Sunday, August 05, 2007

In regard to previous post...

I am not an insensitive asshole. Neither am I depressed or passively (or aggressively) resentful of unborn Wee One.

What I am:

1. Exhausted. Perpetually.
2. Housebound. (see number one.)

And my sense of humor has become twisted of late. Think Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window and, well, Bart Simpson in Bart of Darkness. "There was an optics festival, and I wasn't informed? You go now."

All in all, I think I'm holding up pretty well....

(Giggles maniacally while rocking back and forth.)


I am in my own private10 mini-donut a bag hell

In eating the 10 mini-donuts from the vile baking counter temptresses at Waitrose, I have LEARNED A VALUABLE LESSON....

Always blame the baby.

For instance.

Tired? Baby's fault.

Hungry? Baby's fault.

Zero libido? Baby's fault.

Weight gain? Baby's fault.

Clouded ambition? Lack of direction? Baby's fault's fault.

I'm thinking of making this into a public service announcement and setting it to the music of The More You Know.

I shall call it, "When life hands you lemons, it's your baby's fault."

Yup. I have that Mother-of-the-Year award pretty much in the bag.

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Friday, August 03, 2007

The day the joists rotted through

Well, hardly a day.

Joists don’t rot through in a day, but thanks to our boob of a landlord, who has a footloose and fancy-free attitude toward home repair, our house has serious structural problems. Meaning, we must move. By the end of the month.


I can now look forward to packing instead of endless hours napping. I can also look forward to…Sigh. Don’t make me say it.

Battling with Virgin Media.

I hate them. I hate them. And it must seem like I hate a lot of things, but I actually reserve my hate for the truly hateable. Actually, hating some things, like Virgin Media, has made me reflect fondly on other things, like Comcast. God, I miss Comcast. Good ol’ efficient Comcast. You come in, install our broadband, and it works, by golly! And you don't seem confounded by things like a SCART connection or a television set.

Any-old-hoo. Back to the problem at hand.

I've come to loathe moving. (Another variant of hate, agreed, but let's move on.) Ask any military family or civilian military contractor's family (us), who has had to move. A lot. From country to country. Sending pots and pans and precious family photographs from APO to APO.

Moving sucketh. It sucketh the raw eggeth.

And, while, yes, the physical aspect of moving is a drag, it's the emotional tole that's the worst. Everyone wants someplace to call home. I have been known to call hotel rooms "home." I called our apartment at RAF Alconbury "home" for the brief month we stayed there. Because we've moved around so much, I have a strong need for an emotional home base. I need a home.

So. Sadly, and once again, we will be moving. My surroundings will change. Everything familiar to me will change. Home will change.


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Thursday, August 02, 2007

Notes from a Crazed Yankee Preggo in the UK: I'm a lousy driver, Hinchingbrooke is lovely, and I want a cookie, dammit...

...So raves the mind of a once exuberant young woman on pregnancy. (Cast your mind back to the '80's: This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?) I don't expect the following to be any more than a stream of consciousness rant you may or may not want to follow, but so works the mind of the hysterical preggo...

First, Despondent Jacki: I suck at driving. But I partially blame the UK for designing tiny little lanes, incessant roundabouts, and bizarre traffic islands, i.e., minefields. Okay, the fact that I almost crashed into the car on my right-hand side was probably my fault, but, but...Oh crap, I have no depth perception or whatever you call that ability to judge that distance between your car and another car. I suck. I will always suck and nothing will change.

Second, Cloyingly Happy Jacki: Oh sweet Jesus, Hinchingbrooke is a lovely hospital, isn't it?! The midwives are so nice! I saw my baby today! The projected due date is February 14th, Valentines Day, and the anniversary of our first date! Isn't life wonderful?! Yippety skippety Junior's alive and kicking! Tra-la-la!

Third, Whiny Jacki (often mistaken for Despondent Jacki and vice versa): I miss working. But how can I work when I feel tired for three-quarters of the working day? I nap between 12 and 3 and ain't nobody taking that away from me. They could try, but then I'd be like a wide-awake drunk. Good for nobody. Whah!!! What do I do? Wait for the baby to be born? Wait until we leave England, as we may do in March? My life is spinning out of control.

Fourth, Hungry Jacki: Is that a cookie? Yes, I'd like a cookie.

Fifth, Sleepy Jacki: Yum. Good cookie. Maybe, a little nap. Yes, just a little...



Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Pet peeve 89: Brits with pretensions to upper class poshness but, who are, in fact, middle class gits with chips on their shoulders.

Scene: St. Neots, England. Yesterday afternoon. The park around the corner from my house. Me, the Veli dog out for a poop run. On the path in front, a big white dog that Veli clearly wants to play with and is straining at the collar to go and see. Behind us, a woman, my age?, walking her Labrador off the leash. This is important, hence the italics.

In my mind: Oh Veli, you pain in the butt dog, settle down! Why in the world did we never train you to behave on a leash? How do you train a dog to behave on a leash? Oh, look! There's a lady walking a Lab. No leash. You just want a little run, don't you, girl?

Outta my mouth: Hi there. Does your dog like to play?

The Woman: No.

Outta my mouth: No?

In my mind: What? Look, you have a big dog too, who's off the leash and running around, I might add. Who are you to speak to me like I'm, I'm, inferior! The indignity. Such haughty pretension. Just look at her. Yet. Veli does look a little keyed-up. Can't be too aggressive in my response. Maybe she's frightened of the dog? Nope. Doesn't look frightened.

The Woman: No, you go on ahead. Continue. You seem to have enough to go on with.

In my mind: Outrage. I am not four and will not be spoken to like a naughty little girl! Yet, what is the best response? I'll try Stu's "killing with kindness" routine. Maybe, that will shame the arrogance out of her.

Outta my mouth: Well, actually, we're just out for a poop break. We're coming back your way now. [Turns around on path, heads back in the direction of the Woman.] You know, she's not so scary. She's a puppy and just a little rambunctious. She just loves to play. [I smile and try to establish eye contact. Woman walks past without acknowledgment. I walk a little further and allow Veli to run around me.]

In my mind: Damn. I'm no good with this killing with kindness. It has to be cloyingly sweet with a hint of sarcasm, just for good measure. I'm much more a volcano, an unstable rage-a-holic, that will blow without thinking. My modus operandi is yell first, think later. But it doesn't work with these Brits with pretensions to poshness. It just confirms your uncouth status. Must get a handle on the killing with kindness routine. Must get lessons from Stu. Damn, she's coming back. Battle stations.

Outta my mouth: Hi there! What kind of dog is that?

The Woman: [Confused] Ah, a Labrador.

Outta my mouth: Oh, isn't he sweet. Just a cutie! Well, have a nice day now!

The Woman: [Confused still] Yes, ah, have a nice day. [Walks over the bridge that separates the town from the park]

Outta my mouth: [Sees Veli wanting to follow Woman and Woman's dog] Oh no, Veli, wait here for the lady to cross the bridge. Let's be patient now. [Says this loud enough for Woman to hear]

In my mind: Great. Great! She thinks I'm simple. Or a lunatic. Or both. Did this work at all? Stupid Stu and his stupid kindness killing routine. Next time I see her, I'm just going to smile and say, "You might want to put your dog on the leash because Cujo's out now."

Seriously people, or fellow Americans who have lived or are living in the UK, how do you deal with such arrogance?! Enquiring minds want to know, file the response safely away in the old brainbox, and unleash it on the next assflap.