My First Meme!

I've been a lazy fuck and not updating. Have you missed me?

Here's a short list of what I've been doing instead of blogging:
1. watching TV
2. playing Zelda
3. rocking around the Christmas tree and spreading Hanukkah joy.

Lucky for me Daisy tagged me for a Christmas meme (my first ever!) so I don't have to ask much of my atrophied brain cells.

1. Egg nog or Hot Chocolate?
Soy nog. It is nog sans the dairy coated tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa has no time to wrap, people. He's just one man!

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
White lights in the tree. I have no house. I drape many many lights in my tree to compensate.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
Yes. And I strictly uphold the mistletoe rules whenever people are at my house.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
Weekend after Thanksgiving! But no Christmas music until December 1.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?
Latkes.

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child.
Driving between my parents' houses with my brother and sister on Christmas Eve singing Christmas carols in the car.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
Some part of me knew, since our stockings were always full of the fruit that was in the fruit bowl on Christmas Eve. But I clung on. When I was 7, my parents were like: you're getting too old for this shiz.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas eve?
One for everyone!

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
Lights wrapped around the trunk and all around the branches. So many lights. Then lots of ornaments from our friends and family. Most of them are horses and dobermans.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?
I adore snow. I will sled on 1/2 inch of snow on a plastic bag.

12. Can you ice skate?
Poorly, yes.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
Probably my plastic rocking horse. I used to ride that thing like I was headed to China.

14. What is the most important thing about the Holidays for you?
Seeing lots of family.

15. What is your favorite Holiday dessert?
Pumpkin pie and fingerprint cookies.

16. What is your favorite Holiday tradition?
Stockings. Hello, what could be better than a dangling sock full of presents.

17. What tops your tree?
Ambrosia the Holiday Hooker. She is a trashed-out Barbie complete with smeared lipstick, a leg burned to a stub, and pubic hair. Our friends delivered her to us in an empty 6-pack. She is the most beautiful tree topper in the world.

18. Which do you prefer giving or receiving?
I'm starting to much prefer giving. That's when you know you're getting old.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?
Noel

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum?
Delicious. Until I stab myself in the roof of the mouth with the pointy-ass tip.

Dude. This was harder than writing an actual post. But I did it! And I tag starrhill girl.

The Wrath of the Righteous

So why is every last birthing book on the planet written by Judgy McJudgerson?

E just finished The Thinking Woman's Guide to Pushing a Baby Out Your Vaghine. She read me random sentences from time to time, and the damn thing read like a Scientology pamphlet.

"Some women believe they will bond with their baby EVEN if they have an epidural. Sadly, this belief is INCORRECT and these delinquent whores will never successfully bond with their baby and are doomed to an unrewarding lifetime of exorcising their demons for having foolishly subjected their unborn child to spirit-altering substances." I swear that's a word for word sentence. Almost.

E very much wants a natural childbirth and is horrified by the prospect of a c-section. But - never having pushed a human out of her body - she reserves the right to sink her talons into my flesh and demand an epidural once labor kicks in. Fine. To each her own, especially in the throes of fucking childbirth. Right?

I was with my sister while she labored with her baby daughter at home. That was a whole other universe of awesome. But I readily admit that if I had a vial of painkillers handy I would have shot her up myself. It was agonizing to see her labor, and I had to fight the instinct to wrestle her unwillingly into a burlap sack and cart her off to the nearest hospital for immediate anesthesia.

Not because I thought it was unsafe for her to deliver at home, but because I wanted to rescue her from her dark island of pain. She was the only one there. I felt a harsh kind of helpless, watching her struggle.

But I suppose that is what childbirth is all about. Doing that shit all by yourself.

So, attention all birthing book authors: the sneak-attack proselytizing needs to stop. Seriously. Save that shit for the born-agains. At least I know I'll never buy one of their books.

E's 15 week appointment is tomorrow. Normally wary of impending bad news, we're feeling kind of heartened and reassured by E's belly that has become slightly round. She's not supposed to get an ultrasound, but she may or may not demand one...talons exposed.

Mischief Is My Middle Name

Next week is E's 15 week OB appointment. This is maybe the most bizarre milestone yet. She is officially in her second trimester. I cannot overcome the feeling of disbelief that she is pregnant and our life has transitioned from trying to get E pregnant to her actually experiencing pregnancy.

I feel a bit lost in the woods sometimes. I think because she is just beginning to show, and it has been so many weeks since we had confirmation that all is well, it's difficult to entirely release myself to the idea of parenthood. Holy uncharted territory, batman.

A friend has told me that it may feel more real when we know the sex. I've heard conflicting reports on whether or not the sex will be visible at 15 weeks.

It is endlessly thrilling to wonder at the sex; and also, like Charlotte said recently, it feels crazy luxurious.

E recently decided she hopes it is a girl. This is classic for reasons disclosed below.

I would prefer a boy. Not because I'm into sports and stuff. In fact, I sort of hate playing sports. I have a major block about partaking in activities at which I suck. I HATE to suck at things, so much, in fact, that I'll avoid doing them at all costs. Softball? Suck. Won't do it. Football? Can't throw a decent spiral for shit. Won't do it. Golf? I will curse, then beat the earth with my leaden club. I loathe it. Because I suck.

So, if we had a son, I would totally shirk the required Saturday afternoons of "playing catch," and I'd likely show up with a buzz and a flask if I had to go to a bunch of Little League games.

But before you think I'm a lump of sodden potato fermenting on the couch, know that there are sports at which I excel. I know how to ride horses. And I rock - hard - at Badminton. How hot is that?

And if Rough-Housing and Horsing-Around count as sports, then I would be Champion of the Universe. Actually, I have been known to be such a starship shenaniganster that I have developed a reputation for unintentionally riling up other people's pets. I can't help it. It is my sheer enthusiasm for messing around that radiates from me and infects unassuming nearby animals. Dogs and horses alike respond to my presence by Acting Fresh.

One of my all-time favorite activities is riding a high-strung horse on a windy day adjacent to a corn field. Whee!

E stifles this aspect of my personality. She is the Anti-Horser-Arounder. She quashes my revelries with the dog with stern shouting, furrowed eyebrows, and a well-aimed pointer finger. In response, I call out that my spirit will not be broken and we, dog and human renegades, depart for the park across the street.

So if E has a boy, it would totally be two against one on the tomfoolery front.

In any case, the Chinese Fertility Calendar, in which I am a big believer, tells us that lentil is a boy. Mystery solved. Unless you consider the "mother" to be the egg donor. In that case, lentil is a girl. Mystery unsolved.

Again, hark! the luxury. I love that this is a total mystery. Part of me doesn't want to know at all, because somehow I feel like knowing the sex will suddenly make the reality of impending parenthood a bit more of the Crashing About My Head variety. For some reason having the ability to picture the kid as a boy or a girl magnifies the image of said child talking ceaselessly into my ear.

But as things stand now, I'm doing really well with our kid...lemon-sized and silent, you know.

I wonder if my powers of spreading hyperactivity will permeate E's womb.

photo credit.

Pheeble McGeeble the Lesbian Dweeble

Someone who reads my blog (a cookie to him) asked me to provide an example (I have many) of the festival of awkwardness that is coming out to strangers. I told him my favorite story is less of an awkwardfest and more of an inappropriatathon. He looked a little deflated when he said he thinks awkward stories are funnier.

Fear not, my friend, and read on.


A while back E and I were at a party with a lot of people who were meeting us for the first time. As is my fucking lot in life, I got trapped in a conversation with an Annoying Person. He was in his 40s, probably, and I think he lived in Manhattan, or perhaps Jersey, which may or may not explain some things. He was a triathlete (I know this because he spoke of it all evening), and was clearly taken with E and I, as he was hanging around us a lot, talking of his Iron Mans. I demonstrated some genuine interest in the conversation -- a colossal mistake, btw, when an annoying 40 year old man hangs about you and your wife and without having much of a reason to.


Annoying Person approached me *again* later in the evening and squatted down next to where I was sitting. He leaned in a bit, rather conspiratorially, and said: "So, do you know [insert female name here - let's say Phoebe McGee]?"


GS: "No. Why?"


AP: "Hm. Well, are you sure? Her name is Phoebe McGee. She's a lawyer at a law firm in New York."


GS: "Still not ringing any bells. Should I know her?"


AP: (slightly flustered) "Phoebe McGee. She works at a big law firm. I think it's downtown."


At this point I'm confused. Who is this McGee person? Why is he being so damn persistent? I'm terrible with names, so I was straining to remember this person that I must have met and now can't remember and I'm such an asshole for not remembering anyone I meet!

GS: (making an effort) "What's the name of her firm?"


AP: "Gee, I can't remember. It's a big firm, though, and I think she's a partner. I read about her in the paper. Her name is Phoebe McGee. Are you sure you don't know her?"


For the love of Stan, why does this guy keep repeating her name? He doesn't even know her -- he doesn't know the name of her firm or whether or not she's a partner. And did he just say he read about her in the paper? I was suddenly suspicious of Annoying Man. I looked at him blankly.


AP: (with desperation creeping into voice) "Yeah, she, um, has a partner, and I think she is a partner..." He trails off.


Ahhhhh. The many twinkling lights of understanding shine about my head.


GS: "Oh, I see. She's gay and she's a lawyer so you thought I'd know her?"


I cannot believe this just happened.

A) Why didn't he just say she's a lesbian? The conversation would have been over 5 minutes ago!

B) There are probably ten thousand lawyers in New York. This guy thinks that, what, 15 of them are gay? 20, tops? And we all know each other? And hang out? We probably meet up weekly to have gay parades together.

E is elbowing me ferociously in an effort to prevent me from saying something inappropriate. As if I could top this douche-bag.

GS: "No, I don't know her." In my effort to keep from laughing, I contorted my face into a frown.

AP: "Oh, really? Well. Okay." Without the frown he undoubtedly would have stayed and pressed on. But he took his cue and toddled off, not in the least sheepish. I think he even smiled and waved to me from across the room later on, probably as I was rolling out the door.


I was probably heading to the evening Gay Meet-Up.