Monday, April 29, 2013

I... why does it say paper jam when there is no paper jam? I swear to God, one of these days, I just kick this piece of shit out the window.

A couple of weeks ago, I boxed up all the best of my maternity clothes and sent them to a friend in another state. They'd been sitting in a clear Rubbermaid box on my bedroom floor for more than a year,* and I'd been dithering about what to do -- sell on Craigslist? Donate to a shelter? Yard sale? -- and doing nothing. Partly because it's kind of a pain in the ass to deal with, but mostly because ... I don't know. What if I got knocked up again? Almost impossible, thanks to the miracle of modern birth control,** but not literally, actually impossible. Or what if we decided we want a third kid after all? THEN where would I get any stretch-panel jeans, huh?

But we are emphatically not having a third.*** So when this friend announced her pregnancy (on the Facebooks, as you do), I hit her right away with "Congratulations and do you want my maternity stuff?"; she said yes, I washed/dried/folded everything, and off it went two days later. I expected to be sad about it -- I think that's why I held onto it all for so long. And I was, a little -- there's just no way not to be sad about the definitive end of a phase of your life, especially one so absolutely drenched in emotions as this one is. 

More than that, though, I was surprised to find that I was feeling ... liberated. 

Relieved to not have even the barest prospect of pregnancy and childbirth hanging over me (there's not much that is as wonderful and as terrible as being pregnant, y'all). Freed up to focus on the early childhoods of my two existing ADORABLE PRECIOUS MARVELOUS little fucking agents of entropy. Allowed to look forward to traveling with them, reading to and with them, having actual conversations with them -- and hellfire, all of the above with Mr. Gleemonex, too! Parenting very young children is just flat unrelenting; you keep your head down, your core tensed, and one arm half-up in defense against flying objects (thrown, spit or in the form of a cannonball noggin comin in for a kiss). Nothing is more boring than someone telling you how fucking awesome having kids is,**** so I won't do that, but also, when they're little, you take your sweetness and hilarity with a heapin' helpin' of SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day) and unpredictable, crazymaking shots of terror, rage, and tears. You are never, ever, ever off the clock, even when you're not there. 

So getting rid of the maternity clothes was oddly exciting -- a signal to the lizard-brain that we're done with that, it's time to move on, and this is a good thing. 

Anybody want a high-powered double breast pump that can empty a pair of human teats in five minutes? Cause that motherfucker's got to go now, too, and it's too goddamned expensive to bash the shit out of in a field with a baseball bat ...

*Pro tip, pregnant gals: you still need some of those for the first couple months postpartum, even though by that time you are sick to death of every god. damned. stitch of them.

**Mirena IUD, y'all -- it is the absolute greatest thing in the history of things. 

***It's none of anyone's business why, but because I overshare on the Internets as much as I undershare IRL, I'll allow that these reasons include but are not limited to the fact that I am almost 40, we are both tired as shit, and also Mr. Gleemonex has stated repeatedly: "am DONE." Heh. 

****And it is, honest -- so much, SO MUCH joy and happiness and love, I can't even. 

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Friday, April 26, 2013

I can barely see the road, with all the heat comin' off

Now that I've cooled off a bit from the whole Boston thing ... 

A Selection of Things Around and About the 5K Race I Ran Two Weeks Ago

Among the racers who blew my doors off:
--A lady pushing a TRIPLE stroller (filled with three 2.5-year-olds eating granola bars)
--A group of high school girls
--A guy pushing a stroller
--An eight-year-old girl (BRIEFLY!)
--Several women significantly older than me

Racers whose doors I, in turn, blew off: 
--A fair number of high school/college aged kids
--The "Runnin' for the Wine at the Finish Line!" glitter-T-shirt gals
--Several senior citizen ladies and gentlemen
--Most of the stroller-pushers
--That goddamned eight-year-old. SMAAAASH!!!

My results: 
--10th place in the 30-39 division

Where that time would've put me in the 40-49 division I'll be in next year: 

What I felt like, as I was running: 
--Linda Hamilton in T2 (looks), the entire Polyphonic Spree (joy)

What I actually looked like in the two official race photos I was in, taken along the course: 
--A manatee wearing a hilarious "human" costume for manatee Halloween

Likelihood of me participating in this or any other run-racing event, if you had asked me at any time in the previous 39.25 years of my life: 

Likelihood of me doing this and many other run-racing events again and again until my hip flexors spontaneously combust or my entire family stages an intervention: 

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Wednesday, April 24, 2013

If you're a weird shit that does weird shit during the day

I know you've probably seen this, but if you haven't, this is going to be the best four minutes and eleven seconds of your entire week. Holy unhinged ballwash, you guys!

Tie yourself down to whatever chair you're sitting in and watch Michael Shannon read the sorority president e-mail. 

Sorry for the lack of posts lately -- I got some good stuff in my head that I haven't had time to sit down and type! BRB, going to go watch that vid again.

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Friday, April 19, 2013

Reader, I married him.

Mr. Gleemonex wrote this in an email to our group of friends* today, and DK Folk, I want you to know: This is proof that a 21-year relationship must, in fact, be built on shared values. And that these are ours.

The Phil Collins video they link to in the article is awesome.
It's got it all. Ridiculously awesome stage. White People. White People always feeling the need to clap to the beat during a live performance even when it detracts from the experience. White People REALLY passionate about Phil Collins; it is on their FACES. The awesome Phil Collins outfit. The awesome Phil Collins headset. Leland Sklar on Bass. As always, Leland Sklar's awesome beard. Minutes upon minutes of build up. THE DRUM FILL. AWESOME. Or at this point we should just call that one THE DRUM PHIL.

*We've had this yahoo group of about a dozen of us for ... I think about 14 years now. We send links, commentary, hilarity, Your Mom stuff, and whatnot a few times a day. It keeps one's humours regulated, one's outlook jaunty, and one's step springy. 


Monday, April 15, 2013

On Boston

Nothing is safe. Nothing and no one and nowhere in America can anymore be presumed to be safe from violence. I get nervous shopping in Target, I'm a wreck at Five Guys, I have greater and lesser frissons of worry throughout the day as my older kid is at preschool or the both of them are in the gym's Kids Club. There are many days I'm more or less stable and don't think too much about it, but I'm almost never 100% free of it, and there are other days I can't stop doing my hoodoo magical thinking -- these mental gymnastics I do that I think might be the key to preventing myself or my family members being among the victims of this or that next mass shooting or bombing: I scan for the exits and potential sheltering places everywhere I go; I give the nervous side-eye to bathroom doors, staff-only entrances, odd dogleg floor plans; I hate to have my back to the room in restaurants; I have been known to check for snipers on roofs and in windows; I can be thrown into heart-thumping panic by anyone behaving strangely (talking to themselves, angry over something I can't make out, being too loud, or -- especially -- praying in public). I had a post all written about the 5K I ran yesterday, how fun and awesome and full of camaraderie it was and how proud I was of breaking through my old cobwebbing of negative feelings toward running in general and doing a running event in particular, of placing tenth in my age division (30-39) without even really turning on the gas, how excited I am to do it again, and to run the half-marathon I'm training for in June -- but now, who cares about that shit: More people just got murdered, permanently maimed, terrorized, for running one of the world's oldest, grandest and most respected foot races. Every day, it seems, someone steals from us all the idea that you can do something else completely normal without being murdered for being there: watch a movie, eat in a restaurant, go to the gym, show up to work, attend the first fucking grade, compete in an athletic event that you trained for over months or years. Where does this all stop? How do we accept this, living like this? Nothing is safe, nowhere is safe.


Friday, April 05, 2013

Frontier Ruckus aka Those Kids From Your High School German Club

Potpourri Friday

Laughing myself STUPID at this thread, sent to me by Mr. Gleemonex -- the comments section of an Onion AV club feature where dumb bands cover songs. I didn't watch the video, I fucking hate video, but the comments are GOLD. And I love the names -- holy Shatner do clever people come up with clever comment handles!*

The Americans. If you are into the great TV dramas of the moment -- Walking Dead, Justified, that sort of thing -- this is the show for you, my friends. I cannot get it out of my head. It's fantastic. The credit sequence alone ought to be in the Museum of Television. And now I want to gay-marry Keri Russell, whom I previously hadn't thought much about (Felicity missed me by miles and miles, although I really did like her in that movie about pies with the most wonderful lady in entertainmentland, Cheryl Hines). She is -- wow. She's something else -- wiry, catlike, cold and twisted but full of pain and rage and odd warmth in strange ways. I absolutely believe her character and motivations -- I forget I'm watching TV. For real.

So have we decided -- we, humanity, the human race -- that we're just ... sort of ... not going to talk about this or touch it in any way? I'm serious: What in the GODDAMN HELL-FUCK is this shit? George W. Bush is spending his retirement painting awkward shit and weirding everyone out and making us look back upon his eight years of incompetent, homicidal jackoffery with even more astonishment and horror? And we don't have a 24-hour cable channel devoted solely to this subject and how eye-poppingly fucked up this all is? Just a couple of Gawker posts and some people going, "Well ... so that happened. Um. Yeah, so. Uhh. Anyway."

Roger Ebert, y'all. Damned sorry to lose him.

*The Invisible Handjob, Stupid Sexy Flanders, Michael Pemulis, The Balltease Falcon, The Thin White Duke Ellington, Paul Kinsey, Preparation Heche, Victor Mature, emund hillary clinton, etc.

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Monday, April 01, 2013

Brain-salad Monday

Whole lotta shit going on right now -- among the things cartwheeling and herkey-ing through my head:


2) Dragons! And so forth!

3)  Easter is weird if you are totally unreligious like the Gleemonex household. We do all the fun stuff -- cute new clothes for the kids, dyeing hard-boiled eggs, Easter bunny comin' through hidin' choco-treat-filled eggs all over the house at night -- but as far as our unchurched chirren know, that's all there is to it. I mean, I don't really care ... but when you think about it, it's kinda weird. Christmas at least has all kids of secular good times to it -- everybody can celebrate family togetherness and gifts and stuff -- but Easter is all about The Risen Christ, and if you have no idea who Christ is in the first place, you are a fairly ignorant person. Heh.

4) I am now offering my full endorsement to Moving Comfort. When I got suddenly and surprisingly serious about running a few weeks ago, I decided to research what kind of gear and such was out there now, and this brand came up -- y'all, I love it so goddamn much! Their Jubralee bra is FANTASTIC -- and this is a no-underwire product, people! what what whaaaaaaat?? -- I love their stupid-expensive underpantalones, they just have it allllll together.

5) Opening day! Summer's almost here, y'all!

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