now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

I have been having wacky dreams lately. Wacky, vivid dreams with a cast the likes of which Cecil B. DeMille could only have dreamt, liberally sprinkled with people from the periphery of my past. No, nothing as obvious as me being married to an ex, we’re talking on the level of my ex appears randomly as the librarian in a huge John Hughes-esque scene sort of thing. Last night’s dream, though, may take the cake in the what the fuck was my brain purging category.

I dreamt that HGTV debuted a new game show, a strange hybrid of Double Dare, roleplaying, and Fear Factor. Contestants (couples- and god forbid HGTV put a same sex couple on the show) answered questions in a lightning round to determine their ‘personas’ and their ‘ life situtation’. Do well and you’re both successfully employed with a good stable, well-balanced portfolio and a well trained dog. Flake on the questions and you’re stuck playing a pregnant and sans childcare woman with a Jack Daniels habit married to an unemployed shit who does nothing and y’all live in a trailer park.

Then the fun began. No, really. You had to ‘learn from others’ to get the valuable life skills- and prizes- you’d need to move up/improve your situation/afford toothpaste. Contestants brought along a passel of friends and family to roleplay these people, and the contestants would be given a choice of 3 ‘personas’ to attempt to plumb for valuable lfe lessons, something along the lines of: ‘Beloved Grandpa’, ‘300 pound coke addict’, and ‘Former topless model’. In the instance in my dream, they were supposed to learn how to do laundry from this person, and the contestants picked Grandpa. Well it turns out Grandpa had ‘issues’ and so wasn’t so hot on the laundry score, and besides, he petered out on the Laundry Themed Challenge Flume Ride (featuring lots of foam and pastel bath towel-like platforms on which to coast along the water ride). Apparently, the 300 pound coke addict would have been the best choice, as he was a mama’s boy and had obediently learned how to do the laundry as a child, even if he was now a scary, bug eyed freak. (For the curious among you, the former topless model turns out to have been Vicki Iovine, author of the Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy. I don’t know. Believe me, her sudden appearance made me shriek. Audibly. Like, in real life).

All this, and I didn’t even watch the State of the Union address (I prefer to read the transcripts, that way I avoid the applause track), so it’s not like my brain was desperately purging in order to make way for the volume of mental anguish which I’m sure the SotU will engender once I finish reading it.

Otherwise, this would be easy. Easy I tell you! Instead I’m stalled out like a freakin Yugo trying to gun it on the on-ramp onto the Tri-State Tollway.

61. We have 4000 pounds of books, give or take. I am not one of those ‘books are saaaaacred as soon as I own it I can never paaaaart with it!’ kind of people- I happily sold back books in college, and enjoyed the overwhelming number of used bookstores in the old neighborhood. We still have our Seminary Co-Op/57th Street Bookstore membership, cause I cannot bear to part with the lusciousness that is a bookstore discount. Our books are organized somewhat haphazardly (in fact, we need to take them all down, anchor the freakin bookcases to the wall in a childproofing move, and sort them out, since when we moved in it was sort of a catch as catch can organizing thing). Children’s books and travel on the bookcases in our bedroom. Computer books, history, spying/espionage, SF/Fantasy, all RPGs (man, that’s a bookcase unto itself) in the Lad’s office. Cookbooks, fiction, poetry, drama, philosophy, religion, general nonfiction, reference all in my office. More or, er, less.

62. Dante’s Inferno is my favorite book, followed closely by Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams, Home Cooking and More Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin, 9 Stories by Salinger, Pride and Prejudice by Austen, and, well, 8 billion others.

63. I have been known to completely cocoon myself in the covers on cold winter nights. This entails stealing the flannel sheet, the king size duvet, and the extra queen size duvet in a flannel cover that we throw on the bed in a desperate attempt to ensure that the Lad actually gets some covers, and wrapping myself up tighter than a piggy in a blanket superbowl snack.

64. I function best on a minimum of 8 hours of sleep. Yeah, I know. Kiss functionality goodbye for the next several years..

65. Despite attending there for 2 years and then being affiliated with the university for 6 more, I own not a stitch of U of C clothing. They gave me a t-shirt when I matriculated, which was ridiculously depressing- cause it was grad, it listed the year matriculated, cause you have no idea when you’ll escape- I mean graduate. Thus, I ritually destroyed it when I dropped out. They were like a badge, how fucking faded and worn was your ‘yeah. I started here in 1994, want to make something of it?’ sad t-shirt.

66. I watch the last 10 min of crap Lifetime movies. The lad invariably walks in and demands a recap, and I testily inform him it’s a 2 hour long movie and I’m not recapping it. Then he sits there and mocks, and then I beat the crap out of him. It’s like a ritual.

67. I have smoked once in my life. After coughing up enough blood to tide Dracula over for a few days, I decided this was not for me.

68. I am allergic to pot. Yeah, college? Strangely devoid of illicit substances I didn’t even turn 21 until 8 days before graduation. Senior Week: A Week To Attempt To Remember. Yet somehow, I came out of college a beer snob and into single malt scotches. How did this happen if I wasn’t legal until 8 days before I left? Hmmm.

69. I had never had heartburn until grad school. It hit me one day during class, and I turned to the Lad in wide-eyed terror. He patiently explained to me I was not a healthy female blowing a coronary at the age of 21, but rather was stressed. Yet, it still took me another year and nine months to get the clue that higher academia and me were not meant for one another.

70. I have never had a fluffernutter sandwich.

lmost…halfway…there. Thud. Clearly there’s just not much to the Wench beyond ranty sarcasm, as coming up with 100 things to share with my adoring public, all 3 of you, is ridiculously hard.

49. I am an only child, married to another only child. There’s a recipe for disaster. With the exception of college roomies in the dorms- and I had a single my junior and senior years- I had never lived with someone, and prior to grad school, I had never lived in an apartment. And then the Lad and I shacked up. Let’s just say I needed to work on my ’sharing’ grade. But I do still run with scissors.

50. It’s only within the past few years I have gotten into the ’spoil me!’ pampering girly foo thing. Had you told me in college that I would consider a half day spent at the spa getting my legs rubbed out, my nails done, my hair highlighted and cut a truly delicious delight, I would have hurled you out my door. Having said that, tho, I’m really, REALLY persnickety about my stylist and my spa. To the point where I got into a loud argument with Manny, The Wonder Stylist at my old salon in Chicago, when he went to rollerbrush and blowdry out my hair. No one blow drys my hair. Ever. And he knew this, he just chose to conveniently forget.

51. I will gladly stay at a B&B or small inn instead of a well appointed every service known unto man megahotel in a heartbeat. Mansion Hill Inn in Madison, WI is my favorite place to hole up for a weekend. Of the larger hotels I’ve stayed at, I still tend towards the boutique hotels (Hotel Monaco in SF and Chicago and the Triton in SF are standouts. I don’t even bother putting the Mark Hopkins, the Huntington, and the Meadowood into this equation, cause, well, they have little shimmery portals at the entrance and you find yourself in an alternate reality.

52. I hate feather pillows. They twig my allergies, but they’re also way too squishy. If I wanted squishy, I’d sleep on marshmellow fluff and have a conveniet snack to hand at all times as a bonus.

53. I am a bigger football fan than my husband. Like, way bigger. Like, explain plays and rules and penalties to him, not to mention attempt to explain the wild card rules that lead to such stampede hilarity a few weeks ago. I will be the one imbuing the child with the appropriate reverence for the Packers. See: possess no dresses.

54. I collect the corks from the wines we drink. Given our reprobate drinkin ways, this means I have artful ceramic bowls everywhere of corks. I will eventually use them to fill in a deep wood frame and make a message board. Or trivets. Or wallpaper the baby’s room, at this point. Something. Gads. We’ve got zillions.

55. I bought my mom’s 25th anniversary present from my dad, because he forgot, until 3 days before the day, that is was coming up and, gee dad, you really do kind of have to acknowledge the date. So he called me from work and told me to go shopping and call him back with ideas. Then he argued with me about prices. Dude, it’s your 25th. Don’t you be squirrely about it.

56. I love art deco. I get this from my mom. And Arts and Crafts. And comfortable modern but not outlandish contemporary. I loathe country. Like, violently. Yet, i like quilts (own none) and amish dolls (have 3). Our kitchen table is a big, country tinged slab of pine, and I adore it- because it’s floorboards from an old scotch distillery and if you stick your face up against it and inhale deeply, you can juwst get those faint, whiskey notes. Plus I’ve surrounded it with black modern chairs. My poor MIL cannot get a handle on my tastes in furnishings at all.

57. In “Shape of my Heart”, by Sting, there’s a line that goes, “He deals the cards as a meditation”. That sums up how I feel about cooking. While big meals can be stressful, by and large, I find it gloriously relaxing and centering.

58. I don’t know nearly as much about classical music or jazz as I ought to. Nor do I own as many CDs from those genres as I ought. But, Beethoven’s 2nd? Gets me every time.

59. I have never done the chicken dance. Nor the macarena. I am sure, at some wedding in the future, these things will be performed. And I will not dance. You will have better luck gettin one of the easter island statues to get down, get funky.

60. This is the one which will get the local child welfare office on my ass. I hate Mickey Mouse. We’re talking hate with an irrational level of passion here. How the lad and I made it through the first few months of dating, i don’t know, as he was raised by people who adore All Things The Mouse, for whom Disney is a warm and fuzzy repository of familial memories. For god’s sake, the man had a disney credit card. I hate Mickey with the strength of life, death, superglue, and hardened marshmellow fluff, with the intensity of a thousand white hot suns. Part of it stems from being raised by 2 of the most unromantic, unfluffy people ever, who started imbuing me with a jaundiced eye and sense of humour from a young age, let’s say prenatally in fact, but part of it stems from the highly traumetizing trip to Disneyland when I was 5. We went to San Diego and LA, and made the pilgrimage to Disneyland. Mickey was hugging and greeting kids in front of the castle, and I asked my parents if I could run ahead and say hi. They consented- they could keep me in sight- and off I ran. This was in the days of Mickey having a spotter and as I ran up shouting, “Mickey Mickey!”, the spotter clearly did not see me, and radioed Mickey the coast was clear, he could go back into the Castle and knock back a few before having to deal with the next shift of screeching kindergarteners.

Yes. Mickey Mouse turned his back on me- when I was within mere feet of him- and walked into the castle. I was a crushed little 5 year old, and had a core meltdown on the spot. My parents saw it all, and tried to soothe me, but good luck soothing a child who’s just been dissed by the largest cultural icon to the primary school set. Mercifully, Pooh, Tigger, and Eeyore happened along, and saw a hysterical child, and my dad yanked Pooh aside and explained what happened (I’d like to say that watching a 6-6, 300 pound adult have a tete-a-tete with a guy in a Pooh costume is freakin hilarious), and the three of them fawned all over me, and Eeyore ripped his tail off and blotted my face with it, and we have a wonderful series of pictures of me with the three amigos.

But my seething hatred for the giant rodent still knows no bounds.

.to your regularly scheduled tiny installment plan of 100 things about wench. The management wishes to apologize for last night’s paltry offering of #s 25-32, but the Lad walked in and started running the wench a nice hot bath, and well. There were bubbles. I had to go.

33. I had one story published in 4 years of college, compared to an assload in high school. I am envious of those who can call themselves writers (and no, I don’t feel like you have to make your living doing it to be a writer). I write, but I don’t consider myself a writer. Damn, this is hard to explain. You’d think given the amount of words I’ve spewed into this journal in the past 6 months I’d think otherwise, but no.

34. Oddly, by contrast, I do consider myself a scientist, even though I dropped out and ran screaming. It’s largely a matter of mindset. I might not have a lab, but i approach the world with a scientific bent. Well, in addition to the signs and portends listening, tingly roach sense at the back of my neck thing.

35. I hate butterscotch. Also, cinnamon flavored candies.

36. I am slowly learning to garden. When I saw I am learning to garden, I mean I am learning horticulture, because god forbid I go the easy route and my mother the blasted professional won’t let me get away with calling things by their common name, I’m learning Latin and Common because that’s how you can tell what’s related to what, as well as varietal names. Thus I know I prefer hydrangea ‘annabelle’, from a cultivar near a farmhouse in IL, to hydrangea ‘oakleaf’. Given how little time I will have next spring and summer, I don’t know why I’m tasking neuronal space this way. Also, we’ve had to scrap our plans for the ‘poison and death planting bed’, which would have features several members of the nightshade family, foxglove, and bleeding heart.

37. I collect kids books, and adore picture books with beautiful illustrations. The lad’s parents were most confused when he gave me the olivia books last year.

38. I creeped out my sophomore year roomate by collecting all of the blue fun-tak we had on the walls for hanging posters and such, and creating a 3/4 profile elephant head sprouting out of the wall by my desk, with a beady blue-and-yellow eye. Why she was so distressed by Dumbo: Arrangement in Pale Blue and Yellow, I don’t know, but it really creeped her right the fuck out.

39. We have a wine cellar, and a database of all of our wines, with tasting notes. Yep, freaks.

40. I like my baths at about 120-125 degrees fahrenheit. Yes, I know at that point I am no longer ‘bathing’ and am instead making ‘wenchbroth’, and the lad has, on occasion, jokingly tossed a potato into the tub to indicate it’s too hot for him.

41. I own no hairstyling products. No mousse, no spray, no pomade. Nothing.

42. Perhaps this explains why my hair looks like unstyled ass half of the time. The rest of the time, fabulous! I will never get bangs again, given what a pita they were to grow out. I’ll note I grew them out in high school, that’s how vivid a painful memory it is.

43. I love hats. My favorite is probably the black Akubra my mom bought for me in San Francisco, at Australia Fair, a great store. My mom and my dad both had akubras, and he was going to get me one on his next trip to Australia. My mother and I went to SF on vacation 40 hours after I sat my Ph.D. oral exams, 5 months after dad died. It is one of my favorite trips of all time; very bonding, after a summer of hell.

44. I have tried, like physically tried with my bare hands, to kill one person in my life. And she’s so rock stupid that she can’t believe that I took such umbrage at what she’d done. In my defense, I wasn’t in my right mind at the time. No, no alcohol or drugs were involved. And what she did was stupid, an invasion of my personal space, disrespectful, and she’s pug-ugly and wore sweats with a hole in the ass and dirty underwear and would pick her nose in class. So there.

45. I used to be licensed to carry a firearm in 2 different states. This fact scared the heck out of my mild-mannered, nice Jewish boy former boss.

46. My mom was in a car accident when I was about 6, rear ended, and had to go to PT for serious neck injuries. One day the babysitter cancelled, and Dad had to bring me to work, because god forbid he take a day off. He worked for a major HBA and food company, and decided it would be educational for me to see the plant line, and so hopping and skipping along I got to see how they made soap; how the colors got all swirly, and the bars formed, and the wrappers put on. And then some kind soul took me into the rabbit room, where they kept all of the rabbits they did testing on and, not realizing they were dealing with an intelligent child, said just enough that I figured out what they were doing to the rabbits (worse yet after I had gotten to cuddle one). They managed to get my hysterics mostly calmed before Dad came down to the plant to pick me up. That night at dinner, when mom asked me what I had learned, I chirped, “I learned Dad’s company is evil because they use animal testing and hurt bunny rabbits.” I think at this point, the Daddy’s Little Girl relationship came to a screeching halt.

47. 10 years later, I went vegetarian, strictly to piss him off. No, that didn’t last. I love cow way too much.

48. I have a mild case of hyperflexibility and can bend my wrist and thumb far enough that my thumb hits my lower arm. It doesn’t hurt that I broke said thumb senior year, sitting and reading on the quad. A friend threw a frisbee poorly and it nailed me. No, I was not playing. Innocent third party. I tell you.

Yet! More!

25. I have an unnatural hatred for the Doors. I mean, like with every fiber of my being. I would go ‘lalalalalalalalala!’ as I walked past Whiskey A Go Go in West Hollywood when I was working on a project that had me out there every month for a week at a clip, and the hotel I stayed at was half a block from there. It probably stems from an Ex’s love of the Doors. But I still like the Twin Peaks soundtrack, and he had an undying love for that too, and I adore Dead Can Dance, so I can’t just blame him willy nilly. Haaaaate them.

as a side note, as I write this I am watching VH1classic- requests! on digital cable, and just horrified myself by singing along with Billy Idol. Sweet Lord in heaven, I cannot remember the phone number of the place I worked for 6 years, yet I can remember Billy Idol lyrics? And we’re not talkin White Wedding, or Rock the Cradle of Love, or Eyes Without a Face, we’re talking the kind of song where you had to listen to Bsides. Please doubletap me in the head.

26. I have yet to master making a souffle. This is not out of vast efforts, but rather periodic, sporadic efforts in my crappy apartment kitchen didn’t bear fruit, or, er, grand marnier or chocolatey goodness. Now that I’m in a real kitchen, I shall try again. The lad, when asked his very favorite thing that my mother makes, gets a dreamy, poggy look in his eyes and says ‘chooooocolate souuuuuflaaaaaaaay’. It sounds like a gentle exhalation post great sex- as, er, one’s supposed to (?) sound post sex. This brings me to…

27. I crack up laughing after sex. Like, right after, and really crack up. i go from wowowowow to ohshitticklesticklestickles in about 2.9 nanoseconds. This is not good when, well, one’s on the receiving end of devoted attentions, because then I have to stop laughing before I can reciprocate. And let’s face it. Dangly external genitalia? Are kinda hilarious looking, and seeing them is not condusive to stopping laughing. How do bonobo not sit and laugh at one another all day? Oh wait, they’re too busy jerkin off, nevermind.

28. I admire my mom hugely. She went back to school after dad died in order to pursue a longstanding career dream, and as part of that had to take classes in something she is horrible horrible horrible at, like severe learning disability horrible at, and plowed through. And now she’s having fun and making a name for herself finally doing what she wanted to do all along. It’s thanks to her I had the cajones to drop out of grad school.

29. Dropping out of grad school was harder than when my dad died. Losing dad was horrible and awful and unexpected while being expected (he died 2 years earlier than we’d been told to prepare ourselves for, as a complication of the chemo). Dropping out of grad school meant giving up everything I had ‘planned’ for myself career wise, and dreamt of, for years. It meant changing how I saw myself, and was a fundamental change in who I am. It was also in my control- my mistake or good choice to make. Losing Dad was out of my hands.

30. I am jealous of good studies, of nooks and crannies where people who do good work hole up and create. My friend and mentor, M, has a fabulous study, a mishmosh and tottery pottery place with drawing board signed by everyone who has worked with him on big projects, a poster signed by Walt himself, gorgeous books. I am jealous of R’s study as well, with its childrens’ book prints and baskets of luscious books waiting to be read. I finally am beginning to have the kind of study I want, with my framed collection of favorite restaurant menus and snarky milk glass with smart women quote filled with fountain pens, pottery and glass bits of art tucked here and there.

30 and a half. If lvx drops out of my life again, I will kill him.

31. I have over 150 cookbooks. The Lad gleefully pointed out at the Julia Child exhibit at the Smithsonian that I have more cookbooks than she. I pointed out that they probably didn’t put all the cookbooks she owns in the damn exhibit. Someday, I’ll have a nook like Nigella, off the kitchen, white and airy and filled! FILLED! with cookbooks.

32. I am a whore for Lush and Soap Opera in Madison. I just have to read the labels really damn carefully. The lad had never dated anyone who smelled like, well, unfettered but clean human. He did, after all, date the first runner up Junior Miss for NY, the year that Junior Miss NY went on to win the whole shebang, and so his ex stepped up into the role. She owned a caboodles. Needless to say, she wore perfume. He’d never met anyone like me, much less dated them.

eah it’s like brain spew onto a blank page. The next installment of the 100 things about you meme.

13. When I was 6, my father lost his job in a delightful, political shit hitting the fan buyout reorg hell. He was out of work for 2 years (thank you, Jimmy Carter), and would send literally hundreds of resumes out regularly. He had a headhunter as well, who came to the house to meet with him one fine day. My mother commanded me to get my toys out of the family room, saying absently ‘the headhunter’s coming’, which sent 6 year old me into a full on panic as I thought a brains-eatin guy in tribal paint and a grass skirt with a bone through his nose was comin over to the house, and would visciously snap and eat us all if he accidentally stepped on a lego embedded in the shag carpeting.

14. My parents trained me to give ‘paw’ on command like the dog when I was a toddler. They also tried to teach me to kiss my dad’s ring, like one kisses the Pope’s ring. Are you beginning to understand the origins of my psyche?

15. I am horribly stressed out about money right now, because I have a contract process dragging out and it’s driving me up the wall. Once its signed, fiscal security for 2 years. In the meantime? I’m going insane.

16. This has not stopped me from fantasizing about ripping out the electric stove and putting in a gas cooktop in the kitchen. We have a house to do list a mile long. While many folks- my in laws in particular- have some overpowering fondness for wood (and if my FIL tells me if I touch any of the wood in the house, esp the kitchen, he’ll kill me, I’m going to snap), I don’t, at least not the oak that dominates our house, and so I am eagerly anticipating doing some painting and renno in the kitchen to mitigate the sheer Wood Wood Woodness of it. I’m a maple kinda girl.

17. I didn’t wear a dress from the age of 8 until I was 24. And when I was 24, that was my wedding dress. I have finally matured to the point where flannel and jeans is a weekend outfit rather than good enough for every day, including high formal occasions.

18. A bunch of boys from my high school surrounded my car and threatened to beat the crap out of me for dating a girl when I was 17. Ah, suburbia. How they found out is beyond me, unless it was a clever guess based upon not dating boy at school theatre+math geek+no skirts=dyke to their little inbred minds.

19. When I was 5, the closest thing I have to a godfather sat me down at brunch at the Biltmore in AZ, and taught me how to select, cut, and light a cigar. My mother walked in at the end of this tutelage and had a hissy fit. I didn’t quite understand the depths of her horror until I saw Gigi a few years later, and the whole ‘training a woman’ aspect finally processed my brain- until then I thought it was all about the tobacco products and a kindergartener thing. Nevertheless, I still think it’s hilarious, and it’s one of my favorite memories of him.

20. My second favorite memory of him is from when my dad died. Dad’s former assistant- who had becone the CEO’s assistant, bless her heart, handled notifying literally hundreds of people. I was up at the house, dealing with the phones while Mom when about the jolly task of picking a casket. The phone rang, and a man demanded, “Momname?!” “No, this is Wench, may I help you?” “Wench! It’s F. What the fucking hell happened?!” I nearly lost it laughing. “Well, uh, Dad died, F.” “Yes wench, I know he fucking died, the fucker. How the fuck DID he damn well die, the son of a bitch!”

21. I am more devout than either of my parents. Ironically, they were both raised in much more religiously strict households than I was.

22. On a dare from R, I put the line ‘I am a fish’ in my undergraduate thesis. On a dare from bruiser- for 4 bright shiny quarters, which she ostentaciously stacked on the table in front of her- I broke into complete gibberish in the midst of my thesis proposal defense in undergrad. On a dare from Leather Pants Grrrl, I smeared mango goo on a hottie but clueless young man who could not deal with her Wo-Manly fabulousness. I still have all the quarters framed somewhere.

23. I am a princess and get whiny when I have to sleep on sheets of less than a 220 thread count. You know, maybe it’s a good thing it’s a boy.

24. By the time I was 6, I could recite the infection rates in Arizona for all the major STDs, their symptoms and effects, treatments, and efficacy of different types of birth control in terms of preventing STDs and pregnancy. My mom was a pregnancy and sex health counsellor in a public free clinic. I could also recite some of the key terms in Spanish. When I transferred into a new private school and my Spanish teacher asked me if I knew any words, I informed her I could say hello, goodbye, thank you, my name is, can you please help me, I am lost, and ‘does it burn and itch between your legs?’

So, there’s a little something running around on lj. 100 things about yourself. Oh, why not. And if I break it into bits 1-12 apiece, why I can stretch this out for days. Also, it makes the not being able to write one long cogent thing not matter. Brilliant!

1. We own a TiVo. Actually, we won it in an essay writing contest, when they asked for essays on how a TiVo would help you appreciate your favorite rivalry. The Lad wrote his about the parliamentary debates on the BBC. Thus, TiVo. It has completely changed how I watch TV- I watch much less now, only what I want to, when I want to, and I watch much more wacky niche programming because, well, I tell it to record it and voila! No more hoping I stumble across it! Our TiVo memory is split between the lad’s shows and my shows. My love for iron chef, alton brown, and nigella knows no bounds. Plus, designing for the sexes and monster garage? Hilarious.

2. Our cars are named for Valkyries. No, really.

3. My current wardrobe consists of only 4 colors: black, white, blue (mostly frencch blue), and my eye searing green bay packers mondo huge hoodie. I refuse to buy any more maternity clothing until I burst into tears one fine morning as I survey the same 12 items I’ll have been living in for 5 months at that point. Why why why spend the money? It’s not like I have to appear in an office every day. And oh yes, I am so thankful I have not had to purchase a maternity suit.

4. Having donated the bridesmaid dress to Cinderella’s closet, and since my wedding gown is in storage at my mother’s house, I have no dresses in my posession. None.

5. We plan on adopting an Australian Shepherd dog, preferably a blue merle one, after the baby is sleeping through the night reliably. At least, that was the bargain last week. We’ll see how well we actually deal with, well, the reality of an infant before we take on a dog. Much as I want a dog. When we originally got together, the Lad and I were going to get Shelties. Then my sweet, lovable, slightly insane sheltie (who lived with my parents) had to be put down due to illness, and my mother, then widowed, got the infamous Kegerator and the lad, perhaps wisely, decreed no shelties. Damnit.

6. While my husband lived in the same town from the time he was born until he graduated high school, I lived in 3 different states before graduating high school. None of them with the same climate.

7. I still have the remnants of the polish on my toes from the salon adventure in September. Oh, the shame and horror. I am a bad, bad, bad suburbanite.

8. While we’re on feet, I have 12 pairs of black heels or flats, 2 pairs of black heeled boots, 4 pairs of grey heels, 2 pairs of navy heels, 2 pairs of brown heels, 1 beloved pair of shitkicker cowboy books, one pair hiking boots, 2 pairs lug soled work boots, one pair sneakers, one pair black oxfords, 2 pairs of goofily colored clogs (washed denim and bright cherry red), and my wedding shoes. I had to revolve between heels and workboots at the last job, until I announced I was leaving and suddenly I was Slovenly Girl! Heaven.

9. My most vibrantly obnoxiously coloured bra is a cherry red one, followed by an eggplanty one. No, neither one fits right now. Sigh.

10. I sort my M&Ms by colour, and eat them in a specific order. Yep, me and Trent Lott, segregationists. The coffeeshop in DC selling a ‘Trent Latte’, with the milk in one cup and the coffee in the other, and it’s up to you to mix the two? Frightfully hilarious in a bitter angry democrats run the shop kinda way.

11. I set the last two digits of the alarm clock to a prime number. Always. It’s a hold over from geek squad- er, math team- in high school.

12. This was the first semester in a long time I made no effort whatsoever at playing trivia. Waaaaah. We plan on playing in May, cause, well, we won’t be sleeping then anyway, why not?

And that’s enough for now. Hah, this will last for days and days!

So, no cogent entry from me today. I’ve got bits and pieces floating about in my head, and damned if I can actually write an entry which has, say focus. I have entered the full on phase of pregnancy brain, a realm of forgetfulness I have not felt since the time the infirmary accidentally slapped me on cough syrup with codeine when they already had me on percocets for my knee. Right when I’ve finally hit the damn I’m awkward hey what happened to my center of gravity ooof I have lessened lung capacity thanks to the WB Dancin Frog doing a chacha in my midriff, I find myself huffing up and down the stairs eleventy billion times as I try to get out of the house to run a single errand. Oh foo, watch. Oh foo, wallet. Oh foo, shoes. I make to do lists and then forget where I put them. I swear to god if I were a marsupial, I would forget to make sure the baby was in my pouch before I hopped outside to graze.

Thus, random crap from me!

-Please, someone, yank Concrete Angel off the air. Really. Don’t need a soaring ballad about a little girl standing hard as a stone while she’s beaten to death.

-Love of god, the first Shania video’s in constant play, and now there’s a new one called ‘Up?’ Pass me that fork so I may gouge my eardrums out. (Yet, I freely admit, I yell along to ‘that don’t impress me much’. Sorry.). Also, while I’m at it? Eerily good though it may be, Johnny Cash covering NIN ‘Hurt’ and Depeche ‘Personal Jesus’ is brainbending, as is seeing Kid Rock on CMT.

-For some reason, whenever ‘When I’m Gone’ by 3 Doors Down comes on, I think of LVX. Why, I don’t know. I mean, ‘When I’m Gone’- fairly obvious, devoid of 3 syllable words, lacking in complex metaphors, genre and historical period crossing references, or any deep religious thought. IE, Not LVX. Yet, it comes on, I start missing him intensely. What’s next, I hear Avril Lavigne and get dewy eyed for the Berkshire crew?

-His Lordship has decided he doesn’t like me sleeping on my right side. Normally I’d say tough noogies, I’m the host, you’re the parasite, except he expresses his displeasure by headbutting my bladder, which is a very effective way to get me to change my behavior. Next he’ll start ringing a bell and training me like one of pavlov’s dogs.

-My mother checked out our baby registry, then left me a message chiding me for raising my child in a pastel skinner box (I had to explain to her that amazon, for some reason, will not allow me to add children’s books or toys to the baby registry with any regularity, the button just isn’t there, and so they’re on my wishlist). She then went on to offer a few suggestions for the new parent: bourbon, marijuana, and duct tape to keep the child still. I love my mother.

Enough babbling. I swear, a single coherent entry sometime this month.

Calloo callay, back from vacation, back with DSL- though that is a rant unto itself, we’ve been back for 5 days and only now am I experiencing once again the luscious sensation of data flow faster than frozen maple syrup , and even then, our fantabulous DSL provider clearly has poorly trained chimps manning the tech desk- and that’s an insult to chimps everywhere (I am sorry chimps. Please do not fling poo at me. Thanks! Love, the wench). But you don’t want to hear about my DSL travails, cause gosh, everyone writes about poorly trained chimpboys (again, no poo flinging, thanks!) manning tech desks who must wear slip on or velcro shoes cause clearly they cannot tie their own laces, because hells, everyone at some point does an entry like that.

So, DC instead. I have apparently hit that point of pregnancy where 1. it’s obvious, if I’m not wearing a baggy-ass sweater, and 2. people are deferential because of it. Security guards kindly smile and pick up my bags for me. Flight attendants come by and ask me if they can get me something to drink or some pillows the second I take my seat on the plane. The Lad, however, is still clearly subject to the New Normal, which in his case includes deducing from his pale winter complextion plus dark beard, natty blazer and well polished shoes that he is obviously a terrorist threat and must be pulled aside for a public full body cavity search sans lube. Fortunately, I have not entered the total brainfog stage of pregnancy, and was sharp witted enough to notice my husband’s pants being yanked down, and offered a wifely, “Honey?” which was enough to end the Paris Island Special for the Lad, as apparently no terrorist would take his pregnant wife along for the ride.

I don’t know what it is about us and D.C. D.C. is not a town known for its ability to deal rationally with snow. The first time we went, 3 Christmases ago, we landed at 1:15, the airport was shut down at 1:30, and we were the only people out and about on the Mall by 2:30. As we enjoyed drinks in the hotel bar, we watched in amazement as the evening news exhorted parents to not try to pick their children up from school, provisions had been made for the kids to stay at school overnight on sleeping cots and get a hot breakfast, they didn’t want anyone facing the roads, and here, look at the store shelves devoid of milk, eggs, and bread (french toast panic!). Snow total that day? 3 inches. 3 inches! This trip, we traipsed downstairs Sunday morning, asked the Concierge the forecast, and were told, ‘1 inch of snow’. We wisely decided the area drivers would be scared enough that getting on the road and going to the zoo or to Alexandria or whatnot would not be a good idea. Good thing, too- they ended up getting 5 and a half inches. WTF? We haven’t seen a flake in our part of Kansas.

We’ve gotten the museum thing down to a fine art. Well, we had, not figuring in the ‘oh my god, please cut my feet off and while you’re at it rip out my lower spine too’ aspect of standing and walking for 6 hours when pregnant. Pregnant saleswomen of the world, I salute you, and I am now uttering a small thanks to the divine presence every afternoon around 2 that I have a job which allows me to lie on my couch and work. This is a whole realm of pregnancy pain which I had, essentially, missed out on, until we undertook what felt like the Revlon 3 Day Walk For Enforced Cultural Expansion. So, the Lad learned very quickly not to say anything snarky when I would suddenly say, “Must sit now!” and would sit down on the spot- didn’t matter if there was a bench, chair, or convenient exhibit case holding a precious one of a kind artifact right there. I was a seat whore. I would sit in any stupidass ‘experience theater’ or in front of any boring case if it meant I could get off my feet. Well, with one exception. Nothing, and I mean nothing, would get me to go into the- I am not making this up- ‘Self Determination Theatre’ in the American History museum (Pardon me. Behring Center. Don’t get me started on Smithsonian renaming everything under the sun in exchange for cash). Self-Determination Theatre just makes me think of the premiere episode of Daria, and no matter how compelling and sober the topic of the Native American struggle for autonomy in New Mexico is, I would not have been able to contain myself, and that would have been very very bad.

I was, however, able to restrain any hint of laughter on Day 2, when we went to the CIA. I adore the head of exhibits there- she’s a great person, and my god does she know everything about every artifact, and the stories she can tell! Knowing her is one of the best things I got out of the old job, and it’s always delightful when she’s finished a new exhibit or 2 and can share them with me. In a sobering moment, the CIA field agent killed in Afghanistan is on the wall of honor in the lobby, and there’s something very raw and blanking about seeing that. My old posse- the CEO, VP, my old boss- had been at the center a few weeks prior, and had gone through the 2 new exhibits. My former CEO said the object which raised the hair on the back of his neck was the field training guide recovered from an A.Q. encampment. The Lad deprecatingly said, “It’s Desert Warfare For Dummies, complete with how to calculate the angle of attack against a tank”. I swear to god, every time we’re there, the Lad idly says something which makes the head of exhibits look at him shrewdly. For once I beat him to the punch, as we were talking about cold war era weapons including the umbrella used to assassinate a Bulgarian dissident via a poison, and I cheerfully offered how internet traffic in researching that poison had spiked twice within the past 18 months, thanks to a CSI episode which featured it. The DE gave me one hell of a look, and trala, 12 hours later the arrests of 7 people in Britain for manufacturing said poison was announced. Heh. Don’t mind me. Doop de doo.

Day 3 consisted of InLaw O Rama. I have discovered that playing the pregnancy card works wonders. I am now allowed to amble off and sit quietly while they go about doing whatever, and it’s all okay. I got poutyfaced only once, when we were asked if we’d hung the suncatcher the MIL had sent for the baby’s room. The Lad leapt in and offered, ‘needs a hook’, and the MIL countered there was one in there. I said, in as mild a tone as possible, that I wasn’t hanging anything on the windows for safety reasons, because it’s near where the crib will be, and so we may hang it in the bathroom out of babyreach at some point. This prompted a barrage of overly w-ed words, to which I merely replied with a mild wince and a rub at my back, and drifted off to sit. Worked like a charm. The truth is, she adores these things, and I hate them. I mean, with a passion. My idea of a glass suncatcher for a window is a Dale Chihuly, if I must have something hanging in the windows. I hate things hanging in the window. Hate it with an unnatural passion. I enjoy wearing spike heels more than I like the look of crap hanging in the windows of my abode. She, on the other hand, adores having stuff in her windows. And so for every gift giving occasion, she gives me a hokey country cute duck or goose or cow which looks like it was made by a spastic 4 year old. They are collecting dust in a box. I need to come up with a good way to say ‘please stop sending me these damn things’, but have yet to conjure such a magical phrase which will not cause war. Similarly, I need to come up with a way to say ‘I hate teddy bears, especially cute ones’ lest she, in her teddy bear lovin psychosis, theme everything she sends me for the snarklet as either teddy bear or evil glowing WindowDuck.

If the CIA is slightly nerve wracking- because they’re all so nice, and low key, if professional and clipped and stressed beyond all possible mortal ken- the NSA is downright shit your pants terrifying. On our way out of town, we were looking for something to do in MD, and found signs for the National Cryptological Museum. Sensing a theme of espionage to our vacation (CIA, the new International Spy Museum, and the acquisiton of about 10 new books on the subject), we decided this would be a great place to kill time. We followed the signs to exit the highway, and came face to face with a building I recognized. “Hon?” I offered. “We’re about to be in a lot of trouble, cause that’s the National Security Agency, and I think we’re on their grounds.” Noooo! he blithely assured me! The signs said to exit here! See, there’s another sign telling us to turn left! And so we turned left in our little emerald green rentacar.

And found ourselves 10 feet from a Hummer toting 2 M-16s manned by very touchy looking army guys. I’d like to point out that one’s heart can, in fact, stop and restart without the use of shock paddles, especially under conditions where one finds an M-16 pointed directly at one’s face. The Lad commenced to babble-slash-scream in a high pitched voice generally reserved for 7 year old prissy girls in perfect dresses who’ve just had a salamander stuck down their back. “Oh my GOD! We’ve strayed onto NSA property! We’re so fucked! But the signs said! Oh my GOD!” I calmly affirmed that yes, muckhead, this is what I said 1 turn ago. How about you turn left like the next nice sign says? Sure enough, around the corner was an old what looked like howard johnson’s on NSA property which, for reasons of national security, had been taken over, and was now used to house their museum. We were warmly welcomed, apologized to for the scariness of the first welcoming party, and exorted to visit the gift shop. Why, do you carry clean underwear? Cause I sure need some now.

And last but not least for this entry, underwear was the endnote of the trip, as when we got home at 11:30 thurs night, I discovered that one of our suitcases had been yanked aside for the random search. Rather than grabbing the garment bag, they pawed through the small roller suitcase- which is the bag I put all of the filthy underwear and socks in a plastic laundry bag in, along with HBA stuff and a few books. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the TSA- keeping the skies safe by pawing through my dirty skivvies. I hope you all feel safe and secure now.

eautiful word, isn’t it? We’re heading off for 6 fabulous days of not being home. Granted, a fair amount of tomorrow will be spent on planes and in airports, but what can you do. Accordingly, I am sitting on my ass getting nothing done, rather than packing or cleaning or sorting or mailing or any such thing. We’re staying at a lovely hotel close to attractions, which is swanky and cossetty and where i have a membership so we’ll get cookies and milk, hurrah! Best thing about this hotel? Before the first time I stayed there, I had never experienced ‘bed lightning’- that green static glowy discharge between sheet-blanket-sheet. Now the Lad and I spent a good half hour before bed giggling like idiots, making the bedding go ‘zot!’. I know. We’re sad, sad people.

‘Passed’ today’s doc appt with flying colors- having put on less than a pound in the past month, it is still weight gain, and my doc did a jig. I did throw her for a loop by asking what methods of body scan I should not subject myself to, since I’m going to a federal building with some severe security measures in a few days, and made her blink slowly at me wondering why in hell I’m going there. Next month I have the revolting glucose tolerance test, which involves chugging an icy cold sugary drink of a heart stopping vibrant orange hue, waiting an hour, and having my blood drawn. How fun is that. Less than none, that’s how much. But finally, the Lad will be coming with me to an oby appt and sticking around beyond the ultrasound, and thus he will finally meet my doctor. Shocking, I know. I’m sure at this point she thinks he’s a figment, and I really got knocked up in a back alley somewhere and am inventing this stable husband who will take care of the baby while I’m gallavanting off on business trips.

And lo, that’s what’s up in wenchland, except for yet another mil rant, and I’m just not going there right now. See y’all when I get back from the wilds of vacationness.