You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October 2008.
Scheisse. It’s been busy here at the House of Flying Cats.
Loki, the still sexless baby is growing at leaps and bounds. He is the most photographed fetus since Suri. Between my three doctors, this little one is scanned at least once a week. I’m not complaining. I love checking him out. Last week he was all laid back, feet up, sucking a thumb and waving with his other hand. Totally my kid. All he needed was a cocktail and a friend to shoot the shit with and we could be related. See below. That’s my kid.
I tried to have a CVS last week, but Loki was in the wrong position, making it impossible. Now, I’m looking at the more invasive Amnio which I’m still a little sketchy about.
I don’t know how mothers go through pregnancy without a team of doctors, million of tests, nuchal fold scans etc… and not worry that there is something wrong. I worry all the time. I keep track of things like his size – is he big enough, is his head too small, what about the thickness of his little bod? And his movements and his little heartbeats and how does the back of his neck look and are his legs in the right proportion and will his eyes move lower and do I see a prominent brow bone because where I might be like the Neanderthal people in Clan of the Cave Bear in regards to math, it’ll be tough on a kid to look like a Neanderthal.
I say “he” because one, we’ve always thought it was a boy except for a two week period where I had a weird dream about a boy really being a girl and she was playing with wolves. Odd. And because it gets tedious calling it an it when clearly it is a something and we just don’t know yet because he keeps turning the other way.
Last week with the Ultra Ultrasound machine, I made a comment to the nurse that he was a mischevious little devil and the nurse (a nurse not familiar with my sense of humor) made the comment that “No. There are no evil babies.”
Okay. First of all, I didn’t say evil. Where did you come up with evil?
Second, how did she know I was actually worried about that? I have worried since, oh, about 8 weeks that I was carrying the next Dexter or Hitler or computer programmer that makes computers that rule the world like in The Terminator and this pregnancy will change history because you know, I’m egocentric enough to think like that and frankly Sparky could have been a genius if HE hadn’t been caught in the birth canal for those few minutes and I’m rather clever and if we have a kid, well, forget it, its over for the world.
So this nurse makes that comment and at first, in my right mind, I figure she just didn’t have a sense of humor. But later… I start to think that she’s like the nurse in Rosemary’s Baby and Loki turned so I couldn’t see his horns and she’s just saying that to make me feel better until I am forced to give vaginal birth to a killer baby (His eyes! His eyes! What have you done to his eyes?) and when he’s three he’ll start telling me I’m the prettiest mommy and that everyone says so right before he pushes his nanny down a flight of icy steps.
So this thinking leads to the thinking that I’m already losing my mind and going totally Andrea Yates* before I’ve even given birth and I’ve made Claire promise that if after I give birth I start to think my kid is evil, she’ll come down and make sure I get on medication before I start filling the bath tub.
Then I think about how I can’t eat enough fruit these days and that it tastes so freaking good I can’t stand it. Really, it’s just too good. Or how for some reason, I can’t get enough Vivaldi and have to close my eyes when I hear those runaway violins. And how nice I’m feeling. Not nice in like “Oh I’m feeling just splendid” because I’m not. I feel like I’m a nicer person and let me tell you, nice is not usually a word associated with me. One or two flip-outs aside, I’m feeling like a kinder, gentler Jen. And these are things things I totally blame on Loki, a fruit-eating-violin-loving-nice kid can’t be evil. It’s not like I’m craving bloody meat like Phoebe in Charmed episode 420 when she really was pregnant with the source of all evil. (I thoroughly researched the evil baby issue.)
I’m not going to be one of those women who goes into motherhood all easy and natural. I do think though, by covering all my bases, thinking about every possibility I can, I’ll be more prepared and possibly, just possibly, I’ll be able to relax a bit when the kid finally makes his open air appearance. Let’s hope so for the kid’s sake.
Wow, do I sound neurotic or what?
*I firmly believe that Andrea Yates’ husband was far more responsible for the tragic events than she was as he continued to get her pregnant when they had been told subsequent pregnancies would certainly lead to postpartum psychosis stating that “God” would choose whether or not to give them more children then knocking her up 4 more times even as she got worse and worse. Seriously, when psychosis is involved, the only reference to god should be something along the lines of “Oh god, get those meds into her fast” or “God, you’re a stupid man telling your psychotic wife she can handle more kids.”
As opposed to being an illegal alien.
I’ve been Sparky’s illegal bride since July when my visa ran out. Truthfully, I had forgotten all about it until I received written notice to get my ass and two dozen pieces of obscure paperwork down to the Amt.
As we are not drug smugglers and I’m not here working as an illegal prostitute nor am I here for nefarious purposes, it should have been just a matter of collecting the paperwork and finding the time to deal with German bureaucracy.
Seriously, we’re legit.
Except for one little thing. I never took my German Integration course. And they wanted proof that I had actually completed it. And I don’t want to complete it. I don’t even want to start it.
I’m integrated. I cross the street without looking if there are cars. I can stop in the middle of a grocery store aisle with the best of them. I’ve got my Jas and my Neins and my Entschuldigungs all nice and neat. I can even Prost, when the situation calls. I REALLY don’t want to take an integration course.
So I’ve been procrastinating and the longer I procrastinated, the worse the situation became in my head. Before I knew it, they’d send my pregnant ass back to the States where I’d have to employ expensive lawyers to fight to reunite Sparky and our then US born child. We’d eventually be united under some sort of hardship law or family unification loophole, but we’d be poor and our child would be five. And really, I don’t want to live here that badly, it’s just when they take it away, I’d have to fight. I’m contrary like that.
So you can see why I put it off as long as I could. Who wants to be forcibly removed from a country?
Sparky wouldn’t let me put it off for another minute, made the appt and got me down there. It took 30 minutes. We had all the right paperwork and I got a temporary permanent visa while they process the paperwork.
And that was it. No immigration guards, no threats. Not even a lousy fine. I have nothing to show for my foray into illegal immigration status than more worry lines and a husband who thinks I’m crazy.
Seriously, not even a thumb print.
Diane over at Martinis for Two put up this meme/challenge and it brought back memories, many MANY memories. You could say that I started my dating career in the really bad department and slowly learned to find humor so they moved from really bad to amusing when telling my friends over drinks. It got to the point where my bad dates were way more fun than my good dates and I ended up dating a lot. (Shaun, shut up. It’s dating if I call it dating.)
My very first date forgot his wallet. That wouldn’t have been bad, but later when he tried to kiss me, a moment I was so not feeling, I zipped my jacket up too fast and caught my lower lip in the actual zipper. I bled all over the place and this somehow triggered an asthma attack in poor George. He couldn’t find his inhaler so I ended up ripping his car apart looking for his inhaler as he started to turn blue and I seriously considered calling an ambulance. It was in his coat pocket. He drove me home after that, at 10 pm.
Then there was the guy who smelled like poop. Literally. He had a metabolic issue that broke down the chemicals in his body in an unfortunate aroma. Nice guy, but I just couldn’t get past the poop.
There was the really big guy I picked up playing pool in a bar. Classy, I know, but I was accessorizing at the time and he matched my outfit – I was doing “Dive Bars” a couple of counties outside my own. Our date was a day hike. As a rule, I don’t tend to do “nature” and he is one of the reasons I never did “nature” on a date again. After about a hour’s walk into the middle of nowhere, he decided (like Diane’s guy), to be honest with me about his past. Recent past. Like 3 days past. He had just gotten out of San Quentin where he did time for aggravated assault and robbery. Apparently San Quentin wasn’t so bad. His previous stay at Pelican Bay was bad. San Quentin was like county lock-up after Pelican Bay. And as a special for our date, he had broken into a car and procured me some CDs.
The worst date would have to be a guy named John H. And it was my fault. You could say I was the bad date since I asked him out. And the gods being what they are, punished me. See, I asked him out not because I liked him, but because he had a shiny yellow Harley Davidson. A shining jewel of rebellion calling my name regardless of the man I’d have to date to get to it.
In my defense, I was 18-going-on-19 and very, very naive as to the ways of older men. Men in general, really, as I was still, uh, pure of body if not in mind and had no idea what I was doing. I had just spent a year at the university frustrating many a stoner boy. I really had no idea the games this guy thought I’d be playing. And he was 45+ year old so I think it’s only fair that he take some of the responsibility.
John H. was a truck driver and I had a summer job working for a moving company. I had spied his ride on the inside of his trailer when he was loading off our dock one day. I asked him for a ride.
This day, unfortunate as it was, my mother had arranged for me to meet the son of a family friend. He was meandering his way through medical school after deciding he no longer wanted to practice law. He had already passed the California Bar Exam and figured out that he just wasn’t meant to be a lawyer. He was attractive, young and wealthy if not a bit feckless. My mother was seeing a match.
Hahahahaha. That poor woman. Not 20 minutes after this introduction, a very loud hog pulled up in front of our manicured lawn. I heard him at least a mile away as in this neighborhood, loud motorcycles were not common. Nor was the greasy 45+year-old driver. (By the way, I never did find out his real age.)
I said my goodbyes quickly and ran out the front door. In my head it worked more like a movie, where the biker slowed down just enough so I could hop on the back and by the time my mother came out the door, all she could see was my hair flying in the breeze as we took the corner, gunning the engine.
She was faster than me.
John Henry didn’t help either. He foiled my plans by turning off the bike and coming to the door to meet my parents. He apparently had bigger plans than one ride. It didn’t seem to connect that he was actually older than my parents or how unseemly it seemed that he was dating an 18-year-old. Seriously, the fact that my mother let me go at all is a testament to the fact that she had a direct line to Ironus and knew I would pay for tormenting her so and still come home intact.
It was bad. First, my mother forbade me from even touching the bike. John Henry was fine with that as he wanted to impress my mother, who was again, younger than he was. So we went in my car. Can I just say that there is nothing an 18 year old girl and a 45 year old man have to talk about unless it’s her father and he’s grilling her about overspending or grades.
The entire night was radio silence except for the not so subtle hints that maybe we should make out. At one point he even used the “Make Love” phrase that still creeps me out to this day. It makes me do the creepy crawly dance. (pause for dance) There was none of that. It was like, eewwe.
I spent the entire night fighting him off. Seriously, I might have been safer on the bike. He wore Three Flowers in his slicked back hair and it got all over the headrest of my VW Rabbit and for the remainder of the life of that car, it smelled vaguely of felon.
When I drove us back to my house, I hopped out of the car fast. I said goodnight hoping to escape inside with a wave, but again, the adults that day were way faster. He grabbed me in a bear hug and tried to force my head up as romantically as he could. As I struggled for breath he struggled to find a way to bring my mouth up from my chest, I could hear my mother and brothers laughing.
My entire family was watching from the darkened downstairs bedroom. And giggling. My brother can tell you his side of that story to this day. It’s now an old family tale.
At that point, feeling safer than I had all night, I pushed him back, said a firm good night, thanked him for dinner and walked inside.
The next day my dad took care of it/him. And as much as I fought against the parental interference, I was so relieved. There were no more truckers that summer or ever again.
Life moves at an amazing pace these days. I have six weeks before I go back home. I guess I should probably buy a plane ticket. Sparky’s attendance is still up in the air. I’m hesitant to go without him, as I kinda miss the guy after a few days. The cats would be happy.
By the way, this is a good time for my real family – the royal family – to come into the picture and buy me a business class ticket home. The private jet would fine too. Just please, do not stick my five-and-a-half month pregnant ass in peasant class. I’ll be six-and-a-half months when I come home. Again, Princess needs an upgrade.
In good news there, I can still fit into my skinny jeans. Well, if I don’t button them up and use a rubber band to keep them together. I could button them up, but its really uncomfortable and for once its not because I ate a pint of b&j’s Phish Food.
In somewhat alarming news, my boobs are Katie Price sized and don’t seem to be slowing down. I expect a “Jen’s Boobs versus Godzilla” movie soon. Let me just say, my money is on my chest. I’m not liking it so much. I can’t wear any of my old tops without looking either totally slutty or well, totally slutty and that’s not the look I’m going for. I’ve had to fall back to the old tank top layering thing which makes me feel like I’m 400 pounds again.
A certain red-headed cat woke me up last Monday by knocking my grape-cranberry juice off my bedside table. That was fun at 5 am.
The next morning he woke me up with no-longer impacted anal sac stuff on my hand and forehead. I tried to scoot him off the bed because he purrs too loud at 4 fucking am. He had the last laugh there. After my ewwwe panic “get it off of me” dance and scrubbing his stinky butt, he fell asleep in the warm spot I had left in the bed. For all of five second before his furry butt was flying off the bed. He actually had the nerve to look insulted. Oh and Sparky slept through the entire thing. (All the cats are toxo negative. I had them tested so Loki is totally safe.)
Had a girls day with Tat and it was lovely.
I got to take Twinkle Toes to Ikea for dinner and shopping. Taught her the correct way to sing “And the Winner Takes it All” – at the top of your lungs with dramatic hand movements and a big spin at the end. Man, I love that kid. She really understands how drama, when correctly applied, adds flavor to one’s life.
I took Sparky to the train so early today that I still had the veil of scaredy-ness on. I came back into the house alone and I swear I was in that subway scene in Mimic with Mira Sorvino. I could feel the giant cockroach like things watching me as I ran up the stairs to our apartment. It might have had something to do with the flickering green light coming from the elevator. Or my overactive imagination. Or giant cockroach things watching and waiting. They’ll come back out when I pick him up again tonight in front of the whorehouse at midnight. Either them or the serial killer stalking me or the ghost train pulled by the 12 horses galloping in the dark. I really need to move somewhere with more street lights and less nature.
Sarah Palin is a lying liar and I cannot believe she is in the position she’s in. It KILLS me. Sarah does not represent the women of America I’m familiar with. I went through more interviews and a stricter vetting process to scoop ice cream at Thrifty’s when I was 14. (And yes, I abused my power. I never paid a dime for those 10 cent ice cream cones at all that summer.) She has become a button Sparky likes to push with me as it always gets a reaction. Usually of the teeth grinding variety. I just want this election to be over. I can’t stand the not-knowing – is the country I love is going to be sacrificed yet again to dim-witted voters who just want to feel as if they are represented by someone they feel is “just like them”. Idiots. I don’t care how you “feel”. Get a therapist. We need a leader who is smarter than we are. Really. NO, really. This isn’t reality TV, people. It’s reality.
I can’t eat enough grapes or pineapple. Nothing tastes better to me these days. Or grilled cheese sandwiches. Yum.
Today is the anniversary of my first date with Sparky. You can read about it here if you want. Needless to say, in the last two years since that post was written, we have almost broken up several hundred more times, a couple of times very seriously. But again, somehow, somewhere we scrounge up the courage and strength to face the problem and slay the beast. We adjust our hopes and our dreams and move forward, together.
Man, it is really, really hard at times. At our one year wedding anniversary, we were in San Francisco. I was sitting with my step-dad and said something to the effect of “Phew. The first year is over. I hear the first year is the hardest.”
My step-dad laughed. Out loud. It takes a lot to to get him to laugh audibly. He just looked at me and said, “Jen, EVERY year is the hardest.”
And he wasn’t lying.
Last year, sitting with my step-dad, he congratulated me. Apparently Sparky and I stayed married for longer than any of the bets made on our wedding day. No one expected us to make it past a year, let alone four. We’re almost to five. (By the way, I still think Sparky and I should have collected on all those bets, Dad, Jeff, Mim, Aunties.)
I keep waiting for one of those Camelot years that flow beautifully and easily; where it’s not such hard work and growth opportunities are as pleasurable as the scent of a rose. I suppose they don’t really exist except in hindsight. So I’ll keep moving forward and wait for it.
As today is also the 12 week mark of this pregnancy, I’m confident those days are on their way.
Just let me believe that.
If you’ve read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, you’ll be familiar with this test. If not, give it a whirl. It measures your preference fro differences in people from Arab Muslim, skin color to sexuality. It’s really kind of cool.
Try it out.
Had a great and exhausting weekend. Kim and C came to stay. I’m currently drinking out of my brand new Heidelberg mug that Kim so thoughtfully brought me to add to my vast collection of Starbucks mugs. And it’s PINK.
We had a great time, at least Sparky and I did. Sparky got to play tour guide and share the wikipedia of information he has in that head of his. C kept asking Sparky how old random buildings were and Sparky actually knew. This disappointed me as I wanted to catch him talking out of his ass and knock him down a peg as is my job, but sadly, he actually knew. Well, he knew the century and I suppose when talking about castles and churches, 100 year flexibility is allowed.
I, on the other hand, had a great time making C giggle by saying “Boobies” every once in a while.
Kim reminds me so much of my sister that I had to ask her to kick me remind me that she was not, in fact, my sister if I started ordering her around. No wonder I like her. I swear she’s got my family DNA in her somewhere.
Other random things:
Category: A little late, but thanks:
- I got my sample ballot and Voter Information Pamphlet last Thursday. I mailed in my actual ballot more than two weeks ago.
- My health insurance approved me for IUI. Thanks, but uh, that boat has already sailed. In fact, you can start expecting some serious prenatal bills. I’ll mail those off to you today.
Category: Why I worry or I swear I didn’t know they were that stupid
- Jeff called me Saturday morning. He was with our friend S (a straight guy who collects gay porn). After an afternoon at the shooting range, they dropped their guns off at home and headed to Hooter’s. After their fair share of T&A, they went to another bar. Once they had their fill, they went home to clean their guns. Nothing like a little whiskey to help with gun cleanin’. And a requisite phone call to little old me in Krautland.
Apparently I worry too much because according to the both of them, cleaning guns and whiskey is a perfectly safe duo as the guns are in pieces. I’m not convinced either.
Category: Things I love about Germany
- Autumn – Dude, seriously, in my dream arrangement, we live here for autumn and winter and live in SF for spring and summer. I just can’t get enough of the fall colors. And the perpetual grey skies and rain really set off those colors nicely.
- Sparky – I won’t go into exactly why, but I’m kind of crushing on him lately. Perhaps it’s all that knowledge of castles and churches and legends about greedy Bishops being eaten by mice.
- Never mind. Sparky just told me that his twittering was way more important than proof reading this post. Twitter! I’ll give you a twitter! And yes, Sparky I feel better now.
