It's opposite day...Eric style

Hi. My name is Kristi and I have an almost-3-year-old who often times says and does cute things, although you'd never know that if you've been reading my blog lately. In any case, this is just a cute story about language development.

The English language sure is a funny one...so few rules, and so many exceptions to them. I always get a kick out of mis-conjugated past tense words. "I eated all my cereal!" or "I putted my napkin in the garbage can." But my favorite thing from this week is what I'll call "creative opposites." For instance, earlier this week, Eric and I were playing games using his blanket. At one point, he laid on the floor and covered himself from head to toe with the blanket. He wanted me to pull the blanket off of him, so he peeked out from under it and said, "Mommy, tuck me out!" Then this morning I was sorting some clothes in his closet, trying to pull out all the spring/summer clothes that he (hopefully!) will be wearing soon. There was a shirt that I thought might still be too big, so I asked him to try it on, which he did. When he'd had enough of that shirt, he told me, "OK, I want to try it off now." He's a pretty cute kid. :)

The Sprout Has Come Out (and with a bang, I might add)

On March 6, 2007, at 6:02 a.m., the Kristentatious family welcomed Eleanor Grace (Ella) to this world. At birth, she weighed 7lbs, 5oz, was 21.5 inches long, and had blue eyes and a full head of dark brown hair.

The story of her birth is approximately the polar opposite of what I expected it to be. With Eric, I had an easy, normal pregnancy, followed by 437 hours of labor, a relatively quick delivery (~1 hour of pushing), and a speedy recovery. With Ella, I also had an easy, normal pregnancy, and in terms of labor and delivery, I expected much of the same, only faster. Well...come to think of it, I guess I was right about the faster part.

I'd like to start by mentioning that it didn't exactly help matters that my doctor told me at my 38 week appointment (2 weeks before my March 5th due date, for those who aren't thoroughly schooled on the pregnancy calendar) that she didn't expect me to make it another week, and that she could do unpleasant things to me which she felt certain would send me into labor within 48 hours. I politely declined. However, from that point forward, I was almost constantly convinced that I was either in labor or on the verge of being in labor. But anyway.

At my March 5th appointment, she told me that I was absolutely ready to pop at any moment, and asked if I was interested in scheduling an induction. The benefits of scheduling an induction would be that I could pick a date or a doctor of my preference and plan childcare for Eric accordingly, without needing to call my parents in the middle of the night. I decided to schedule an induction to deliver with that doctor, because she was the doctor I had seen on 90% of my visits, and 2 of the other 3 I had only seen once. It just so happened that she was on call the next day, so she scheduled me to start my induction at 7:30 the next morning (March 6th).

Well, as fate would have it, the Sprout decided that she would like to come on March 6th, but on her own terms. I actually began having contractions on the evening of the 5th, and around 3:00 a.m. on the 6th, I decided it was time to call the doctor. By the time I got Chris up and we got ourselves ready to leave, it was about 4:00 a.m., and my contractions were very consistent at about 5 mins apart, and unpleasant, but very far from the absolutely excruciating contractions that I endured for several hours with Eric.

By the time we got to the hospital, parked, got into the ER (which is where we were directed to enter the hospital), and endured several of the stupidest questions ever from the ER receptionist person, it was about 4:30 a.m. Someone from Labor and Delivery came down to retrieve me, and brought me to the other side of the hospital and upstairs. I changed into the lovely hospital-issued attire and got into my bed, where my nurse proceeded to ask me questions pertaining to my entire medical history starting from conception, it seemed like. By the time we finished with that, it was probably 5:00 a.m., maybe a few minutes after.

The nurses went to call the on-call doctor from my practice to find out how she wanted them to proceed. Her orders were to get me an IV, get me an epidural, start me on pitocin to intensify my contractions, and have the on-duty resident OB come in and break my water. After that phone call, I'm sure she went back to bed and figured the next doctor on the rotation, who would be in at 7:00 am, would be delivering my baby.

And thus, the flurry of activity began. A nurse came in and started me on an IV of a saline solution which had been refrigerated. Anybody who has ever had a refrigerated IV pumped through them could tell you that it is not the most pleasant experience. I immediately began shivering uncontrollably. The nurse promised me that it would be done in no time, and as soon as it was, I could have an epidural. Another nurse came in and threw some pitocin into the IV cocktail as well. A few minutes after that, maybe between 5:30 and 5:40 a.m., some dude I had never seen before came in to break my water. The nurse reached into her bag of tricks and handed him something that looked not unlike a knitting needle. He pulled my blankets off of me, which of course made me shiver even more, and went about his business, while I turned my head, deciding it was probably better not to watch.

This is where things turned sour. I felt a rush of liquid, which I could only assume was my water breaking, but the doctor kept pushing and poking. A few moments later, he asked if I had ever been diagnosed with placenta problems--placenta previa, specifically (or a placenta that covers the cervix, essentially blocking the baby's escape path). I was initially diagnosed with that, but it supposedly resolved itself by 20 weeks. Meanwhile, he's still pushing, poking, putting lots and lots of pressure on me in a most uncomfortable fashion. Then he announced, "I don't like the looks of this one bit. All I'm getting is a whole lot of blood." He ran to get the ultrasound to check the baby. She was fine--stable--but then he began barking out orders in a tone that said, "We needed to have this baby out of her 5 minutes ago." "CALL HER DOCTOR NOW! GET HER TO THE O.R.!! GO! GO! GOOOO!!!" The nurses rushed me out of the room, ramming the bed into everything in their path. I heard someone tell Chris to stay put and someone would be back to instruct him further.

I don't remember a whole lot from the O.R., but I do remember that it seemed like there were 20 people in there, all poking or prodding me with something, and all stepping on each other's feet. I do remember someone trying to start another IV and not being able to find a vein. Somebody else instructed her to put it anywhere she could. I also remember being so freaking cold that I was literally convulsing on the operating table. Occasionally somebody would hang their head directly over mine and tell me that I was doing great and everything would be OK. I heard the Dr. announce that baby's vitals were stable and everybody needed to CALM DOWN and SLOW DOWN. Then he changed his mind and decided that they needed to go right away--whether or not my doctor was here. Next I heard someone announce that my Dr. had arrived. She ran over, said hi, and told me that she was here to do a c-section (no shit). "Has she had her spinal?" she asked. I heard the other doctor tell her, "No, we've got to knock her out." Cue the anesthesiologist. She hung her face over my face, introduced herself, and told me that she would be putting a mask on me and someone would be tapping my throat so that I didn't vomit. Once I was out, they would have the baby out in 3-5 minutes--closer to 3 if they could help it. Then she dropped the mask onto my face and 3...2...1...curtains.

The next thing I remember is hearing someone announce that my temperature was 97 degrees, and then she draped me with heated blankets, which felt sooooo nice. Chris came in and told me the baby had been taken to the NICU and that she was stable and doing well, but that she had lost blood and they were taking every possible precaution to ensure the best possible outcome. Even though she came out breathing on her own, they intubated her to reduce the strain on her body. They also inserted a catheter into her umbilical cord, and started a couple of IVs to give her various medicines. Then he explained what had happened, as the doctors had told him. Basically, I had malformation of the placenta (which wouldn't be noticeable by ultrasound unless someone was specifically looking for it), which caused the 3 blood vessels that form the umbilical cord, to grow out of the placenta, completely exposed, and then turn and come back into the placenta, and come out once again as a completely normal umbilical cord. And these three vessels, which basically are property of, and the main blood line to, the baby until birth, happened to be lying directly between the amniotic sac and the cervix--so basically there was no way the baby could have been born naturally. I was also told that I was very lucky to be at the hospital when my water broke, as immediate medical attention may not have been possible otherwise, and I very well may have lost the baby.

As it turns out, of all the things that could have happened to the baby during such a traumatic birth, none of them did. She is perfectly normal and healthy. We are feeling very blessed right now. And sleepy. I can't forget sleepy.

Doing my civic duty...

Well, I can't say I didn't jinx myself.

A few months back (late September or early October?), while I was over visiting with my parents, my mother got a jury summons in the mail. It was for November 6th. "Oh. I've never been summoned to jury duty before," I told her, and then went on to explain that maybe I had been, actually, but I was in college, living out of the area. And that was that. Until a few weeks later, that is, when I received my very own jury summons, also for November 6th (apparently the county of Cook, unlike the county of Kane, where my mom lives, doesn't believe in ample warning).

As it turned out, my summons was for "Standby Jury Duty," which meant I had to call the evening before to see if I was needed. I wasn't. However, it seems that if you are not selected for jury duty at that time, your name goes right back to the top of the list of potential jurors. So, a month and a half later, I received another summons--not standby this time--for jury duty on January 22nd.

So, that was Monday. I arrived and checked in, drawing a panel number at random from one of those large popcorn tins--panel 3, whatever that meant. I showed up promptly at 9:00 am, as requested on my summons, and I sat there in awkward silence with 70 or so other people for the next half hour, until someone finally spoke to us. It seems that they wait until 9:30 to give us poor saps a chance to get lost and find our way back to them. Anyway, they showed us some dumb video about how important we were, and then explained how the day was going to go: we were going to sit there in more awkward silence for now. If and when our panel number was called, we would be escorted to a courtroom, where we may or may not be chosen for jury duty. She also explained that it was entirely possible for us to have to sit there in awkward silence until 4:30 p.m., without ever being called. Alrighty then. Sounds like fun.

The movie and explanation ended around 10 a.m. I had brought a book, but instead I mostly sat there and zoned out. At 11:30, the Deputy came into the waiting room and called panels 3-10 down to the courtroom. It was a total of 48 people, from whom they would be selecting 14 people--12 jurors and 2 alternates. I guess the possibility also existed that if they exhausted all 48 people without finding their 14, they could have requested more people from the waiting room.

At this point I'm thinking, OK, I have less than a 1 in 3 chance of being chosen based on the number of people from whom they are selecting. On top of that, I work for a law firm, am related to and friends with lawyers, am 8 months pregnant, and am visibly (and audibly) suffering from a bad cold. I'm the worst of the bad choices, right? How could these people not take pity on me?

When we arrived in the court room, the judge explained to us what was going to happen, and what was expected of us. He then told us the name of the lawsuit and read the charges involved. At that point, it was a little after noon. He decided that he would read the first group of names that they would interview as prospective jurors and have those people come sit in the jury box. I was the third person called. When the jury box was full, he excused everyone to lunch, telling those in the jury box to return after 45 minutes, and the rest of the crowd to return in and hour and a half.

We returned and did our interviews a little while later. It turned out that maybe I wasn't exactly the worst of the bad choices, but I still didn't think I would be selected. I guess I tend to assume that the population at large is living on the right side of the law, but apparently that isn't always the case. I was surprised that 3-4 people of that original group of 14 either currently had lawsuits pending, or didn't know if their lawsuit was still pending. Although, of those pending lawsuits, only one was criminal (apparently the guy had "a whole slew" of charges against him, including criminal trespassing and disorderly conduct). Then, of course, there was the Chinese restaurant owner, who has lived and owned a business in the US for over 20 years, and raised his teen aged children here, who proudly proclaimed that his English was "no very good." That seemed like a convenient excuse to me. But I digress. After interviewing all 14 of us, we were excused for another short break, and would be selected or released upon our return.

I returned with my fingers crossed, but I was the first name selected. The judge explained that the trial would start on Tuesday, and that he hoped it would be wrapped up by Thursday. So, if anybody has been looking for me, that's where I've been all week. Interestingly enough, I don't seem to know of anybody who has actually had to serve on a jury before. I certainly don't know anyone who has had multiple consecutive days of jury duty. So, as much as being an interesting tale, I guess this is also a PSA for what you might expect if you receive a summons for jury duty.

I have to say, I find the trial process interesting. What's kind of annoying is that at this time, we still have not been instructed as to who the alternate jurors are. So, when we go into deliberations tomorrow, 2 people will not be needed. I feel like, at this point, I would be annoyed to find out I was an alternate. I guess I will know tomorrow. And then, when the trial is over, I'll be able to share all the sordid details. Until then, you shall just have to wait with bated breath.

Oops

October 25th, huh? That's the last time I wrote something here? Well, I wish I had something interesting to report, like that my 8-week intensive training course for the KGB is now over, and I will be moving to an undisclosed location in Russia shortly. Or that an excruciatingly handsome man found me wandering around the desert in an amnesic state and nursed me back to health. Or perhaps that I had joined the Peace Corps and was off building orphanages in the rainforests of Costa Rica. But, yeah... Really? It was a big old mixture of laziness and busyness and writer's block, with a healthy dose of home computer problems thrown in.

So, the good news is that Christmas is now over, along with all the familial stress and financial drain that goes with it. I'm seriously considering going to sleep and not waking up until January, but it seems my work and family obligations (you know, like showing up at work and taking care of my toddler...) will not allow for such tomfoolery. Christmas was good though. It appears as though Toys 'R Us had a case of explosive diarrhea in my living room. Eric got entirely too much stuff, but that's ok. It's his last Christmas as the only child/grandchild, so I figure let him be spoiled rotten. I think his favorite gift, though, was his big boy bed that Santa Claus brought him. Well, more like Santa Claus dropped off a big box from IKEA with a million parts in it, and Chris and I spent 14.5 hours assembling it (mostly Chris--I decorated once the bed was together).

Well, I do have a bunch of other things that I'm planning to write about, and a million other pictures to share, but for now, I'm exhausted. I promise to be back before 2 months time. Promise!

Admission

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I get an overwhelming urge to do something half-assed, because it’s a lot easier, it’s what everyone else would do, and by the time anyone figures out that it wasn’t done right in the first place, it could never be traced back to me. But I don’t give in to that urge. Maybe because I work with my mom.

That feeling reminds me of this:

The ultimate in laziness.

I am so grateful that somebody finally invented hot dogs already in the bun, because I just don't know how much longer I could have survived the old routine of opening not only the hot dog package, but also the bun package, and then going through the whole rigamarole of trying to fit the hotdog into the bun. Talk about a time saver! It's reassuring to know that, on my death bed, I will no longer be grieving for the handful of minutes I would've given up over the course of my life, had I continued to make microwave hotdogs the conventional way. Just think of the moments I will save by not needing to fumble with twist-ties! Yes, it's true. The world is now a better place.

And also: dear lord--what is this world coming to?!?

The Kristrilogy

Chris got this "survey" from one of his friends. I thought it was pretty cool, different, and fun to do...so I did it three times. Here are my results:

Creating the Soundtrack for the Movie of Your Life
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button

A New Kristi
Opening Credits:Tiny Dancer-Elton John
Waking Up: Chiquitita-ABBA
First Day at school: The Impression that I Get-Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Falling In Love: Man on the Moon-REM
Fight Song: White Wedding-Billy Idol
Breaking Up: Ain’t Even done with the Night-The Cougar
Prom: Free Fallin’-Tom Petty
Life's OK: Let it Be-The Beatles
Mental Breakdown: Paradise City-Guns ‘N Roses
Driving: Who’ll Stop the Rain-CCR
Flashback: Pinball Wizard-The Who
Getting Back Together: Dope Nose-Weezer
Wedding: Loveshack-B-52s (Which, ironically, has been played at every wedding EVAR)
Birth of Child: Crisis King-Helmet
Final Battle: Standing Still-Jewel (I guess I'm a pacifist)
Death Scene: The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite-REM (Clearly dying in my sleep)
Funeral Song: Just a Girl-No Doubt

Kristentatious Strikes Back
Opening Credits: Wake Me Up Before you Go-Go-Wham! (If I'm ever in a band, I want that band to have an exclamation point at the end of its name!)
Waking Up: Paradise by the Dashboard Light-Meat Loaf
First Day at school: Promise-Violent Femmes
Falling In Love: Here I Go Again-Whitesnake
Fight Song: Maybe Katie-Barenaked Ladies (Ummm...watch out Katie?)
Breaking Up: Penny Lane-Beatles
Prom: Mama Mia-ABBA
Life's OK: Rhiannon-Fleetwood Mac
Mental Breakdown: Simple Man-Lynyrd Skynyrd
Driving: Last Hour-Elliott Smith
Flashback: Hold Me-Fleetwood Mac
Getting Back Together: We are the World-USA for Africa (Various Totally Rockin’ Artists)
Wedding: Riders on the Storm-Doors
Birth of Child: Girls Just Want to Have Fun-Cyndi Lauper (Birth? Fun? Maybe Cyndi and I need to have a talk.)
Final Battle: Can’t Stop-Red Hot Chili Peppers
Death Scene: I Heard It Through the Grapevine-Gladys Knight and the Pips
Funeral Song: Shower the People-James Taylor

Return of the Kristi(For the easy-listening crowd)
Opening Credits: Let’s Get Lost-Elloitt Smith
Waking Up: Footloose-Kenny Loggins
First Day at school: Tell Her About It-Billy Joel (one)
Falling In Love: Layla-Derek and the Dominos
Fight Song: Piano Man-Billy Joel (A. Who fights to Piano man?!? B. two)
Breaking Up: Here I go Again-Whitesnake (Interesting that I get this for falling in love and breaking up--apparently I'm a love 'em and leave 'em kind of girl...)
Prom: Take the Money and Run-Steve Miller Band
Life's OK: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da-Beatles
Mental Breakdown: Why Can’t We Be Friends-War (It's entirely possible that wondering why we can't be friends would drive me to drink)
Driving: Dreams-Fleetwood Mac
Flashback: Ugly-Violent Femmes
Getting Back Together: Come to my Window-Melissa Etheridge
Wedding: Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door-Bob Dylan
Birth of Child: Peace Sells-Megadeth
Final Battle: Don’t Stop Believin’-Journey (Seriously, Journey. I never stop believing)
Death Scene: Uptown Girl-Billy Joel (three...Dear I-Tunes, we need to sit down and have a talk about your shuffle mechanism and why you've chosen to play 3 Billy Joel songs in rapid succession)
Funeral Song: Hard Day’s Night-Beatles

It's fun...try it. Sometimes the song doesn't make any sense at all, and sometimes its just so apropos.

Taking what they're giving...

Oh how this "work" thing interferes with my blogging. Not only do I not have much time to write anything, but I'm completely zapped of any type of creative energy. And non-creative energy, for that matter. I'm lucky if, by the time I get Eric in bed, I have enough energy to sit on the couch and do sudoku puzzles until my eyes are so dry that it's painful to blink. Sometimes, though, I just sort of sit there in a daze thinking of things that I could do if I were only more ambitious. Like that hat I started knitting right after I knit that one hat that one time, and then immediately realized that it was too itchy to wear. (I've never knit anything besides that hat. In the knitting patterns book I have, it says something like, "Don't attempt this hat until you have a few easier projects under your belt." Ha! I showed them.) Anyway, so, there's hat no. 2, which currently looks nothing like a hat, but more like maybe an inch or two of knitted yarn. There's also a plethora of scrapbooking stuff that I've bought and fully intended to use for Eric's scrapbook, which is great, and so cute, and also one page long, with that one page containing only his name. And most of the stuff I have for his scrapbook is stuff I bought before he was even born and, oh, have I ever mentioned that he's almost TWO AND A HALF?

So, what is my point, you ask? My point is this: before I worked full time, I had so much more time to think about knitting and scrapbooking and how snapshots of my life could more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog, if only I had infinite time and money, and well, desire to make snapshots of my life more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog. If I wanted to, I could've sat around for hours (where by "hours," I'm referring to 4-minute intervals) and planned out how I would make caramel corn balls, wrapped in wax paper, tied with a little black ribbon and decorated to look like a ghost, which I would then give as Halloween treats so the other neighborhood moms would think, "Oh, how darling, she's really got her act together," and would then go home and promptly throw my concoction into the garbage, because, let's face it, how do we *really* know it's safe and razor blade free? BUT INSTEAD, I don't even have time to properly punctuate, which in my book, ranks right up there on the embarrassment scale with incontinence. So, there you have it, folks. No time for punctuatin', plenty of time for rampant lunacy.

Eric says...

HAPPY ROCKTOBER!

You and me, we go in style.

Whenever I hear Neil Diamond's Cracklin' Rosie, I can't help but think of a guy I used to work with. Actually, we were both promotions interns for a radio station at the same time. His name was Bill, but we started calling him "June" because he was a Junior. He was a really funny guy, but he had a bit of an abrasive sense of humor. He was always setting somebody up to be the brunt of his joke. Sometimes it was kind of annoying, but I have to admit, he was funny...even when it was at my expense.

Bill and I worked together every Tuesday, and we were the only interns there that day. Tuesdays were generally Corporate Takeover day, which meant that Bill and I were usually faced with the task of hauling a bunch of swag to the office of whichever company had won the weekly contest. Our weekly trips were always an adventure because we always had either bad directions or were headed to a hard-to-find address, or both. Bill always drove because he was a smoker, and I wouldn't let him smoke in my car. He was definitely one of those guys who would never admit or even acknowledge the fact that he was lost...and we always were.

I can remember one time, in particular, when our travels took us to downtown Chicago, about as far east as you can go on Randolph without being in Lake Michigan. The thing that we didn't realize was that Randolph was a one-way street heading west. And there was also a Lower Randolph (screwy Chicago and its screwy lower streets...). To make a long story short, we circled around the Grant Park area no less than 10 times, each time ending up on Lower Randolph when we wanted to be on Upper Randolph, with Bill getting more and more agitated with each loop we made. By the time we finally figured out how to get to the building we were heading towards, he had eaten a bunch of the candy bars and stuff that we had brought to give out.

The other thing I remember from that particular trip was that he told me, as we passed over a drawbridge on the way back out to the west side of the city, that he'd like to be the guy who sits in the tower and occasionally has to raise and lower the drawbridge. He insisted that he would like either that job, or the graveyard shift at any gas station, because he wouldn't have to do much and would have a lot of down time to play his banjo. That's the kind of guy he was.

One of my favorite moments from my internship involved Bill and I traveling either to or from a Corporate Takeover. Once we got over the initial weirdness of the, "Um, do you care if we don't listen to the radio station that we are currently working for," Bill would station surf to the point I wanted to smack him. Then he would inevitably settle on something weird. One day, he paused on the Oldies station and Cracklin' Rosie came on. At that point in my life, I don't remember having strong feelings one way or the other toward that song. I certainly didn't mind it, but I fully expected him to change the station. Instead, he turned the song up REALLY loud. And then proceeded to sing even louder. Then I joined in, and for the next 3 minutes, we did nothing but drive and sing Cracklin' Rosie at the top of our lungs. We must have been a sight to behold. When the song finished, he turned down the radio and said, "Sorry. I just really like that song." And then we proceeded along as if nothing had happened.

When our internships ended at the end of 2001, we parted ways and I haven't seen him since. Occasionally he'll cross my mind, along with all sorts of other people that I wonder what the hell happened to. Today I heard Cracklin' Rosie on my way home from work and it prompted me to run a google search on him to see anything turned up. As it turns out, he's doing quite a bit of improv these days, which of course makes me insanely jealous. But I'm happy for him--I bet he's really good at it. And I wouldn't want the song Cracklin' Rosie to remind me of anyone else.

Why me?

The other night, as I was on the way home from my birthday party (more on that later), I needed to stop and get gas and pick up milk for the King. First of all, when I went into the store, I swear to god that the two Indian men who were working in there were speaking to each other in a series of clicks and guttural noises. No shit. When I brought the gallon of milk up to the counter, the man swept it up, scanned it and put it back down in one swift motion. Except, when he put it down, he misjudged the distance to the counter, and slammed it down really hard. Next thing I knew, there was a little puddle of milk on the counter. I pointed out that it was leaking, and said I was going to grab another one. As I was selecting a new milk gallon, he started screaming to me, “No, lady! It’s not leaking! It’s not leaking. You take this one!” I told him that I’d prefer a new one anyway and walked back to the counter. Upon my arrival, I noticed that there was now milk all over the entire counter, which was funny, you know, because according to him, the gallon wasn’t leaking. He was trying to clean up the mess, and still insisting that it is fine, and that I needed to take the leaky one. Finally, he picked up the gallon, and we could both clearly see the spot from which the milk is leaking. Then he said, “Oh. You’re right,” and instead of finishing my transaction, he carried the milk to another part of the counter, covered the leak with duct tape (duct tape!) and put it back in the cooler. THEN he finished my transaction.

I’m sure that the gallon of milk with about 6 oz. missing, and a big duct tape patch is going to be a big seller. I’ll bet he put it right in front, and pushed the other ones back, too. It reminds me of when my brother and I used to play old maid as little kids. Before we really got the concept of strategy, when it was time to draw from each other’s hands, whoever had the Old Maid would pull it up really high so that it stood much taller than the other cards, then we would clutch the remaining cards in a death grip so that they couldn’t be pulled from our grubby little hands. Seriously, though, I wonder what that guy was thinking. He’s obviously not a very good business strategist.

My cuppa tea...

From Nora's 5 things meme; inspiration: Kaptain Klepto

Five Prime Numbers
23
47
71
Kristentatious
5

Feeling Violated

The people in my office building are serious violators of what I believe is the unspoken universal bathroom code: never EVER sit in the stall directly next to an occupied stall unless that is your only option. All of the bathrooms in our building have three stalls. I always take an end stall so that, should someone else come in to the bathroom, they can leave the standard one stall buffer. But, nobody in the building ever observes this standard courtesy and it’s starting to DRIVE ME NUTS. That’s all, thank you.

Help for the clueless

I finally have a real desk…you know, with drawers and stuff. So…here’s the big question. What sorts of things do people fill their drawers with? I’ve been surviving with the bare minimum because my former, temporary “desk” had no drawers. I had a cup of pens, and little tiny stacking tray contraption which held things like post-its, binder clips and white out. I also have paper clips, tape, a stapler, scissors and the ever important rubber thumb (which I found yesterday and took for comic value). What other things do normal people have in their desks?

Off-campus lunch for high schoolers is the worst idea EVER.

Oh my god. Shoot me now if this is what lunch time has in store for me for the rest of the school year. Most of the school districts in the vicinty of my office just started school yesterday or today, and all of them, apparently, have off-campus lunch privileges. Yesterday, there were about 40 HS students all crammed into the cafeteria section at Target. They were loud and obnoxious and running all over the place like idiots. Today I went to Jimmy Johns, in the other direction from the office. Different school district, same deal. Except Jimmy Johns is a narrower space, and all these kids had on backpacks...so I almost got taken out by somebody's math, chemistry and history books about 12 times. Seriously, it's the first day of school. Do you really need to carry a full back pack to lunch with you? If this is what the overacheivers look like, I'd hate to see how the less academically motivated kids act in public.

Oh man...I'm getting old. I just hope my kid doesn't act like a moron when he grows up.

Tis better to be 5 minutes late than to be 1 minute early

I have a problem. It involves getting to work early. I just can't do it. I can get to work on time or late with no problem, but I just can't be early. For example, it takes me about 10 minutes to get from daycare to my office. Let's say I drop Eric off and get back to the car at 8:47. I would not physically be able to resist the temptation to stop and get coffee. You know, because I have three minutes. Even though it probably takes 5 or more minutes to get coffee. And then, not only am I walking into the office late, but I'm walking in late with coffee. Which always makes a good impression, I think. Today at lunch time, I went to Target. I made a couple of returns, ate lunch there and picked up a few odds and ends. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 12:40. Last time I was at that Target, it took me a hundred and forty-two minutes to check out, so I decided to head to the check-out aisle. Due to a combination of both my watch and the check-out lanes running fast, I got in my car at 12:42. I sat there for a moment and thought, "I have a few extra minutes. What else should I do?" It was the first time in a long time that I really couldn't think of anything to do. I contemplated stopping at Starbucks or Baskin Robins and getting a frapuccino or the Baskin Robins equivalent. But, I was still full from lunch, neither of those places were really on my way back to the office and I didn't really need extra calories or $4 hit to the old pocketbook. So, I came back to the office, talked to the new attorney for several minutes about where there was to eat in the area and now I'm blogging. So, you see, I'm still not working. But when you're sitting at your desk, typing away, nobody seems to question you. Unfortunately, next week, I'm moving to a new desk, which is on the main drag here in the office, and my back and computer will face the aisle so that all who walk by will be able to clearly see what I'm doing. I'm not looking forward to that at all. I do not like the feeling of people looking over my shoulders. And I do not like having to be productive at all times. Yuck.

It's not because I don't have anything to say...

No, no, don't be fooled by the lack of posts--I still have plenty to say. I just don't have time to say it, that's all. I've been having a hard time balancing work and family and house cleaning and everything else, and lately, sleep wins over blogging. But, most likely, I've been talking in my sleep to make up for it. Hopefully I say interesting things and you all enjoy them immensely. Nothing would make me happier.

In other news, that kid that I have--the one that I never write about anymore? He's still cute and stuff. He's turning into a big boy, and all too quickly, might I add. Although we've had very cute monkey bedding for his "big boy bed" (meaning a twin or full sized bed which conspicuously lacks rails with which to prevent him from having a middle-of-the-night free-for-all in his bedroom, or worse, trying to come into our bed) for a few months now, I think we've decided to hold off on moving him into a new bed until sometime this winter. Yesterday, though, I made the first step in turning his crib into a more boyish, rather than babyish, bed. I bought him Cars sheets and a fleece throw from Target. Last night, I removed all of his adorable pastel jungle animal bedding from his crib and put on the cars.

At one point, because I'm not a masochist, I took off one side rail on the crib, so that I could reach the mattress without the added fun possibility of puncturing a lung or rupturing my spleen. After I got his new sheets put on, but before I put the side rail back up, Eric came to investigate. I think his initial thought was that we would be leaving the side rail off, and to tell you the truth, Chris and I actually contemplated the idea. Once we saw that Eric's take on the situation was, "Cool! Now I can jump off my bed!!!" we decided against it for the time being. Actually, in the near future, I do plan to take the crib rail off, but not until I can find a shorter bed rail that I can attach to the bed to keep him from falling out at night. I tried the crib rail at the lowest setting, but that seemed just low enough that he would try to climb over, but just high enough that he would possibly get stuck or hurt himself.

In any case, Eric seems to be very excited by this new development. Both last night and this morning, he kept telling us, "I got a race car blankie!" Although, he does still seem torn by the excitement of the race car blanket and the familiarity of his old "bonkie." Not wanting to hurt bonkie's feelings, he's been carrying them both around the house together. Hopefully they'll get to be friends.

Well, something's telling me that now would be a good time to get back to work. I do have more to say, though. Just remember that.

Hair styles of the ill-advised

This morning, as I was driving to work, I was stopped at a red light next to a hispanic woman. I glanced over and saw that she had her hair pulled back into a tight, high pony tail. By having her hair pulled up like that, I could see that she had the bottom inch or two of her scalp (neck) completely shaved. She also had shaved off her "side burns," except she went a little too high, giving the appearance of both an awkward hair line and a five o'clock shadow where she had shaved. It was a really odd look, and beside the strange haircut, she didn't appear that she was trying to make any kind of particular statement with her clothes or makeup. What makes people do those kind of things? Maybe she just couldn't get the pony tail high or tight enough with all that hair? I can certainly understand that.

Good grammar costs nothing

I hope, hope, hope that the lyrics of that SOS song by Rihanna are "Y-O-U are making this hard," and NOT "Y-O-U-R making this hard."

And also, the question Chris and I pondered on vacation: would a self-loving black person be caught dead eating at the Cracker Barrel?

Farewell my friends

I'm vacation bound, with no or extremely limited web access. Have a nice week!