Today is my knocked up sister's birthday.
I wonder if it says something not good about my personality that I vastly prefer calling her knocked up (or up the stick, or with fetus) to pregnant. Pregnant is boring and mature sounding. My sister is neither of those things. And me, well, I figure if I start saying that, I might as well incorporate "touch base" and "out of pocket" into my standard verbiage and pleated khakis into my wardrobe. Eeeech.
Likewise, it probably says something that I kind of dig how uncomfortable the phrase "knocked up" seems to make other people. It makes me feel delightfully ornery. Kind of like the time John said, "It's not a baby bump. It's a people sack," and then grinned in a way that suggested he got to put a gold star on the refrigerator chore chart every time he was responsible for setting people's teeth on edge. Two more and he gets a new Nintendo game!
Anyway, I was glad someone asked to hear more about my... fine, I'll say it... pregnant sister. Even though I only get to experience the process through phone calls and text message photos, I've been absolutely fascinated with the whole thing. That my beanpole baby sis has been gaining double-digit pounds weekly. That Nephetus kicks a lot now. That my other siblings get to put their greedy hands all over the tight skin of her belly and play with those tiny, mysterious feet. My brother actually pushed his recently knee-surgeried wife out of the way to get in on that action (now forever part of the family lore). And I'm jealous. Really jealous. Because I'm far away and missing everything.
I even miss it when my sister pulls her stomach taut to make her bellybutton pop out for everyone at family dinner. What passes for entertainment in Utah is deplorable, but still, I want to be there to get grossed out with everyone else.
I wonder if it says something not good about my personality that I vastly prefer calling her knocked up (or up the stick, or with fetus) to pregnant. Pregnant is boring and mature sounding. My sister is neither of those things. And me, well, I figure if I start saying that, I might as well incorporate "touch base" and "out of pocket" into my standard verbiage and pleated khakis into my wardrobe. Eeeech.
Likewise, it probably says something that I kind of dig how uncomfortable the phrase "knocked up" seems to make other people. It makes me feel delightfully ornery. Kind of like the time John said, "It's not a baby bump. It's a people sack," and then grinned in a way that suggested he got to put a gold star on the refrigerator chore chart every time he was responsible for setting people's teeth on edge. Two more and he gets a new Nintendo game!
Anyway, I was glad someone asked to hear more about my... fine, I'll say it... pregnant sister. Even though I only get to experience the process through phone calls and text message photos, I've been absolutely fascinated with the whole thing. That my beanpole baby sis has been gaining double-digit pounds weekly. That Nephetus kicks a lot now. That my other siblings get to put their greedy hands all over the tight skin of her belly and play with those tiny, mysterious feet. My brother actually pushed his recently knee-surgeried wife out of the way to get in on that action (now forever part of the family lore). And I'm jealous. Really jealous. Because I'm far away and missing everything.
I even miss it when my sister pulls her stomach taut to make her bellybutton pop out for everyone at family dinner. What passes for entertainment in Utah is deplorable, but still, I want to be there to get grossed out with everyone else.
Last night, with Laura's Tivo acting as a safety net, I took a break from my Olympic binge and actually spent an evening outside of my apartment. When I say I took a break, I mean, when we arrived at the restaurant for dinner, I asked to be seated at a table near the bar, so I could keep an eye on the synchronized platform finals. Because I am weak. And I am addicted. Fortunately, my dinner partner is either just as gravely in need of an intervention or a truly gifted enabler, because not only put up with my constant TV glancing, he had a hefty supply of Michael Phelps trivia. Oh, the depth of emotion I have experienced over swim cap layering!
When this is all over, I suspect that I'm going to feel very empty and sad. Maybe I will start caring about Heroes. Or Mad Men. Or, you know, humanity. But more than likely I will simply start watching my Little House on the Prairie DVDs all over again.
In a feat of remarkable self control, I did manage to separate myself from Olympic coverage completely last night for the couple hours it took to see Pineapple Express. Hysterical, I tell you. Worth missing the women's gymnastics final? Well, like I said, I had Laura's Tivo. Otherwise, crazy talk.
So, I know things have been slow around here, and so I'm going to open it up to requests. Wanna hear about something particular? Leave a comment! I warn you now that requests involving the words "intern" or "musician" will be blatantly ignored. Proceed!
When this is all over, I suspect that I'm going to feel very empty and sad. Maybe I will start caring about Heroes. Or Mad Men. Or, you know, humanity. But more than likely I will simply start watching my Little House on the Prairie DVDs all over again.
In a feat of remarkable self control, I did manage to separate myself from Olympic coverage completely last night for the couple hours it took to see Pineapple Express. Hysterical, I tell you. Worth missing the women's gymnastics final? Well, like I said, I had Laura's Tivo. Otherwise, crazy talk.
So, I know things have been slow around here, and so I'm going to open it up to requests. Wanna hear about something particular? Leave a comment! I warn you now that requests involving the words "intern" or "musician" will be blatantly ignored. Proceed!
The last ten days or so have been...trying. It's been a blur of doctor's visits and trips to the pharmacy, and I'm going to spare you all of the boring details except to say, the highlight was scratching/tearing my cornea. Whee! The experience itself was painful and horrible, but a gallant eye doctor, who'd never met me, agreed to see me on a Saturday (because, after all, he was having his hair cut across the street,and it would really be no bother) and then gave me his home phone number, just in case. That was such a warm, fuzzy, small-town feeling, people, I half expected to see Atticus Finch ambling down the street. You know, out of my good eye.
Thankfully, epithelial eye tissue heals pretty rapidly and I didn't have to miss the Unofficial Company Outing Sunday afternoon on the Redneck Riviera (that's what Mike J so sensitively called our party boat excursion, and I suppose if you take into account the keg and number of white bread products on board our vessel, it's a pretty fair description). I did have to wear a ridiculously big floppy hat and stay out of the sun for the most part, but damn if I didn't eat grilled hot dogs and barbecue potato chips like a rock star. A Redneck Riviera rockstar.
Thankfully, epithelial eye tissue heals pretty rapidly and I didn't have to miss the Unofficial Company Outing Sunday afternoon on the Redneck Riviera (that's what Mike J so sensitively called our party boat excursion, and I suppose if you take into account the keg and number of white bread products on board our vessel, it's a pretty fair description). I did have to wear a ridiculously big floppy hat and stay out of the sun for the most part, but damn if I didn't eat grilled hot dogs and barbecue potato chips like a rock star. A Redneck Riviera rockstar.
One hundred and eleven. That's what the thermometer on my dashboard read when I pulled out of the parking garage yesterday afternoon. And then my face melted off.
When we were kids, summer time was magical. I mean, except for the part where we had to get up at 7:30 to pull rocks and weeds out of the family garden. But mostly it was bare feet, running through the sprinklers and laying on the concrete driveway until you were warm and dry. Jelly shoes and bike rides. People, I don't know much about the melting point of jelly shoes, but I'm pretty sure that if I'd been wearing a pair yesterday, they'd be a gooey mess on the sidewalk outside my apartment. And if my tastes in rubbery footwear is anything like it was back then, they'd be a sparkly turquoise gooey mess. Man, I loved those shoes.
(This is where one of those transitions I'm not bothering with would come in handy...)
You know what else I love? The Olympics. I mention this for my friend Margaret who is as obsessed with certain events as I am (gymnastics! diving!), and I'm afraid our friendship will suffer if I don't publicly acknowledge it. So, let me say this loud and proud: When Mary Lou Retton graced the front of the Wheaties box in 1984, I lamented that we were a Cheerios family. At some point, I even had the Mary Lou Retton haircut. There's a whole lot of lamenting that goes with that, too... but it was the 80's. Mistakes were made. I have seen Stick It no less than three times. The quality of that film alone makes this shameful. Shamefully awesome!
I'm getting a little bit giddy just thinking about this weekend's upcoming Olympic offerings. You know, maybe it's because I lack the grace necessary to manage something as simple as a handspring on a trampoline, but nothing fascinates me quite like a kick-ass floor exercise. Well, not nothing, but this is summer, not winter, and we're not talking about figure skating. Because if we were, I'd have to admit to having seen Ice Princess and both sequels to The Cutting Edge.
Straight to DVD, it happens for a reason.
When we were kids, summer time was magical. I mean, except for the part where we had to get up at 7:30 to pull rocks and weeds out of the family garden. But mostly it was bare feet, running through the sprinklers and laying on the concrete driveway until you were warm and dry. Jelly shoes and bike rides. People, I don't know much about the melting point of jelly shoes, but I'm pretty sure that if I'd been wearing a pair yesterday, they'd be a gooey mess on the sidewalk outside my apartment. And if my tastes in rubbery footwear is anything like it was back then, they'd be a sparkly turquoise gooey mess. Man, I loved those shoes.
(This is where one of those transitions I'm not bothering with would come in handy...)
You know what else I love? The Olympics. I mention this for my friend Margaret who is as obsessed with certain events as I am (gymnastics! diving!), and I'm afraid our friendship will suffer if I don't publicly acknowledge it. So, let me say this loud and proud: When Mary Lou Retton graced the front of the Wheaties box in 1984, I lamented that we were a Cheerios family. At some point, I even had the Mary Lou Retton haircut. There's a whole lot of lamenting that goes with that, too... but it was the 80's. Mistakes were made. I have seen Stick It no less than three times. The quality of that film alone makes this shameful. Shamefully awesome!
I'm getting a little bit giddy just thinking about this weekend's upcoming Olympic offerings. You know, maybe it's because I lack the grace necessary to manage something as simple as a handspring on a trampoline, but nothing fascinates me quite like a kick-ass floor exercise. Well, not nothing, but this is summer, not winter, and we're not talking about figure skating. Because if we were, I'd have to admit to having seen Ice Princess and both sequels to The Cutting Edge.
Straight to DVD, it happens for a reason.
"For you, I am lifting a nearly ten-year God embargo," I wrote. And then I prayed.
I prayed for my sweet friends, their babies and the long, long life they deserve to have together. I prayed even though I'm not sure mine actually count anymore. Not being sure who's on the receiving end, or how much of a difference I believe my mutterings will even make, I feel like a phony. A fair weather friend.
When Phil called me on Tuesday, he did not tell me he was having heart surgery on Thursday. Why? Because Phil is not like me. He doesn't think about himself on a continual and relentless basis. In fact, he was calling me to help his better half with some sort of publicity piece, to check on my dating life, and to bug me about writing a book - conversation that did not hint at the complications ahead of him.
Last night, after Stephanie and I talked worst case scenarios, I packed an overnight bag and made arrangements to leave work early the next day. Just in case. I cracked jokes with Phil about vibrating hospital beds and fervently hoped that the prayers of an non-believer would count for a little something. Or, at the very least, not come with attached penalties.
Update: I will leave the lengthier explanations to Stephanie, but Phil is home and recovering. Thank you for your kindness, Internet Strangers.
I prayed for my sweet friends, their babies and the long, long life they deserve to have together. I prayed even though I'm not sure mine actually count anymore. Not being sure who's on the receiving end, or how much of a difference I believe my mutterings will even make, I feel like a phony. A fair weather friend.
When Phil called me on Tuesday, he did not tell me he was having heart surgery on Thursday. Why? Because Phil is not like me. He doesn't think about himself on a continual and relentless basis. In fact, he was calling me to help his better half with some sort of publicity piece, to check on my dating life, and to bug me about writing a book - conversation that did not hint at the complications ahead of him.
Last night, after Stephanie and I talked worst case scenarios, I packed an overnight bag and made arrangements to leave work early the next day. Just in case. I cracked jokes with Phil about vibrating hospital beds and fervently hoped that the prayers of an non-believer would count for a little something. Or, at the very least, not come with attached penalties.
Update: I will leave the lengthier explanations to Stephanie, but Phil is home and recovering. Thank you for your kindness, Internet Strangers.
