.

I pause, focus, rewind, pause and........ fatefully, attempt.

I cut off at least 2 inches and you know that feeling you got while walking halfway down the aisle and you start thinking differently, but you are wearing those killer gorgeous ivory pumps you bought on sale and you're pretty sure they make your calves look the sexiest they've ever looked it's a shame they're tucked under that spectacular dress, so I might as well get on with it/I've come too far now, feeling?

Yeah, that one.

I cut again.

I take in deep, sound advice, from my fourteen year old tutor.  "Never cut straight across, always cut at an angle."  My best Padawan self, complies.

Ok, Miley, I got this one in the bag.  Sexy drop dead diva making-me-feel-like-a-brand-new-woman-how-Stella-got-her-groove-back gorgeous bangs are almost ready to make their debut.

I've cut so much, that there's enough to make an afgan receiving blanket and looking into the depths of my destruction that is laying in tufts in the sink I can't help but think:

I've made a horrible mistake.


Shit. Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.

I wonder what I'm going to make up when I see my hairdresser in a panic next week:

"Oh yeah, me and some girlfriends got really drunk and decided it was a good idea to try to cut each others hair.. you think this is bad, you should see what I did to the other girl, she's your NEXT appointment."

"I accidentally left my scissors out and took a nap on the couch at which time my four year old decided to give us matching his and hers hair trims and I tried to make it look better before coming to see you, only to make it worse."

I work on my best apologetic tone and take a cautious look in the mirror.

Well, lookey here, it isn't so bad afterall.

I mean, a little lopsided, but for a home job, in the midst of a self esteem emotional break down, it's not so bad either.  And when you put my haircut standards up to that kind of a shining pedestal, I don't think it's going to win me any hair style awards, but it did the job, I slightly feel better about myself.

At least, through way of distraction.

I show Mr. Price, sheepishly, as I KNOW he hates bangs.  And not just bangs, but bangs on my face.

Mr. Price: Shit Bec, what did you do?
I cut my bangs you asshat -can't you tell?
Mr. Price: Yeah I can tell, you hacked off half of what was on your head and now it's all over your face covering your eyes.  I mean, can you see me right now?  How many fingers am I holding up?
You're an asshole.
Mr. Price: No, I'm not.  You're the one that you tubed how to cut your own hair, you should know better, especially in the middle of a breakdown, which I KNEW you were having cuz your eyes were all red, but I ignored in the hopes that you would GROW UP, not go in and cut away at your hair.

Sniff, Sniff.  (Trying to evoke some sympathy from my heartless husband.)

Mr. Price: Well, it doesnt' look THAT bad, when we get back home will you ... call Jenny (hairdresser) and have her.. armm... touch it up a bit?  ...... I'll pay for it.

Now I know it's bad, Mr. Price is offering to pay for a service that doesn't directly end in a visit to Victoria's Secret and some very expensive lingere dressing up the bedroom floor.

But, aside from our continued "energetic discussion" that ends up with Mr. Price conceding that I have indeed done "not such a bad job and it looks kinda cute..", I decide that I did just a fine job on my newly renovated hairstyle and upgraded bangs.  I mean, it could have been worse, WAAAY worse, but it wasn't and when you hold my haircutting skills to that standard, I'd say this is a WIN. 

Let's be clear, it's NOT a GOOD IDEA, to you tube how to cut your own bangs at home and then do it, it's still a BAD IDEA, but I don't hate myself anymore, only slightly less so than before.

And that, my friends, is a win in my book.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

The Cancer club, sunscreen and condoms.

I got cancer, and hopefully the plastic surgeon got it all out.

Ok, ok,

I've got skin cancer.
Chicks Dig Scars.  Oh wait, how's that going to benefit me?  shit...
I'm a part of the Cancer club now, but not a legitimate high priestess member, see, I feel like I've got the decorative fake kind of cancer and it's not as serious as real people who get real forms of cancer. So I'm not going to take it serious, either.  Except for the sunscreen and condoms part.  SO... if you're looking for a "educational " post on cancer, or a "rational and uniquely personal account of cancer" (except the unique = making fun of my cancer part) you're not going to get it here. 

I'm also not going to go into some diatribe about how long I've had the spots for, or how now everyone I know should wear sunscreen, because now that I've been affected, I should share my knowledge with the world and influence and push new behaviors on people, it's not about that.  For all I care, you could read this post, go on and book yourself into a 20 minute cooking session at your local tanning bed.  This is me, NOT caring and NOT judging you, just don't call me looking for an empathetic conversation when you've got melanoma and you want to sue the tanning place because you're too stupid to to look out for your own well being.  I'll hang up on you.

Now, back to the sunscreen and condoms.

Unlike condoms, more application of the same, at regular intervals or all at once, is a good thing.  2 or 3 applications of sunscreen before hitting the pool is a good thing.  Two or three applications of condoms before "hitting that", is not a good thing.

More sunscreen applications = less failure rate.

More condoms = higher failure rate.

Everyone remembers that conversation you had in high school, during sex education class and some smart ass always says, every year, well, if condoms protect, "I'll just wear more."  No, you idiot.  It doesn't work that way.  And no, Milky Way wrappers are ALSO not an effective method of birth control.  If I needed to tell you that, please  skip to section "F" where you receive a FAIL and you've been asked to kindly step, slowly (so you don't hurt yourself you moron), out of the gene pool and move to Canada.

The above paragraphs were just a really long winded way of saying that if I smell of sunscreen when you see me next, it's because I'm applying it every 1 hour instead of every 2 hours and my new eu de toilette el natur-al body odor will involve some level of SPF.  Hope that turns you on.

Sunscreen is now available in the "you have no more excuses" and "non gay" application method.  Or, also known as the "sorry guys, now you don't get a quarter chubb watching your female friends lather sunscreen on each other as you drift off into fantasy land that has slow motion larger breasts in "too-small and too-tight" bras, pillow fights and girly cheeky laughter".. ... The SPRAY application.

Yes, as a friend so eloquently put it....  Spray sunscreen allows one male to apply sunscreen to another male, without being, and without, looking gay.  Spraying it on is the lazy way to help you avoid getting skin cancer,  and avoiding your self loathing closeted homophobic fears, see, no excuses.

So, in summary, protect yourself:
Wear condoms, just don't wear 2 or 3 at a time.
Wear sunscreen, and DO apply two or three times.

Because we all know that :

1. Cancer sucks and that shit will KILL YOU, KILL YOU DEAD,
2. if Cancer won't, a car wreck probably will,
3. or at least the cure for Cancer will turn you into a zombie.

Avoid all, at all costs.  That is all.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Childbirth and tiny umbrellas, pygmy goats and disco balls. The story of Sam Speed.

Apparently tiny umbrellas are just for fancy girly summer drinks, served on a patio somewhere and NOT for the labor and delivery hall.  What a let down.  However, epidurals ARE for labor and delivery but the nurses WOULD NOT give me the street name for that stuff so I could enjoy it with tiny umbrellas served on a patio somewhere...  dammit.

This is how the birth of Samuel Speed Price happened.
Me and Mr.Price

July 2nd came and went, my Aflac money was a sure thing, but that didn't reduce tensions in the Price household.  My parents had already arrived, our, and my personal cramped quarters were wearing on relationships.

In the days before delivery I told Mr. Price on several occasions that we were getting a divorce, he was an asshole and that I hated him.  Standard, really.
1 week and 2 days before the debut of Sam.

I really just hated being past my due date, but Mr. Price was also being an asshole.  I don't remember what it was that he did or didn't do, whatever it was, it was WRONG.

Tensions were running high.  My beautiful, sexy, most wonderful, smartest woman on the planet, midwife, Nancy, offered to do some "sweeping" on the 4th of July, when offices were closed, in a last ditch attempt to get things moving naturally... What an angel she is.

Between my midwife and my anesthesiologist (affectionately known as Andy AND the sexiest man on the planet), I don't know who I would rush to kiss on the mouth, first.

With membranes swept and my hands permanently placed around Mr., Price's neck for the next insensitive comment or stupid thing that was going to come out of his mouth, Nancy carefully said (sensing that tensions were, indeed running just a touch higher than normal):

"If this doesn't work, plan on coming in tomorrow morning 9am, with your bags packed."
Me:  "HIS bags packed?"
Nancy: "Well, yours as well, we'll get this baby out of you tomorrow."

Shit, I thought Nancy meant I was going to be able to kick him outta the house.  Dammit.

I can TOTALLY do this baby delivery thing on my own, but I DID still need a punching bag for any pain I was going to endure, and I had definitely eyeballed my target long enough as to who was going to endure it for me.  Cue - Mr. Price

We walked out of the offices with promising signs that contractions were starting and Mr. Prices' health was ending...  A few more F bombs and asshole swinging later, I was determined to go to the downtown fourth of July festival that my town offers each year to the budding derelicts and morons without jobs looking for trouble, and get me a sno cone, funnel cake and a gyro, in that precise order.

I snapped at my mother to accompany me, and Joseph was to also come and enjoy some "goddamn inflatable rides", in the sweltering heat.  I was going to sweat this baby out of me.  Unfortunately, there's a new attraction at these public affairs, the Tea Party tent, they were selling t-shirts with things like "I'm a racist, so what?".  I forgot to take a photo of the tent, I honestly thought if I did, I would have been face to face with two inbred rednecks and their shotguns and, well, you can see how that would have ended, with me in my fragile over-due-date state.

WITH THEM DEAD after they had screamed for compassion as I mercilessly turned their own firearms on them and used the shotguns as "PUPPET POLES" AND I WOULD PARADE THEM AROUND IN PUBLIC AS TROPHIES for ANYONE who dared mess with my "over due date" pregnant status.  I would kill you, kill you fucking dead.  Not just dead, really fucking dead.  Those people were evil and  I was READY to fight.

Can you tell I was a little tense?

I'm in pain, suffering from strong contractions, but as the heat and my anger continues to boil over, I don't notice.  I eat my three items, watch Joseph enjoy a pony ride and head home for more divorce talk.

"All I'm going to remember before the birth of our second child is that we argued non stop in the days beforehand and that YOU LOST all of them, you asshole."

I'm bitter, angry, tired and ready for a baby.  I bark at Joseph several times, but later, take the time to write him an apologetic email about how his kind wonderful mother turned into a swamp bitch in the days before his sibling would arrive, but that as a 4 year old he was very understanding and forgiving and just stayed out of my way.  What a smart kid, apparently smarter than Mr. Price.

I deliver the formal eviction notice so that EVERYONE can hear me.  (Imagine medieval messenger, unrolling his decree, before a gallant fight)

"Now hear this, all babies residing illegally in MY womb, past your due date must vacate the premises before 9am eastern standard time tomorrow, or you will forcibly be removed, the proper authorities contacted and your worldly goods, confiscated." 
"This is your last and FINAL warning."

God, I'm so serious, get the fuck outta there.  PLEASE.  Or else.

Mother leaves the house, with instructions that I will call in the wee hours for her to come and sit with Joseph as I take me and my soon to be ex-husband to the hospital to have this baby.

I don't sleep very well.  I try to comfort myself with the things that I would get in the divorce.  Mr. Price would get both the dogs... HAHA douche bag, I would keep the smart kids and get a sexy new apartment.  But, at 1am, still unable to sleep, I realize things are moving closer together, in an orderly fashion, about 10 minutes apart.

Wow contractions suck.

I was amazed at my ability to suffer through them, continue to hurl insults at my husband and simultaneously cry, due to the pain and lack of sleep.

This baby was coming, today.


Mother is called, Joseph is awake, bags are packed (yes, yes, TOGETHER, not just his, I did need someone to drive me to the hospital, sheesh!) and after 10 minutes apart, the contractions move to around 6-7 minutes.  I time it so that I can bargain with myself mentally, much like I do on a run, to push myself farther.  I didn't want to show up at the hospital the SECOND TIME with having only dilated to 1cm and screaming bloody murder like a total wuss.  I was determined to get through a lot of it at home.

I told myself, wait until 4am to call Mum.  Ok, now call after the next three contractions, then slowly get your shit together and leave the house by 5am.  Easy Peasy.

Worst. Car Ride. Ever.   

Shut UP Paul 
Stop driving like a moron 
Are you TRYING to ram all the bumps with all four wheels at once, because you're an asshole or because you are just that naturally talented at this lame skill?

Mr. Price screeches up to the fire lane and declares that there isn't a fire, but there sure as hell is going to be one if we don't get this bitch up to Labor and Delivery, STAT.

The security guard knowingly nods and reaches for a wheelchair.  Bliss.  I stop just slightly before easing my mammoth arse into the chair to work through another contraction, they are coming faster, harder (that's what she said) and there's going to be collateral damage.

I had pre-registered, but that doesn't fucking matter at 5:30 in the morning.  There's still some bitch waiting for you in an office as you have to state your name, tell her your social security number, sign some papers and work on some more contractions.  I hated her.  I loved everyone else in that hospital, but I hated her.  Everyone else was helping me get this baby out, but registration lady, was delaying it.  Bitch.
I was 5 centimeters.

In less than 50 minutes I had been wheeled to my room, poked, hooked up, filled out forms, breathed through more contractions, got to 2-3 minutes apart and had a visit from the sexiest man alive and his 12 inch.... needle.  I was 7 centimeters by the time I had gotten the epidural, which I will affectionately give the street name from here forethwith as "Fairy bliss".
The sexiest man alive, and him "giving it to me" with his 12 inch... needle.
Fairy Bliss Face.  Kinda like "Meth Mouth" But waaaaay sexier.

Fairy Bliss is single-handedly the thing that saved my marriage to Mr. Price.  At that blissfully numb moment, we were on the mend (never really on the edge, except for his urge to shut me the hell up and/or kill me for being the most beastly tyrant on the planet for the previous 9 months), and ready for Baby Price, version 2.0.  I was so numb, I couldn't feel or move anything, and at 5' 8" and 60 pounds or so over my most ideal weight range, I presented a challenge for any kind of movement or pushing whatsoever.

Drugs are AWESOME!!!!

Nurse Rachel, who I TRIED to kiss on the mouth several times in my drug induced state, slipped me a grape Popsicle, which you can see evidence of, above.  And it was the best Popsicle, EVER.

Naps.  Numb.  Bliss.

I snuck in a short nap and awoke with the urge to push.  More numb than before and I still felt baby ready to come out.

20 minutes of pushing would have been 5 if I wasn't so frakking numb.  They rolled me on my side to push some, because Baby version 2.0 had decided to turn over a bit.  It worked and I went back to regular pushing, legs freakishly far apart and knees pointing, East and West, respectively.
Threesome anyone?  I totally would have, I loved these ladies so much.  Nancy, stop laughing, or I'll make Rachel roll YOU over.

I watched in the mirror so I could see how I was doing.  Nancy applied about 5 tubes of KY Jelly, massaged and announced that the baby had a "Full head of dark hair."

No shit?

At that instant I freaked out and the thought that this baby might not be Mr. Price's rushed through my head.

When was I unfaithful?  How did this happen?  A full head of dark hair?  Joseph was born with hardly a muff of light colored hair.  Oh shit, how am I going to get out of this one?

2 nano seconds later I realized that, that was total nonsense, in between badgering Mr. Price I sure as hell didn't have time to slip someone else's, passed the goalie.  I just freaked out, because Baby 2.0 was already worlds different from Joseph, as they should be, but it took me by surprise.   Mr. Price and I both have full heads of dark thick hair, so this shouldn't have been a shock, but, all drugged up, I was ready to declare my undying love for the cuteness that is pygmy goats and roll in a disco ball for some mood lighting.  Crazy shit was going through my head.

Almost squeezed out, Mr. Price was asked if he wanted to pull out the baby.  In his most surprised, yet eager voice, he agrees and at 9:17am, pulling out Baby 2.0 onto me Mr. Price states:

"Err, amm, I think it's another boy..!"

Again, no shit? For real?

All I see and hear is baby, on me, not really crying, but breathing.  I kiss him and in between kisses I see Mr. Price is shedding a few tears, what a darling, sweet, gorgeous, wonderful father, husband and man.  I love him, so very much.  Only slightly second to my now, two fantastic boys.  Blue eyes, dark brown thick hair.  Just beautiful.  I smell the baby and it's not a gross smell (because he sure LOOKS gross right now covered in muck) and I wonder if they are going to make me let him go.

Eventually they do, to pull some fluid out of his lungs, he cries, all is well.  I lift myself up as much as I can, still royally numb all over and try to ever so blatantly, look for the twig and berries between his two chubby red legs.  There they are.  The berries, and the twig. Right there, center stage.

Oh shit, he's a HE.

Fresh outta the oven.
I just wedged myself out of what once was my mother's vag, and is now called a "CANAL".  You'd be pissed, too.

I have NO idea what we are going to name HIM.  He was supposed to be a GIRL, according to everyone else.  Crap.  I hate coming up with boys names, I'm so unprepared and if I give him a lame name, I'm never going to forgive myself.
I'm in love with three boys.  So lucky.

Nancy starts stitching me up, there's commotion in the room, but it's eerily calm.  Mr. Price is already hovering over our young son, protecting him and talking to him, touching him and loving on him.  I'm watching my midwife employ her sewing skills on the inside of my vag.  Eyes wide open and jaw on the floor I say:

"Sweet, it's like total destruction down there.."

Seeing my shocked face, Nancy removes the mirror, but doesn't dissuade my curiosity as she pulls out my placenta and gives me a tour of the organ that only moments ago, housed my second born.

"This is the side that he lived in, this is the side that faced out."

It's sooo gross.  But yet, I can't look away.  It's awesome.
My Midwife.  Sexy.  Talented.  Smart.  The WHOLE package.

Placenta 101 is over and our second son is wrapped up in a hospital blankie, given to Paul and put back on me.

Mr Price:  Shit, hon, what are we going to name him?

How the fuck should I know?  You're the one that was FOR SURE it was a girl.  Douche.

We fumble through some inappropriate names, we come up with NAUGHT ideas, so mother and father fashion the most awesome idea, go and fetch our four year old and see what he comes up with.

We're going to have our 4 year old name his younger brother.  Great parents, we are.  And if we had, Sam, your name, today, would be "Turkey Sandwich".  I'm not shitting you, that's what Joseph suggested after we put him on the spot and asked him to name you.

Joseph was the first to meet Sam, and the first to know that he was right all along, that he was going to get a baby brother.  Joseph agrees and likes the name "Speed" and Samuel, well, that's all I could come up with after I pulled my wrinkled piece of notepad from my handbag, which was a last minute effort at trying to corral all our favorite names if it were a girl, or if it were a boy.
I'm a big brother, it's a boy, I was right.  Ha ha.  I rock.

For the record, I had NO IDEA what Sam was and didn't care, but I DID have a girl's name all lined up.  If Sam were a girl he would have instantly been named "Adelaide Pepper Price."  Done and done.  Pepper for short.

Joseph is sweet and very eager to be a part of the action and a part of Sam's life.  He wants to hold him all the time, talk to him, play with him, and cuddle him.  It's adorable and my heart grows ten fold.
Big bro, holding Baby bro.

The Fairy Bliss is turned off all too early, but the numbness lasts into the night, walking is a laughable nightmare, but freakishly fun and looking at my deflated stomach, is pure comedy.

Visitors (Andrea and her promised hospital delivery of coconut rum and pineapple juice, I LOVE YOU, you are IN the circle of trust..), moving rooms, breastfeeding like rockstars, food delivered three times a day to my bedside, the next few days and weeks are all the blur, as time generally is, nowadays.
Samuel Speed Price. Born 7.5.11 7lb 14 oz @ 9:17am.  Joy.
Samuel Speed Price is here, today, 4 weeks old and currently grunting on the floor beside me as he works to create another one of his seismic events, going dookie for the fifth time, this morning.

Dingo is staring at the baby and wondering if he should avoid him, eat him, or just pee on him and walk away.

Fuck off Dingo, he's all mine.  Yesssss.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Bitterness and Longevity.

If you're looking for a post on a family members' death that is reverent and not borderline in bad taste, then you've come to the wrong blog.  If you're looking for just that and the way only I can remember a dead family member, then read on.  You might get a laugh out of this, or call me some terrible names and try an intervention.  Whatever, read on.

This post has been a long time coming.  A long time thought about and a long time written, but only in my head.  This won't be the last post on this decidedly accurate and true topic, as it adequately and truthfully describes the two things that run in my family, bitterness AND longevity.  Well, AND skin cancer if you count that now..  Dammit.

Every single one of my immediate family (and this statement is made possible by the fact that I have an insanely small family, especially when compared to that of the typical Southern American family) was still living....until Thursday of last week.

That was when I couldn't sleep.

When my 3 week old son, COULD and I did what I usually do at 3am, which was fumble for my iphone in the dark, check Facebook, make a rude and insensitive comment on someone's wall or photo post, have a go at an attempt for using all my characters in a words with friends challenge (and fail and use a three letter word that ends in "at", instead), watch Family Guy streaming from Netflix on my 3 inch screen and check my email accounts, all in the dark, all when I can't sleep.

And there it was, bitterness and longevity, ended for a family member.  My Grandma Warrell.  Never knew my grandfather on my Dad's side, so for many years, I've been able to proudly say that every single old family member is still living.  Because all that runs in my family for diseases, is Bitterness and Longevity.  And it's actually still true, even though Grandma Warrell died.

Grandma Warrell was 97 years old.

Less than 3 years away from gettting a letter from the Queen.  Yes, it is from her department and the Queen doesn't actually sign the letter, but you still get it and not just a half arsed attempt at national celebrity while Wilfred Something-or-other mis-pronounces your name in a what seems to be a casually bigoted almost racial slur on national television, all while they show your 100 year old face on the side of a smuckers jar.

A bloody jam jar.

A sponsored segment.

You turn 100, simultaneously beat the average Caucasian number of years spent alive by at least 26 and smuckers gets this segment as added value to a buy they over purchased on NBC using their only highly rated program, the Today Show, as a make good.  Congrats you're 100, here's an equally old gentleman who forgets he is actually on TV long enough to say your name as they display a photo of you, which, I'm sure you would rather be one from your TWENTIES, rather than the wrinkly shrinked shell of your former self that you are today.

Grandma Warrell didn't get the smuckers jar, or the letter from the Queen, but she sure lived long enough to carry on my family trait, bitterness and longevity. 

As a granddaughter, as any grand children do, I had the most one sided selfish relationship with my Grandma Warrell, you rarely engage or care what is going on in their lives, but they revel in yours.  Something you try to fix as you get older and something I hope to fix in my young kids to make a little less one sided.

Grandma Warrell was a funny old duck.  I think she was actually clinically paranoid for most of her life...and it showed.  I didn't know her struggles, if she lived through a war, what hardships she faced, or anything like that.  Perhaps I did, perhaps she did tell me, but I was too one sided to listen.  Here are the things I do know and remember about her.

Grandma Warrell is remembered the way almost all grandmums are.  For their unique powdery smell .......and for another few ridiculous quirks.

Grandma Warrell would "attend" breakfast every morning at our family table on the times she would stay at our house on Trent Street in Brisbane (Australia).  She would join us, with full make up in effect.  I would marvel at the layers of perfectly pressed flesh colored powder on her face, surely at least one centimeter deep, masking the elderly crevices in her face.  The carefully and tightly drawn on brown eyebrows that stayed and never moved with her facial expressions, and the bright red lipstick that would stain and forever remain on our tea cups.  Even after Grandma Warrell left our house, her lipstick on the tea cups, would remain.  She would carefully get her two pieces of delivered toast and place them in a tent position, upright, leaning on each other and I always thought I would rush my hand underneath this "toast tent" she had created only to have it crashing down and have her cruse or growl at me, which is something Grandma Warrell, never, ever did.  I'm not sure she would have ever growled at me, and I'm not sure that she would have ever cared to, either.

Her hair would be in rollers and her laugh would be loud and raucous, I think this is where I get my laugh from, from Grandma Warrell.

She was always short, little and weird.  She also shrank with the passing years, as most old folk do.

She survived many mishaps and lived to tell about them.  She was so little in her 70s/80s, that she once, while ready to board a train at a railway station in Sydney (on the way to one of her many dance classes and dates she would attend during her 70 and 80's years) accidentally slid in-between the train and the platform, and landed on the tracks, in between the train and the railway platform, on the ground.  I'm not making this up.  I'm sure it was serious at the time, but all I can remember now, is laughing about it and her laughing about it too.  I'm not sure that any serious damage was done, or maybe she did break a hip after this, again, I'm not sure, I was very one sided.

Grandma Warrell had the most horrible, horrific handwriting.  A serial killer would be proud.  It would take an FBI specialist to decipher it.  And when us regular old family members tried, it ended in laughter as we often made up words as to what she might have written, making it even more hilarious.  Grandma Warrell wouldn't just send a letter in the mail, she would write a short story, a humorous account of something that happened to her, something she thought I'd be interested in, or some local event, attach several newspaper clippings and always, ALWAYS, write a PS, PPS, PPSS, PPSSS.

Grandma Warrell never knew how old I was.  When I was 8, she'd mail me a card that said "Happy Birthday to a 10 year old".  And when I was 10, she'd mail me a card that said "Happy Birthday to an 8 year old."  She always handmade our birthday and Christmas gifts.  This, was very thoughtful.

Awful, but so very thoughtful.

She always made clothes for my mother that was big enough for a German beer wench before meeting Jenny Craig and clothes big enough for me and my sister to "grow into" made from fabric that if we ever decided to give up on fashion at all and live amongst potato sacks, we'd be set.

Grandma Warrell was from Germany.  I didn't know this fact until recently (last 10 years or so) but her last name was shortened in order to avoid sounding "German Jew" to escape the Nazis, or at least this is the crazy shit my family makes up in order to feed me lies.  Or the crazy shit I make up in my head after hearing stories that I like to colorfully exaggerate and later recall in an outlandish manner.  Her family was Jewish.  I'm a 16th Jewish.  I'm catholic, but one 16th Jewish.  I'm also Irish, German and largely British, again, possible lies I'm told.

I was asked by my Auntie Chris to write something for Grandma Warrell's eulogy this week, and mercifully, it wasn't this.  It was a much "softer" version of this post.  Still truthful, the only way I know how, accurate, yet "soft".  I'm not going to know everyone at her funeral, after all,  I don't want complete strangers to know that I'm a insensitive weirdo, only family members.  Geez.

Cheers to you, Grandma Warrell, maybe one day I'll see you again if I'm not residing in the below heaven zipcode (likely) or if there's an afterlife and I'm not re-spawned or reincarnated as a spite filled, vengeful, rodent-hating, half-starved cat.

And let this serve as a warning to any of my other family members, if you die, I could write about it.  Or it could be worse, I could write about you while you are still living, and it could be awkward for the both of us.