Dumb Jul Stories: Bloody, Stupid

I had three nosebleeds today. It's not a warning of an incipient brain tumor or anything (first act: three nosebleeds, second act: poignant pre-death romance, Peter Saarsgard tenderly handing me wads of Kleenex). I just have a very delicate nasal cavity, and during the dry winter months, it periodically shrieks, "Oh, good heavens!" and disgorges a pint of blood down the front of my shirt.

Anyway... three nosebleeds. The first occurred as soon as I got up to go to work ("The worst part, of wakin' uppp, is blood all over your beige rugggg!"). As I lay on the couch in the dark, attempting to staunch the flow, I heard a mouse-sized squeak from the direction of J.Q.'s crib... and promptly began leaking milk. A better writer than I might've reflected on blood, milk and the self-sacrificial nature of motherhood, but I'm just gonna say: Jesus CHRIST, I'm disgusting!

Nosebleed II occurred once I'd finally managed to stumble into the kid's room. He was doing his usual pre-awakening contortions, which can best be described as "vogueing, but while fully horizontal and wearing footie pajamas". Like all great artists, J.Q. deplores interruptions. When I halted his gyrations and offered him a nice, warm boob, he began wailing. "My word! That ruffian's cacophony is simply monstrous!", said my nose, unleashing a fresh spurt of gore. "Son of a BITCH!" I hissed. Ten minutes later, a nearby sock had dammed the red Danube, and the boy had grudgingly sacrificed his artistic integrity for a hit of sweet, sweet milk. Let us now salute the resiliency of the working mom: in the next fifteen minutes, I
managed to:

- Finish feeding infant
- Cover milk-engorged infant in kisses, re-deposit in crib
- Clean up, stop looking like cover of Andrew W.K. album
- Throw on outfit, start looking like I parachuted naked into Old Navy's clearance section
- Catch train and head to work

Once at work, I had several happy, productive hours during which no part of me sprung a leak. My nose, however, had come to enjoy having fluffy white things pressed against it more often than a teenage bunny. At 2 PM, I felt the now-familiar warm dribbling sensation, muttered, "DAMN IT!" and shoved a handful of fast food napkins against my face. Nosebleed III, unlike its predecessors, would not be thwarted by such tricks. My napkins soon looked like I'd been frequenting a Saladworks franchise owned by the Donner Party. I tipped my head back, pinched the bridge of my nose and staggered off to the bathroom.

It is now that we come to the Dumb part of the tale. For having nasal capillaries which explode at the drop of a hat isn't really dumb, except maybe in a genetic sense (note to self: cancel trip to Shark, Tiger 'n Easily Excitable Mother Grizzly Nature Preserve):

While running to the bathroom, I'd passed the company's vending machine restocker-guy (what IS that job title... Dorito Deployment Operative? Ho Ho Utilization Engineer?). We'd exchanged pleasantries a few times before, and he'd always seemed like a pretty nice guy (if a bit rotund and dorky). As I walked back to my desk, I figured I'd grab a diet soda to replace some of the precious fluids lost via my gushing scnozz. When the Twizzler Allocation Analyst saw me heading for the soda machine, he said, "Hey, how about I treat you to one?" "Uh... sure," I said. "I've seen you around here a couple of times," he said, "What's your name again? Which department are you with?"

During the boring and awkward (borkward?) conversation which followed, vending machine guy managed to slip in the facts that he, too dabbled in the computer industry, and that he was divorced. "Divorced?", said my poor, blood-deprived brain, "Why is he telling you this? Why won't he let you go suck down your free diet soda in peace?"

Uh-huh. It took me several MONTHS to figure out, but vending machine dude was interested in me... and as more than just a snack-treat consumer. He wanted me. Or at least my enormous, life-giving boobs. I was horrified at my own obliviousness, and slightly mystified at the attraction (I mean, c'mon... the boobs ARE pretty impressive, but I'm a new mom: I'm usually tired, cranky, have the complexion of Stephen Hawking and a gob of mashed sweet potatoes stuck to my eyebrow).

"I... I... uh... gotta go... reboot... some stuff," I stammered, bolting past him at the first opportunity. And thus concludes the tale of the first man who has expressed any interest in me in two years (last guy? A gas station attendant on the New Jersey Turnpike who
kept insisting, "But baby, I don't CARE that you got a man!").

Sam, if I haven't told you before, let me say it now: I am so very glad we're married.

Twelve Days of Disappointment: Part II

And today we continue to explore what would happen if my mother actually followed through on her traditional promise to "cut way, WAY back!" on the hysteria of Christmas each year. As a child, I found this terrifying. Now that I can buy my OWN damned Blacktron Legos and/or Pogo Ball, I find it hilarious.

1990: Nine Ladies Dancing
1995: Nine gentlemen groping.
2000: One assistant principal hyperventilating.
2005: A plastic champagne flute emblazoned "Archibald County Junior Prom '98: Go Archdukes!"

1990: Ten Lords A-leaping
1995: One Lord a-smiting.
2000: One Unitarian Lord a-honoring all religious views, except maybe Santeria and the more fanatical snake-taunting Baptists.
2005: One of those candles from Tienda Mexicano which feature extremely obscure religious iconography, like Jesus using His holy touch to de-worm a schnauzer.

1990: Eleven Pipers Piping
1995: Eleven pipers eating FunYuns and talking about how awesome it would be to backpack through Sri Lanka.
2000: A set of Cheech & Chong DVDs.
2005: A bottle of Visine and a Ho-Ho with the end bitten off.

1990: Twelve Drummers Drumming
1995: Twelve drummers experiencing "creative differences" with their lead singers.
2000: Twelve press releases such as, "The former drummer of Combyne Harvezzter is BACK with a new nuclear disarmament-themed solo album! Featuring the sure-to-be-hit single "Don't Enrich (Anything But My Heart)".
2005: A cassette of Led Zep 4 prone to the kind of catastrophic snags which make your tape deck appear to have vomited up a large helping of squid ink pasta.

Twelve Days of Disappointment: Part I

Each November, my mom suddenly proclaims, "I am cutting WAY back on Christmas this year! I REFUSE to deal with that debt and insanity and bayberry-scented bullshit for ONE MORE GODDAMN YEAR!" It's kind of a tradition in our family, like my sister Kate's birthday rap ("Boom, shalock-lock-boom, wiggety, wiggety wack! Here's a lot of presents, don't give any of them back!"). Despite mom's protestations, we've had exactly the same pleasant, low-key festivities every single year. After her most recent "stupid-fucking-Christmas-I- hate-it-so-bad-we're-just- going-to-exchange-simple-gifts- made-out-of-pine-cones- and-glitter-this-year" spiel, I began to wonder what Christmas would be like if she'd actually followed through on her threats... EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

1990: A Partridge in a Pear Tree
1995: A partridge on a half-inflated lawn Santa.
2000: A "reduced for quick sale" Cornish game hen.
2005: One of those pigeons who flies into the supermarket, cannot manage to find its way out and cheeps at you angrily while you're attempting to select a honeydew melon.

1990: Two Turtle Doves
1995: A box of chocolate turtles.
2000: A Whitman's sampler where every piece was previously poked to determine whether or not it was one of those stupid raspberry jells.
2005: Sixlets.

1990: Three French Hens
1995: Two Belgian hens.
2000: One Belgian cock.
2005: Jean-Claude Van Damme.

1990: Four Calling Birds
1995: Four voicemail-leaving birds.
2000: Four text-messaging birds ("SUET PRTY 2NITE... R U IN?!").
2005: Four birds who fly completely off-radar for months on end, then show up on your doorstep one night with a bunch of bug-ravaged 7-11 carnations and an erection.

1990: Five Gold Rings
1995: Four faux-chrome hubcaps.
2000: A spoiler which, while large enough to speed the ascent of the space shuttle, is intended for a Kia Spectra.
2005: A decal of Calvin peeing on Osama bin Laden.

1990: Six Geese A-laying
1995: Six geese a-enjoying a relaxing post-coital nibble of grass.
2000: A frustrated capon.
2005: A rubber chicken and a tube of K-Y.

1990: Seven Swans A-swimming
1995: A soggy featherbed.
2000: A biography of Gregory Peck.
2005: Half a blood-spattered seed bell.

1990: Eight Maids A-milking
1995: Eight maids taking a women's studies seminar at the local community college.
2000: Eight maids rethinking their role as subservient handmaidens in a patriarchal, lacto-centric farm culture.
2005: Eight husbands rolling their eyes, pouring Rice Dream over their Wheaties and wondering why the hell she couldn't have just taken up knitting instead.

More tidings of comfort and joy soon...

I'm In Love With That Song : "Even Tho" - Joseph Arthur

1. This song is the perfect auditory complement to that moment in Cameron Crowe movies where the male lead, convinced he's lost the girl forever, wanders around in a montage of heart-rending mopiness, causing our collective hearts to scream, "Noooo! Don't be sad, John Cusack! I will hold you and love you and appreciate your appealingly quirky worldview!"

2. If his press photos are to be believed, in addition to being pouty and disheveled, Joseph Arthur is also a Caucasian. While this state of pigmental deprivation is nothing to write home about, dude don't SING like a honky. Throughout the course of "Even Tho", he engages in the kind of laryngeal acrobatics usually reserved for guys like Percy Sledge and Prince. It is quite cheering to hear such vocal passion in a paleface. One hopes this trend of racially uncharacteristic singing migrates to Presbyterian choir groups, who usually plow through hymns with the grim determinism of one de-gibleting a turkey.

3. Like a diamond, a Philadelphia parking violation or a shoddy tattoo, it's forever. There's probably no conclusive way to tell from the start which songs/movies/ice-cream flavors you'll enjoy for years to come, but occasionally you get a hunch. "Yes," you say to yourself, wiping away tears and snot at the conclusion of "Say Anything" or taking a big ol' chomp of Breyer's mint-chip, "I am going to be doing this for the rest of my life." "Even Tho" feels like that.

It's not a GREAT song (for god's sake, I'm pretty sure the drums came straight off of Casio's sample track), but it's a song which will hold up, and I love that. Comfort and durability are consistently undervalued in our culture, passed over in favor of brief, flaming brilliance. Call me a philistine, but I'll take the flawed and long-haul every time (not that you should heed pearls of wisdom dispensed by someone who has been listening to the same 80% of "Nevermind" for the past eleven years IN A ROW, and would still be wearing her " R.I.P. Kurt" t-shirt had it not been torn in a tragic bleacher-jumping accident in '96).

Dumb Jul Stories Flashback - Shitstorm: July '05

I had my grossest-ever moment as a mom last night.  We were wandering around Trader Joe's.  J.Q. was asleep in his Baby Bjorn (greatest and best of all baby-holsters... Bjorn is in tha Hjorn!).  While I was poking a package of frozen broccoli, kiddo let loose this earth-shaking fart (I was surprised he didn't rip through his carrier) and an awful stench filled the aisle.  "Oh, damn it," I said, "I guess I'll have to change you when we get back to the car."  Several minutes later, there was a sound very much like a cherry bomb being detonated in his diaper.  Background information:  before we ventured into frozen foods, I'd wrapped a blanket around his lower half (so that his onesie-clad legs wouldn't get cold).  Following the second explosion, in perhaps the dumbest Dumb Jul move EVER, I slid my hand under the blanket.  Why did I do that?!  WHY?  Did I want to see if the force of the blast had sheared off his little peach-shaped butt?  WHY AM I SO DUMB?

 

... in any event, when I retracted my hand, it was slathered in bright-yellow poop.  I am not ashamed to admit that I began shrieking like a banshee.  My frantic yowls drew Sam back from the ice cream section.  "Jesus Christ!" he said, "Take him out to the car and CHANGE him, Jul!  Here, take my keys... WITH YOUR OTHER HAND, DAMN IT!"  I stumbled outside, taking care to conceal my crap-slathered hand behind my back.  When we got to the car, I removed the kid's blanket and surveyed the damage.

 

Jul's hand:  coated in poop.

Blanket:  coated in poop.

Baby's entire leg:  coated in poop.

Baby's clothing:  coated in poop.

Exterior of diaper:  coated in poop.

 

Like a mere mortal gazing upon the face of god, my fragile psyche could not withstand such an awe-inspiring sight (Att'n, Yaweh:  if you do in fact exist, I am deeply sorry for analogizing Your Holiness to ten pounds of baby crap in a five-pound Huggie).  I began laughing hysterically.  Once I'd recovered my bearings, I stood there for several minutes, working out the logistics of the situation.  I couldn't put my poo-glazed infant directly on the car seat, I couldn't put him on his blanket (since it was also a casualty of Operation: Shit On Entire World) and I certainly couldn't just change him on the pavement.  If I'd had a moment's foresight before spiriting him from the store, I could've grabbed a paper bag (or perhaps a tarragon-rosemary flatbread) on which to rest his tiny ass.  Eventually, I wound up dumping out the contents of a Sears bag and using it as an impromptu changing pad.  While I was baby-wiping every surface within a five-foot radius, J.Q. woke up and began smiling and wriggling around, as if to say, "Hi, mommy!  Look at how cute I am!  You wouldn't ever think of leaving me in the Trader Joe's parking lot, running away to a different state and changing your name, would you?"

 

The aftermath:

 

Diaper and ten soiled wipes:  left in TJ's parking lot.  While I am deeply sorry for the Hawaiian shirt-clad schmuck who winds up finding it, 1.  They had no trash can, and 2.  Cleaning up the crap-tastrophe had already tested my sanity; driving home with it would have snapped my mind like a pretzel rod.

 

Baby:  relatively happy for duration of evening.  I suppose I'd feel pretty good, too, if I pooped out half of my body weight and someone else cleaned it up.

 

Jul:  slowly recovering from ordeal.

New Jersey Death Trip

The Boy and I went to visit my parents in New Jersey yesterday. My dad made beef with black bean sauce and kung pao chicken (featuring those delightful little peppers which react with human oral mucosa very much like Drano does with a wad of moist hair). After much kissing and hugging and costume changes and "Bouncy Bouncy Baby" and such, we hopped in the Civic and headed home. J.Q., however, must have thought I was hauling him off to the Iron Binky Infant Disciplinary Ranch, because as soon as we hit Rt. 42, he began shrieking. He managed to sustain his a capella rendition of "Metal Machine Music" for the next 40 miles. It was impressive, I'll tell you what.

While every motherly bone in my body was shrieking, "PULL THE FREAKING CAR OVER AND CHECK ON YOUR SON!", logic dictated that the kid could not possibly be in any greater danger than that presented by an emergency nighttime stop on the Schuylkill Expressway (motto: "Lanes?... lanes are for pussies!"). So I attempted alternate calming techniques. In case you were wondering, calming an infant who is, A. Overtired, B. Hysterical, and C. Strapped firmly into one of the Graco corporation's fine child restraints... it's just not possible. But I tried! All of the following were ineffective:

- Patting his head.

- Playing Bruce Springsteen (J.Q. was not even swayed when I pointed out, "But Bruce is one of the greatest lyricists of our time!").

- More patting.

- Playing AC/DC (theorizing that maybe Bon Scott's caterwauling would make the kid realize what his OWN vocal exercises were doing to mommy's nerves).

- Singing along with AC/DC (and despairing that I CAN'T EVEN SING AS WELL AS BON SCOTT!).

- Further patting.

- Singing a song of my own composition... can't recall the exact lyrics, but I believe it was a blues spiritual ("Baby, why you screamin' all the time... oh baby, why you screamin' all the time? You gonna drive your poor momma, straight outta her mind! My wiper blade done broke, the rain's coming down thick, all the other drivers on 76 are actin' like a dick!").

Eventually, he exhausted himself and passed out in as heart-wrenching a manner as possible... his little over-patted head slumped pathetically against his chest, his breath periodically hitching as if to say, "I may be unconscious, but I am STILL MISERABLE!" How do I know this? As soon as we reached civilization, I veered into a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot and checked to make sure he was okay. Throughout the entire interstate Scream-a-palooza, I was terrorized by thoughts such as, "What if a tarantula escaped from the Museum of Natural Sciences, found shelter in my car and is now nipping my infant with its mandibles while I ignore his shrieks for help?!"

See how insane motherhood is? I'm afraid of my child being menaced by animals which are NOT EVEN INDIGENOUS TO THE EASTERN SEABOARD!

See how awesome motherhood is? Sure, he subjected me to the second-worst car trip of my lifetime (first? Newark, DE to Danbury, CT, in one shot, after not sleeping in 48 hours. Boring AND dangerous!). But when I wrestled his little body out of the car seat and stood in the driveway, holding him close as he kvetched and clung to my sweater, there was still nowhere else I'd rather be.