Parkland Library is making me buy a monkey

Excerpt from an email just written to T.G. regarding his request that I renew our library stuff online:

I renewed all the books online. However, I find the website very weird and hostile while renewing. Because I did the renew thing and it was all "One or more of your items cannot be renewed, please see the circulation desk" and then I was all "Ugh, this sucks."
So I tried renewing them one at a time and it said that same dumb message for each one and I was so confused because SURELY not every single book is nonrenewable, right?
Then I looked and saw they had all renewed anyway and whole thing was just a confusing and pointless web glitch or something and I was very grumpus about it. Why say books cannot be renewed when books have in fact BEEN renewed. I'm going to buy a monkey and take it over to the webmaster's house and let said monkey throw poo at them. Of course, they might not understand why I am standing there with a poo flinging monkey instead of just telling them exactly what my problem is, but that is their fault. If they are going to be all subversive and weird about their renewing system I am going to be all subversive and weird about telling them how I feel about it.
So there.
Now, where is there a Monkey Store?

Shark Jumpers Anonymous

Hello Kids, today we are going to look at few celebrity shark-jumpers. Hooray! In case you wondering what a Shark Jumper is, the phrase was coined after the episode of Happy Days where Fonzie jumped a shark on his motorcycle. It basically means the moment things got too wacky and went too far and exceeded all good sense. One second you are a celebrity and the next you are a punch line, thus, you have jumped the shark.

1. Gwyneth Paltro jumped the shark when: She named her baby girl 'Apple'. There is a certain arrogance and attitude of superiority that goes with naming your unfortunate little girl after a piece of fruit. And don't blame this on Chris either. Everyone knows once labor starts all bets are off in the name game. You could have 'Peter Alexander' all picked out prior to transition and then during a particularly evil contraction the woman might start shrieking "We're naming him Phelonius Aardvark the Third!" and there is nothing the father can do. The poor kid is stuck with Phelonius Aardvark forever. So, yes, Gwyneth is to blame and over the shark she goes.

2. Madonna jumped the shark when: She married a Brit, moved to London and started talking in a weird faux English accent. Ever since then she has been jumping the shark on a daily basis. It's worse now that she's in her fifties. At this point even her body is trying to tell to her to stop. She's gotten all sinewy and horrible and truly should never ever ever wear underwear as outerwear in public again. Dear Madonna, it is time to get off the motorcycle and leave the extreme oceanic water sports to Lady Gaga. You are scaring me with your visible tendons everywhere.

3. Paris Hilton jumped the shark when: She was born. They named her Paris. Wheeeeee! Infant Shark Jumping at its best. Then she continued shark jumping her whole life because it was all she knew how to do. Hopefully at some point the shark will eat her.

4. Michael Stipe jumped the shark when: He appeared at the MTV VMA's looking like a holocaust victim with giant caterpillars pasted over his eyes. Dear Stipe, eat something. Please. Have second helpings.

5. Stephenie Meyer jumped the shark when: She named Bella's baby Renesmee. UM. Yeah. I really LIKE Stephenie Meyer, but I'm still shaking my head at "Renesmee". In fact, I felt like quite a bit of Breaking Dawn was sort of odd and didn't fit with the rest of the series. I want to love it, I feel like I should love it, but the truth is I don't. It's ok. So, whoosh, over the shark with her.

So there you have it. Five shark jumpers to enjoy on this fine Saturday morning. The Fonz would be so proud.

Am I boring you yet?

Ok, I KNOW that I have done my share of ranting about morning sickness already, but seriously...it is so bad. I'm nauseous all the time and nothing seems to help. At least I am nearly through this vile trimester. Let's all chant together: THREE MORE WEEKS, THREE MORE WEEKS!
I just need it to be done already. Feeling awful all the time makes me cranky and snappish and insanely whiny with violent tendencies. I'm just not myself. I know this because yesterday when I saw a picture of Kate Whatsherface taking her 8 kids back to school shopping while wearing stiletto bondage heels, a tank top that showed 89% of her boobs, and a skirt with so little fabric I think it was actually a tissue dyed black and sewn into a skirt shape, I wanted to drive down to West Chester and beat the stupid out of her. Literally. I had to restrain myself. That's where she lives, right? West Chester? Normally I do not care about Kate Whatsherface. I have never seen her dumb show, and I don't give two figs for what she does in her pathetic fishbowl version of a life. Yesterday though, I was ready to remove those stupid shoes and feed them to her one by one while simultaneously beating her with their pointy ends. Lucky for her good sense prevailed (it hung on by a precariously thin thread, but it did prevail thank goodness) and I did not make headlines by wiping her off the planet with her own shoes.
This morning I started off by feeling super and was hoping the super would last, but here it is 9:30 and I am fighting the urge to vomit up my pancakes. And I know this is a centuries old whine, BUT Rory, the other participant in creating the reason for my nausea, is sitting happily downstairs reading the paper and NOT feeling one bit sick at all. Hmph. Truthfully I know that this is actually a good thing, because later when I am lying around all limp and worthless like an overboiled noodle he will be functioning perfectly and watching Rider for me. So, it all works out, but I'd rather NOT be sick and be able to watch Rider myself.
Ok. Whine over. I can't promise forever, but for today anyway.

Sassy Morning

Ever have one of those mornings where you wake up and hit the bathroom and then casually glance at yourself in the mirror to find somehow during the night your person decided it needed to be inside the pages of Maxim magazine? Honestly, this happened to me this morning. And this leaves me in a quandary. How do I get ready for the day and NOT lose my overnight makeover? Usually I wake up in a normal waking up state, hair insane, face puffy, pale, and young without makeup, eyes full of random grit, but this morning I woke up with HUGE Brigitte Bardot hair, pink cheeks, sparkly eyes, and smooth glowing skin. How does this happen? How can I make it happen all the time? Granted I didn't wash my face last night because for whatever reason when I am pregnant I don't produce as much oil on my face skin as usual and washing more than once a day makes me look like the incredible scaly skin-monster. So this means my smattering of origins eye sparkly taupe eye cream has sort of slid and blended around my eyes making them all glimmering and doe-like and haunting. Gracious. I am beginning to get a crush on myself. It is very sad to stand in front of one's bathroom mirror pouting and shoving your hair this way and that for no earthly reason. I have got to get a grip. And a shower.

Cue the Debbie Gibson music now

I tend to have very surreal and imaginative dreams on a nightly basis. In addition to this, when I'm pregnant they are even MORE bizarre and vivid. For your entertainment, I submit last night's doozy:

I was somehow 17 again and in the cast of Glee. (just go with it, I promise it will never make sense but it will totally get good in a few seconds) So I'm in the Glee show Choir, but Glee isn't a tv show, it's just my normal high school and the other kids have replaced the people I actually went to school with. Rachel has completely disappeared from the cast and in her place is...GET READY FOR IT...Robert Pattinson. I'm not kidding. RPatz. So, none of the other guys in show choir are really cool with the RPatz/Rachel replacement and there are all these involved and overproduced sing offs to try to get rid of him. The theory being that if the whole show choir votes against him in a sing off he will be voted out of school and will have to go peddle his musical wares elsewhere. Meanwhile I have mentally replaced some of the normal cast with some of the Twilight cast. For instance, Tina Chang has been replaced by Eric Yorkie (Justin Chon) and apparently he is my very flamboyantly gay best friend. Again, keep in mind I have NO control over my dreams and just go with it. So he flounces up the risers one day and I greet him as if he has been missing in Africa for the past ten years and finally made it home. Not literally missing in Africa, I'm just pointing out how effusive and flamboyant the greeting was. So then he scoots his chair over next to mine and begins telling me this really convoluted story about how Other Asian (as Sue likes to call the non-Tina Asian on the show) is really a drug dealer and has begun selling dope made from dried, ground banana peels and how awesome it is and everyone is doing it and why don't I? I point out that I hate bananas and he desists but then we start talking about the current sing off situation between the other men in the choir and RPatz. Justin Chon does not like RPatz because he feels like there can only be one over-dramatic and temper-trantrumy male in the show choir and he is already filling that role admirably. At any rate, while this conversation is happening Finn and Robert are asked to sing a song together which OF COURSE turns into a singing contest with both of them trying their hardest to impress the rest of the show choir. Finn pretty much does what Finn normally does which is sing his heart out sincerely in a nice non-showy way, whereas Robert Pattinson begins to showboat like some sort of extra in Cats making HUGE arm gestures and opening his mouth ridiculously wide trying to show emotion. However, the choir is clearly pro-Patz and he is just eating the attention up. As a finale to his performance he grabs a bunch of yellow roses from a vase of flowers leftover from the prom. (Right, I have no explanation for how ex-prom flowers got to the choir room, but it made sense at the time. They were EVERYWHERE too. Huge vases. All over.) So he gets these flowers and sort of weaves them into a semi-circle which he holds around his face for the rest of the song. (I think the song was Open Arms by Journey...how fitting for Glee, right? At least my subconscious is fairly accurate in some ways.) Then he makes his big finish and all the people in the choir swoon except for me and the guys in Glee who are all sort of rolling our eyes and hoping he stabs himself to death on the weird Collar of Roses he made for himself. Then poor Finn comes back up the risers to sit about five seats down from me...oh I should point out that everyone was calling him Cory Monteith and not Finn, and YES they were using BOTH names like his whole name was Corymonteith and it wasn't a first and last name. So, Cory Monteith sits back down and I feel so bad about what happened that I walk over and make some inane TV show comment like "Don't feel bad, Cory Monteith, you'll always be my favorite Gleek." and then I kiss him on the cheek. Sounds harmless right? BUT here is the weirdest part. When I kiss him on the cheek I get all these tingles and happy sparkles and I realize that I am actually in love with him and I start to walk away but I turn back to see if he got tingles and I can see he totally did. AND in the background RPatz, who is still wearing the Collar of Roses, is staring at me all wounded and hurt...and I realize that he is my boyfriend. At which point Cory Monteith says "Maybe we should do that again."
But I say something completely horrendous like "No Cory, let me sing you my heart." (I swear who makes up these lines? Who? Oh right, me. I should be shot) And I get up and sing a version of "Here comes your man" by the Pixies. Weirdly while I am singing it the choir room melts away and I'm sitting in my old bedroom at night singing into a stuffed animal (but Cory Monteith is there still sitting on a riser in the corner) and my dad shouts from the other room "I hate when people sing that song!" Thankfully at this point I wake up, because I cannot even tell you how much trouble I would have gotten if my parents had found some guy sitting on a riser in my bedroom in the middle of the night.
So...yeah. I dream weird stuff. WEIRD stuff. And now you know just how weird.

House Hunting: Abyss of the Optimistic

Sooooooo, yeah...we looked at a house yesterday. Me, being me, went in all positive and hopeful as usual which made the end result all that much worse. I've got to learn to be more pessimistic like T.G. that way my soul won't be crushed by the reality of ill-placed paneling and bizarre bathroom location. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all 'Up With People' 24/7 or anything, but I am always (regrettably) way to positive when it comes to house hunting. It doesn't help that I have no concept of spacial distance either. No matter what the MLS says the square footage is I will imagine it is MUCH larger in person. This delusion doesn't even end when we get to the property either. I will gamely march about the dwelling waiting for it to suddenly grow exponentially or magically look more airy. It never does. The end result of this is that the house we saw yesterday has plummeted me into a swirling vat of horror and sadness. First of all, it was so intensely tiny and close that I felt like I was walking into a structural straightjacket. The only bathroom required walking through a bedroom to reach, and there was a very liberal use of varied types of paneling here and there with no rhyme or reason. (Note: personally I find all paneling Dante worthy. It is the circle of hades where bad contractors will be forced to go upon their death.)
Is it any wonder that the experience has left me all frownish and hateful? Ugh. However, I have not given up and we talked to the Realtor about seeing some other stuff just to torture ourselves further. Super.
But I know that ten minutes before we leave I'll start getting all bubbly hopeful again and by the time we get there I will have built the house up so much that reality will just be a speck in the distance waving sadly, wishing I would notice it. Sigh. Oh well.

Hm, I am all writey

Today is like...fifty billion post day. I'm not even sure why. I just got all verbose and found it necessary to drop some words on some virtual pages.
After the last post of mega-watt anger I felt like I needed to decompress with a little happy. I just wish the happy decompression could include a nice hard cider, but internal fetus-friend would rather I didn't.
So here is the happy:
1. The zofran is working. Hooray! And please no one look into the zofran and find bad things about it and tell me so I get all paranoid and refuse to take it. This is the first time in three weeks I have not felt like hurling all over my shoes and I just want to enjoy it guilt-free please.
2. T.G. and I are sort of vaguely house hunting-ish. It occurred to us that once internal fetus-friend grows into a nice pink and white baby and shows up on the outside our house will really be feeling the strain. We've only got three bedrooms and the third bedroom is more like a glorified airing closet. Plus we're already using it as an office and where oh where shall we put the computer once our family expands? I enjoy house hunting, but am constantly needing to reigned in by the fiscal genius that is my darling husband. I float about the MLS picking out castles in Spain while he sets actual price limits and realistic whatnot in the little spaces for the search engine. However this does not curb my enjoyment. Once we see a house we like we do a 'Driveby', also totally fun. Plus looking at houses on the MLS is often funny because you would not BELIEVE the way real estate agents word stuff to make something awful sound appealing. We giggle our way through listing after listing wondering how they come up with this crap.
3. Tomorrow, if I am not vomiting on my shoes, I shall join my mother in a little yardsaling. Wheeee! I can't wait.
Well, those are my three happy things. Ah, so chill now. I am like Ghandi meets Janice from the Electric Mayhem Band. :)

Systematic abuse of, well...the system.

T.G. came home from the grocery store all vile because the girl in front of him with the giant manicured nails, insanely be-weaved hair, and brand new iPhone was buying all her groceries with government assistance. He was all riled up and striding about pointing out how we can't afford iPhones but apparently they give them out free with a new membership at the welfare office. Poor T.G., I can only imagine what it must have been like to be behind this chick in line. He said she was there with her friend, ALSO on Access and that they had the card and the check and he was waiting for about 15 minutes while they each picked and chose which groceries they wanted to go on the card and which on the check with total disregard for the line forming behind them. It was truly an 'argh' moment for him. Knowing me, if I'd been there, I might had said something along the lines of "Gee it's nice to know my tax dollars keep you in weaves, nails, and fancy phone plans." Which would have led to a giant fracas, so it is probably better I was at home being sick and waiting for him to bring me zofran. I know that it is probably better to be really nice and not question people's motives and such, but I am not really nice. I'm far more likely to be really cynical and annoyed. Perhaps this makes me a less mature person, or a less decent person, I don't know. I just get fed up and disgruntled with having to take care of people who don't need my help and are just soaking me for every cent they can. These girls appeared to be in good health and able to work. So therefore, why was I buying their groceries so that they could use their spare welfare money to purchase manicures, wigs, and iPhones? And don't try to tell me that there aren't decent jobs around here that they could do which pay enough for them to be self-sufficient. Please. I worked at T-Mobile (the call center) and sure, that place will suck your soul out through your tear ducts, BUT the paycheck allowed me to live in a nice secure apartment and have cool clothes and whatever phone I wanted. I worked with single moms who raised whole families on the same paycheck. It can be done. I know this is an old and bitter rant, but that doesn't make it less true or needed. It's one thing to help out a person who came by their unfortunate situation honestly, but I draw the line at a nation carrying thousands of able, LAZY people who just refuse to work or better their situation. Ugh. Bleh. It's wrong. I'm so over it. Can I be president already? Please?

Mice of Destiny

There is a family of mice living in our backyard. They've been there as long as we've lived her and though I am quite sure the mice I see now are not the same mice from five years ago, I am reasonably certain they are descendants of the original rodentia. Why you ask? Well the answer is pretty darn cool. You see, our mice are not regular mice. No sir. Our mice are apparently Olympic level gymnast mice who have defected from their home country and opted to live under our garage rather than suffer the constant oppression of a Stalin-esque regime. No scurrying about under the various vegetation for these high flying mice Wallendas, oh no, our mice prefer to soar gracefully through the air from leaf to leaf. I'm not kidding. The mice that live under our garage spend their days climbing around in the tops of our bushes and vines like tiny trapeze artists swinging from branch to branch and peering at us from behind the roses. We are so charmed by their behavior that traps and removal are never discussed. They don't attempt to come in the house and we respond by allowing them free reign of the backyard. I even put up with them sometimes eating my tomatoes because watching them climb the stalks to pick the fruit is so fun to watch. They are pretty cool little critters. We're happy to have them around. So here's to the Mice of Destiny, just another small bit of wonderful in the kingdom of our home.

Your basic nonsense once again

I should probably be doing something constructive like taking a shower or spackling a wall, but instead I am here typing nonsense into the void. There's not too much new to talk about since yesterday except that my friend Nickel, awesome individual that she is, secretly bought me a box of pickle pops and had them sent to my house. Therefore yesterday I not only got a package in the mail, hurrah!, but I got a package full of salt and vinegary goodness. I stuck them in the freezer and hopefully shall try my first pop of pickleness today. Woo! Nickel rules!
I don't know what the deal is with the barometric pressure today, but my sinuses keep swelling up like balloons causing me to continually pop my ears which makes it all worse and then I have to turn my whole head upside-down to alleviate the pressure. Ugh. Plus I had a nosebleed earlier AND I am still sick to my stomach with the mythical 'morning' sickness. Please. Morning my butt. I feel sick from about twenty minutes after I wake up until I go to sleep at night and nothing really helps. At least I don't have to go to work like I did when I pregnant with Little Guy and sit there acting polite and helpful when I really wanted to throw the stapler at anyone who walked by my desk. I never did throw my stapler. I'm a good girl. Although I did get real annoyed with the one school psychiatrist at one point and following a lengthy diatribe on why conservatives are the devil I triumphantly informed him that I WAS the conservation Christian right that he so hated. I said it all with a vaguely threatening and hostile smile full of scary toothiness which sort of proved his point on some levels, but whatever. It was either that or vomit on his shoes, so all in all he got off pretty easy.
Ok, Pandora is on and I have to say...is it is just me or do the Only Ones sound JUST LIKE the Violent Femmes? Are Peter Perrett and Gordon Gano secretly the same person? If you don't know who the Only Ones are I feel really sorry for you because they are pretty awesome and fabulous. And if you don't know who the Violent Femmes are...well I have no words for that. Why don't know who they are? Go find out please. Then come back and bring a thousand word paper on how sorry you are that you didn't know in the first place. HOLY COW! They followed up the Only Ones with O Valencia by the Decemberists. Oh Pandora, you make me happy happy happy. :)
Ever since I bought my skinny jeans I keep longing for weather that would allow me to wear them. I can't remember a time in recorded history when I longed for colder weather. I must be on crack. But! Skinny! Jeans! I long to wear them and electrify Allentown with my massive inherent preggo coolness. I'm going to look like Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face where she goes to the coffee house and does that bizarre modern dance except I'll be pregnant with a glorious bump in front. And I can't dance at all, but really...I'm not sure that actual dancing ability is necessary. I mean...have you ever SEEN that dance she does? Yeah. I could do that. Although now that I think of it, who would want to? I'll skip the dance and just look good without it.
Well, I am off to shower before the small person wakes up. Zooooom!

Dear Hendrix, you can start playing Foxy Lady now.

Here I am about to enter the 9th week of my second pregnancy and I realized an incredible byproduct of being bumpified is fabulous body image. Gone are all my non-pregnancy neurosis regarding thigh circumference, and butt wideness. In their place is a euphoria of hotness and self-acceptance. I can recall this happening when I was pregnant with the Little Guy too. Aside from the inevitable periodic nausea which makes everything lame, I sailed into my first trimester feeling like one hot mama. The hot mama syndrome continued until almost the end of my 8th month, after which I just felt like a dirigible full of lead with a pumpkin face.
Just to prove my point, yesterday I hit the mall with my mom and L.G. specifically looking for a pair of body skimming, leg snuggling 'skinny' jeans. I should probably point out that BEFORE yesterday non-pregnant me was still in denial that jeans styles had begun to shy away from ginormous bell bottoms. Skinny jeans scared me with their no holds barred sleekness that threatened to show the world exactly how many cookies I had eaten between lunch and breakfast.
BUT BUT BUT...the truth is that this was not my first search for skinny jeans. When I was pregnant with L.G. I can remember being in Motherhood and saying to the girl "Don't you have any NON bell bottoms?" She firmly rebuffed me by saying that no pregnant girl would be caught dead in skinny jeans. I couldn't understand it. I felt so confident and hot. Why on earth would I want to hide that inside giant swaths of denim? She then shoved me towards tent-like shirts and jeans with bottoms so belled that they could have rung in liberty for every single nation on earth and had room left for a few extra planets or possibly whole solar systems. I was unthrilled, but that was all there was so I got a few pairs to last the winter and went on with my life. Even GAP maternity had yet to hop on the skinny jeans for pregnant girls trend, so sadly I wore bell bottoms all through my pregnancy with L.G.
Now, CUE TRUMPET FANFARE!!!! Apparently something amazing has happened in the last 14 months because yesterday at the mall there were skinny maternity jeans EVERYWHERE!!! YEAH!!!! They had them at GAP and they were adorable BUT the prices were not adorable. In fact, I'd be more inclined to call the prices insane. Look, I'm all about fashion, but I'm also all about sales and $40.00 on sale is not my idea of affordable. Sorry Gap, but you lose. I did find this totally adorable black t-shirt for six bucks and purchased it happily, but the jeans stayed firmly on their trendy beechwood hangers flaunting their ridiculous price tags. My mom and I were slightly defeated but not for long. I said to her "Hey, maybe Motherhood has got with the program and isn't so lame anymore." She said it was worth a try and we busted a move up onto the second floor to check it out. HOORAY! They had skinny jeans!!!! With the secret fit belly that I so adore. Ahhhhhhhhh. I put a pair on and came out of the dressing room waiting for the mom critique with trepidation. (personally I liked what I saw in the dressing room mirror, but what I see and what another person sees is not always the same) She looked me all over and then a huge smile broke out over her face. "They look great on you! And they make your butt look really cute." she said. WOOOO! I did a little pregnant girl dance of joy. See, my mom NEVER lies. Never. Especially about how you look. She's a bit brutally honest about that, so I knew they looked good.
To recap, I now have a new sleek black t-shirt AND sexy skinny jeans in which to enrobe my bump to be and I am one happy girl.
Now I'm thinking maybe I ought to get some regular skinny jeans to wear AFTER the baby comes. You know? I mean, why stop being hot just because the baby arrived? Hopefully my confidence stays intact even without a bun in the oven. :)