My ob/gyn visit was a family adventure, being that it was too early in the morning for any babysitting and my husband likes to sit in and listen to everything happening with our fetus. This time we got a nurse-in-training (NIT, kind of like the CIT's at camp when I was a kid). Because she was learning, I was an aside to a constant stream of conversation.
"Okay, so when the patient comes in you have to ask her all these questions on the form and write the comments over here."
"Okay."
"Biaaanka?"
"Me? Oh, yes?"
"Step on the scale."
"Then once you get that you gotta get everything ready for the bloods if they need it."
"You can go sit on table."
"So then you're gonna do the blood pressure and everything."
She wraps the cuff around my arm and begins pumping.
"Now we gotta ask all these questions here on the list."
She holds up her form and begins reading. "These questions are about your family history and the baby's father, okay?"
(On the side): "You want to sit on Daddy's lap?"
"No-oh."
"Look at the baby, see the picture of the baby?"
"That's a baby. She's eating foo-ood."
"Any history of ghonorrea?"
"No"
"Cyphilis?"
"No"
"AIDS?"
"No"
"Down's syndrome?"
"Nope"
"Mental illness?"
I pause for a minute picturing Thanksgiving dinner. "Uh, no."
"Tay Sach?"
She must mean Tay Sach's (sacks), the disease my Jewish family could actually have on this list. "No, not that I know of."
"Come back here, my girl, we have to wait for Mommy."
"Mommy?" she looks at me and begins to bounce up and down by bending from her knees. "Mom-MY!"
Second Nurse: "Lift up your shirt above your stomach and pull down your pants to the hairline."
"Do you drink, smoke, do any drugs?"
"Aah-ah."
Second nurse gets out the fetal heartbeat monitor.
"Mommy, mommy!!"
"You're gonna hear the baby now! Isn't that so nice?"
Silence.
"Are you sexually active?"
We all laugh. "Uh, I think so."
Second Nurse squirts cold jelly. She places the Doppler microphone on my lower abdomen. No sound. She moves it to the left. No sound. To the very left side.
Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, static, static, whoo, whoo, whoo to the tune of 160 beats per minute.
"It's the baby, my girl! You hear him?"
She looks confused. "What you doing, Mommy?"
"Do you plan on taking any classes with us?"
"This is my second pregnancy."
I look at my husband and daughter. It's only just beginning.
7.23.2005
7.21.2005
A gooey surprise inside
I've said it before and I'll say it now for you: every person on this earth has some kind of interesting story to tell. It's what makes me depressed sometimes. On the one hand I think that I have something interesting to say, a different perspective to lend. But then I like to read about and I like to listen even more to first-hand stories. There are a plethora of them, much more gripping than mine: My parents sold me into slavery, I had a normal childhood but I still did bad things, Inside I'm really a serial killer, I used to be a prostitute and now I'm in marketing.
The list goes on ad infinitum. As interesting as all the stories can be, it just cements the idea in my head that it's all becoming too much information. Who the hell really cares? It's like inventing a new toothpaste: novel, at first, then knocked off by every competitor that exists. Eventually, the truth comes out that it was all a gimmick anyway. (We're onto you, Simon & Schuster, Random House, etc.)
Fiction is beginning to feel the same as a lot of these memoirs, too. I just bought two new books of contemporary fiction.
I love fiction. I love when I am carried away into some other world, some other place by a skillfully subtle writer. Sometimes the nuance of the words charms me more than anything. But, I have to admit that I'm barely excited about reading these. That doesn't mean I won't thoroughly enjoy them. I like the writing styles well enough. Even the subjects spark my interest a bit. I just can't escape this feeling that I'm being spoon-fed the fiction formula and I have to drink the tonic or else I'll never learn to conform. I know, I know--Me-ow.
I find myself writing in somewhat the same formula (one day I'll let you fine feathered friends read one of these short "masterpieces"), particularly right after finishing some writing class or another. Bleck. I bore myself silly. Or perhaps I'm just a lazy bastard.
The list goes on ad infinitum. As interesting as all the stories can be, it just cements the idea in my head that it's all becoming too much information. Who the hell really cares? It's like inventing a new toothpaste: novel, at first, then knocked off by every competitor that exists. Eventually, the truth comes out that it was all a gimmick anyway. (We're onto you, Simon & Schuster, Random House, etc.)
Fiction is beginning to feel the same as a lot of these memoirs, too. I just bought two new books of contemporary fiction.
I love fiction. I love when I am carried away into some other world, some other place by a skillfully subtle writer. Sometimes the nuance of the words charms me more than anything. But, I have to admit that I'm barely excited about reading these. That doesn't mean I won't thoroughly enjoy them. I like the writing styles well enough. Even the subjects spark my interest a bit. I just can't escape this feeling that I'm being spoon-fed the fiction formula and I have to drink the tonic or else I'll never learn to conform. I know, I know--Me-ow.
I find myself writing in somewhat the same formula (one day I'll let you fine feathered friends read one of these short "masterpieces"), particularly right after finishing some writing class or another. Bleck. I bore myself silly. Or perhaps I'm just a lazy bastard.
7.19.2005
Delusions of granduer
I always wanted to win an award for something. Sure I got plenty of awards in high school for events like the Shakespeare competition where I came in second at my school and got to perform my monologue (Portia from Julius Cesear) at the county level. There I had my first true encounter with stage fright and forgot the entire monologue just after I had kneeled down to emphasize the sincerity of Portia's pleading. I kneeled there like an idiot, alone on a stage lit with spotlights, for a good five minutes until I just gave up and left the stage. I got a nice certificate from the English Speakers Union for my efforts.
But I always wanted a real award for some grand achievement: Congratulations, You've Cured Cancer! or Your Story Changed The World, Here's a Nobel Prize!
Now that I am on the cusp of a new decade of life, I've come to realize that I probably won't ever be collecting one of these. The real reason I wanted one, besides that self-satisfaction and ultimate how-you-like-me-now effect, is because I've always wanted to make a tearful, gracious, touching acceptance speech. Really. I'm the one who's always crying watching other people's speeches, weddings, funerals, goodbyes. I want my moment, too.
It occurred to me today that I can have my moment right here on the bloggie, if I want. So I'm calling this entry,
"Rehearsal for A Lifetime of Thanks."
Thank you so much to all those people who drove me to feel, to write, to aspire, to envy.
Thank you to my childhood for providing the acid soil that produced the violet flowers of my youth.
Thank you to my University for teaching me that intelligence isn't really what gets you anywhere in life.
Thank you to New York City for humbling me, browbeating me, pointing out all my imperfections and confirming my inadequacy.
My husband and child(ren) are saints for riding on my crazy wagon and allowing me to express all my awkward affections.
My seester and might-as-well-be sister forced me to give hugs without little pats, shut up and listen and stop talking about sex like an Amish girl.
My friends, although they've come and gone a thousand times, allowed me to be normal and have my share of town-painting and other unmentionables.
My favorite boss and work friends encouraged my proficiencies, laughed at my blunders and gave me the confidence to believe my own braggodocia.
Thank you and good night.
P.S. Even angry little trolls need people to be angry with. Get out and enjoy them. This is not an e-mail forward!
But I always wanted a real award for some grand achievement: Congratulations, You've Cured Cancer! or Your Story Changed The World, Here's a Nobel Prize!
Now that I am on the cusp of a new decade of life, I've come to realize that I probably won't ever be collecting one of these. The real reason I wanted one, besides that self-satisfaction and ultimate how-you-like-me-now effect, is because I've always wanted to make a tearful, gracious, touching acceptance speech. Really. I'm the one who's always crying watching other people's speeches, weddings, funerals, goodbyes. I want my moment, too.
It occurred to me today that I can have my moment right here on the bloggie, if I want. So I'm calling this entry,
"Rehearsal for A Lifetime of Thanks."
Thank you so much to all those people who drove me to feel, to write, to aspire, to envy.
Thank you to my childhood for providing the acid soil that produced the violet flowers of my youth.
Thank you to my University for teaching me that intelligence isn't really what gets you anywhere in life.
Thank you to New York City for humbling me, browbeating me, pointing out all my imperfections and confirming my inadequacy.
My husband and child(ren) are saints for riding on my crazy wagon and allowing me to express all my awkward affections.
My seester and might-as-well-be sister forced me to give hugs without little pats, shut up and listen and stop talking about sex like an Amish girl.
My friends, although they've come and gone a thousand times, allowed me to be normal and have my share of town-painting and other unmentionables.
My favorite boss and work friends encouraged my proficiencies, laughed at my blunders and gave me the confidence to believe my own braggodocia.
Thank you and good night.
P.S. Even angry little trolls need people to be angry with. Get out and enjoy them. This is not an e-mail forward!
7.17.2005
Yeah, sure you forgot to save...
I hate that excuse, dammit. I really do. I hated people in high school that came up with that sorry shit. I hated it in college, although I must admit I came up with some even lamer ones myself. I really hated it in the workplace when some frat boy/sorority girl that never quite left college behind asked me to take up the slack for his/her little blunder. I would try to be the nice girl and cover, but then I would get steamrolled for not "managing the situation" properly. I thought about changing my initials to S.G.--scapegoat.
BUT, I swear on the holy mother (which I can do because I'm Jewish and none of our mothers are sacred) that I wrote this huge post about the woman of my dreams. I mean huge. While I was looking for some appropriate visual aids, I clicked off the window and I lost the whole damn thing. Yeah, you read right. I clicked off my own window. My bloodshot eyes were pried open with horror. My stomach began to churn.
I had stayed up until 2 a.m. writing this odd little thing. I was in denial. I hadn't really lost the whole thing, had I? I spent another half an hour trying to figure out how to recover it. I clicked on every link in the history folder (including the techie forums my husband surfs--how many Star Wars references and high praises for Google Ad$en$e can you read?). I tried to look in the trash folder and through my cookies. I checked the clipboard just in case I might have selected the whole text and Ctrl-C'ed it. Bubkis (Bubkiss? Bubkas? What is that word, anyway?).
But, I never give up. Seriously, it's my tragic flaw, my Achilles' heel. Usually, I just get snappy and swear a lot, frightening everyone around me into leaving. Then I figure out how to fix the problem. However, this time I was beaten. Utterly and completely defeated by my own freakin' thumb. Isn't having opposable thumbs supposed to be an advantage? G-sus. It serves me right, I guess, because I had just dished out a little diatribe about how important it is to exercise my writing muscle (as they like to tell you in ye old writer's workshops). Just when the ego thinks it's free...
Somewhere out there somebody finds this all knee-slappin' funny. It must be Google.
BUT, I swear on the holy mother (which I can do because I'm Jewish and none of our mothers are sacred) that I wrote this huge post about the woman of my dreams. I mean huge. While I was looking for some appropriate visual aids, I clicked off the window and I lost the whole damn thing. Yeah, you read right. I clicked off my own window. My bloodshot eyes were pried open with horror. My stomach began to churn.
I had stayed up until 2 a.m. writing this odd little thing. I was in denial. I hadn't really lost the whole thing, had I? I spent another half an hour trying to figure out how to recover it. I clicked on every link in the history folder (including the techie forums my husband surfs--how many Star Wars references and high praises for Google Ad$en$e can you read?). I tried to look in the trash folder and through my cookies. I checked the clipboard just in case I might have selected the whole text and Ctrl-C'ed it. Bubkis (Bubkiss? Bubkas? What is that word, anyway?).
But, I never give up. Seriously, it's my tragic flaw, my Achilles' heel. Usually, I just get snappy and swear a lot, frightening everyone around me into leaving. Then I figure out how to fix the problem. However, this time I was beaten. Utterly and completely defeated by my own freakin' thumb. Isn't having opposable thumbs supposed to be an advantage? G-sus. It serves me right, I guess, because I had just dished out a little diatribe about how important it is to exercise my writing muscle (as they like to tell you in ye old writer's workshops). Just when the ego thinks it's free...
Somewhere out there somebody finds this all knee-slappin' funny. It must be Google.
7.13.2005
So Worldly
My daughter has a book called, "Caterpillar Hides Away." I love this book. It's not the same as Eric Carle's, "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," which has few words woven into beautiful illustrations and pictures of food with holes punched through. This book is meant to teach color. Apparently, it's also an early lesson about envy. The caterpillar feels sad because she is, "...only dull and green," while everything else around her is vividly colored pink and red, blue and yellow.
Unfortunately, my daughter has developed a pretty keen sense of empathy and when she sees how caterpillar is depressed, she frowns and repeatedly says, "Oh no! Caterpillar's sad!" Sometimes she gets so upset that the whole story is derailed.
Here's the sick part. Every time this little exchange happens, I want to laugh hysterically. Sometimes I am choking on my own words of consolation as little snorts of laughter creep out. You probably think it's because she is so cute. That's true. But the rest of the ugly truth is probably that we (I) have become so jaded and cynical that it seems ridiculous to care about Caterpillar's piddly issues. We know that nobody cares if you're dull and green and you'll always want to be golden as the sun. Unlike real life, at the end of this story Caterpillar wakes up as a multi-colored butterfly and makes quite a stir.
That's what we all want, isn't it? A chance to shine, to get a little recognition, adoration, whatever. Your own children are probably the only people in the world who will ever really look at you with gleaming, hopeful eyes, waiting for you to be the hero. But that's too commonplace. We want fame, we want strangers to adore us and other people's children to talk about how cool we are on the schoolyard. Ain't it grand?
Unfortunately, my daughter has developed a pretty keen sense of empathy and when she sees how caterpillar is depressed, she frowns and repeatedly says, "Oh no! Caterpillar's sad!" Sometimes she gets so upset that the whole story is derailed.
Here's the sick part. Every time this little exchange happens, I want to laugh hysterically. Sometimes I am choking on my own words of consolation as little snorts of laughter creep out. You probably think it's because she is so cute. That's true. But the rest of the ugly truth is probably that we (I) have become so jaded and cynical that it seems ridiculous to care about Caterpillar's piddly issues. We know that nobody cares if you're dull and green and you'll always want to be golden as the sun. Unlike real life, at the end of this story Caterpillar wakes up as a multi-colored butterfly and makes quite a stir.
That's what we all want, isn't it? A chance to shine, to get a little recognition, adoration, whatever. Your own children are probably the only people in the world who will ever really look at you with gleaming, hopeful eyes, waiting for you to be the hero. But that's too commonplace. We want fame, we want strangers to adore us and other people's children to talk about how cool we are on the schoolyard. Ain't it grand?
7.11.2005
Anything with "...rati" at the end
I was looking at my referrer report today (you know, my current obssession) to see how many people visit my site and how far over the earth my little musings reach. Okay, I'm just greedy. I want to see who reads me. I was very pleased to see that I have some hits from search results. This means some poor, unsuspecting people are trying to find real answers to their questions and instead they wind up on my blog.
Sometimes they want to know how passata is made. So they are directed to Passata and Kalamata. Other times they want to know about writing programs or searched for some random keyword that happens to be buried in one of my posts. I love them all. I want more people to click on my site and grunt in irritation as they have to wade through my narrative to find their word (which of course, isn't at all what they meant to find).
There's Yahoo search and Google, sure. But my favorite is Technorati. I just love this word. In today's crowded jargon market, this one is a keeper. It sounds like it would be some kind of geek site like my husband's happy little venture DevBistro, but then it ends in "..rati," instantly making you think you'll be part of some high society if you go there. This brings me back to my Renaissance Art History courses. Everyone who published books in Renaissance Italy was part of the literati (basically a guild for those gray-haired merchant-class dudes who were considered acceptable specimens for writing). So I guess the technorati must be the guild for...people who like technology? People who like to search for stuff on geek websites? Oh, I know, people who like to write, but only do it on a technological platform. Yeah, that must be it.
But then there's also the glitterati. Another guild for the learned and literate. Oh, wait. Isn't Paris Hilton president of that? Or maybe that's people that went to see Mariah Carey's stunning film debut in Glitter. I have to rent that.
Sometimes they want to know how passata is made. So they are directed to Passata and Kalamata. Other times they want to know about writing programs or searched for some random keyword that happens to be buried in one of my posts. I love them all. I want more people to click on my site and grunt in irritation as they have to wade through my narrative to find their word (which of course, isn't at all what they meant to find).
There's Yahoo search and Google, sure. But my favorite is Technorati. I just love this word. In today's crowded jargon market, this one is a keeper. It sounds like it would be some kind of geek site like my husband's happy little venture DevBistro, but then it ends in "..rati," instantly making you think you'll be part of some high society if you go there. This brings me back to my Renaissance Art History courses. Everyone who published books in Renaissance Italy was part of the literati (basically a guild for those gray-haired merchant-class dudes who were considered acceptable specimens for writing). So I guess the technorati must be the guild for...people who like technology? People who like to search for stuff on geek websites? Oh, I know, people who like to write, but only do it on a technological platform. Yeah, that must be it.
But then there's also the glitterati. Another guild for the learned and literate. Oh, wait. Isn't Paris Hilton president of that? Or maybe that's people that went to see Mariah Carey's stunning film debut in Glitter. I have to rent that.
7.08.2005
They tried to take my couch
You know you're at the absolute bottom of life's totem pole when the Salvation Army comes to take your couch. I was just about to step into the shower this morning and there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was so tentative I barely heard it.
"Bianca? They can't get the couch out the front door."
I ripped open the door. "What! What do you mean? They came to take the couch?"
"It's July 8th, right?"
"No! No! Shit. Holy Crap." I rushed around looking for any pair of pants or shorts, remotely clean, that fit over my belly. "Wait! Wait!" I pleaded, hopping into my light aqua sweat pants.
I met the two movers in the doorway, both already breaking a sweat, almost breaking my couch. Begging their pardon, apologizing profusely, I asked them to please let me keep it, just a little while longer. I explained that I tried to call yesterday to postpone my donation date. I called several times and no one answered so I left a message.
"Oh, okay," they agreed calmly, half relieved that they didn't have to maneuver it out the door and down the slippery flagstone stairs. "Nobody told us, but no problem."
"Are you sure it's okay to postpone? I'm really sorry," I mealed, hoping to avoid an argument.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it, " they beamed, nodding to each other in agreement as they backed the couch into its rectangular imprint on the area rug.
I let my shoulders relax and exhaled. Three more weeks before I have to release my well-worn flame-stitched sofa bed into the wild.
"Bianca? They can't get the couch out the front door."
I ripped open the door. "What! What do you mean? They came to take the couch?"
"It's July 8th, right?"
"No! No! Shit. Holy Crap." I rushed around looking for any pair of pants or shorts, remotely clean, that fit over my belly. "Wait! Wait!" I pleaded, hopping into my light aqua sweat pants.
I met the two movers in the doorway, both already breaking a sweat, almost breaking my couch. Begging their pardon, apologizing profusely, I asked them to please let me keep it, just a little while longer. I explained that I tried to call yesterday to postpone my donation date. I called several times and no one answered so I left a message.
"Oh, okay," they agreed calmly, half relieved that they didn't have to maneuver it out the door and down the slippery flagstone stairs. "Nobody told us, but no problem."
"Are you sure it's okay to postpone? I'm really sorry," I mealed, hoping to avoid an argument.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it, " they beamed, nodding to each other in agreement as they backed the couch into its rectangular imprint on the area rug.
I let my shoulders relax and exhaled. Three more weeks before I have to release my well-worn flame-stitched sofa bed into the wild.
7.03.2005
My favorite flavor is Dutch treat
One of the most memorable phrases of my life was shouted to me over a no-name noise machine calling itself a band during a first date in college.
This suitor had been "admiring" me at work for some time before sending me flowers. Although he didn't really strike my fancy, my roommate said he was so cute and he obviously was smitten so I should give him a chance. I had been working in the French Quarter long enough to know the calibre of clientele. So, I refused to let him pick me up at my place. He pleaded--a little too much-- that it was only the proper thing to do.
But, I left my undisclosed residence alone and met up with him at this pasta place right on St. Charles Avenue. I wore a vest. Seriously. Plus some light blue, tapered jeans that were frayed on the bottom. The finishing touch was my favorite pair of Mary Jane Doc Martins. He was in a brown suit and tie. Underneath his coat were white suspenders.
We made the usual fits and starts of small talk over enormous bowls of pasta. He invited me to go to the Howlin' Wolf, a music club in the Warehouse District. I glanced outside and saw that it was still light and would be for another couple of hours. The part of me that craved some escape from the utter stagnancy of working away the last bits of summer agreed. On the cab ride over I made sure I wasn't touching him or touchable by him.
We were the first people to arrive at the club.
We ordered drinks. I decided I would try to be more sociable.
"Did I meet you before at work?" I started.
"No. I noticed you working at the luggage store. I thought you were kinda cute. You look like a waif."
"A waif? Are you trying to say I look anorexic?"
"No! In a good way. I mean, I like it."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"How old are you, by the way? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."
"How old do you think I am?"
"25?"
I chuckled nervously. "Actually, I'm 19."
He sat up in his seat and pushed up his sleeves. "Well, you won't believe it, but I'm actually 32."
I forcibly kept my composure.
"But it doesn't matter. I mean, as far as stamina I probably have twice as much as you do, anyway."
I stared at him for a few seconds. "Not that you'll ever know."
He looked surprised. "Never?"
I shook my head and turned towards the racket emanating from the small stage in the back of the club. I leaned on my hand and tried to listen for one melodic sequence of music. Something to like. I looked down at my hardly touched Amaretto Sour and wondered whether I should just get smashed and try to enjoy the rest of my free night out or whether I should leave it and get out before this guy tried to drag me off to his lair.
"I'd give you a penny for your thoughts," he interrupted, "but since you're Jewish, you probably want a quarter."
That's how I learned to load up on cash before every date.
This suitor had been "admiring" me at work for some time before sending me flowers. Although he didn't really strike my fancy, my roommate said he was so cute and he obviously was smitten so I should give him a chance. I had been working in the French Quarter long enough to know the calibre of clientele. So, I refused to let him pick me up at my place. He pleaded--a little too much-- that it was only the proper thing to do.
But, I left my undisclosed residence alone and met up with him at this pasta place right on St. Charles Avenue. I wore a vest. Seriously. Plus some light blue, tapered jeans that were frayed on the bottom. The finishing touch was my favorite pair of Mary Jane Doc Martins. He was in a brown suit and tie. Underneath his coat were white suspenders.
We made the usual fits and starts of small talk over enormous bowls of pasta. He invited me to go to the Howlin' Wolf, a music club in the Warehouse District. I glanced outside and saw that it was still light and would be for another couple of hours. The part of me that craved some escape from the utter stagnancy of working away the last bits of summer agreed. On the cab ride over I made sure I wasn't touching him or touchable by him.
We were the first people to arrive at the club.
We ordered drinks. I decided I would try to be more sociable.
"Did I meet you before at work?" I started.
"No. I noticed you working at the luggage store. I thought you were kinda cute. You look like a waif."
"A waif? Are you trying to say I look anorexic?"
"No! In a good way. I mean, I like it."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"How old are you, by the way? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."
"How old do you think I am?"
"25?"
I chuckled nervously. "Actually, I'm 19."
He sat up in his seat and pushed up his sleeves. "Well, you won't believe it, but I'm actually 32."
I forcibly kept my composure.
"But it doesn't matter. I mean, as far as stamina I probably have twice as much as you do, anyway."
I stared at him for a few seconds. "Not that you'll ever know."
He looked surprised. "Never?"
I shook my head and turned towards the racket emanating from the small stage in the back of the club. I leaned on my hand and tried to listen for one melodic sequence of music. Something to like. I looked down at my hardly touched Amaretto Sour and wondered whether I should just get smashed and try to enjoy the rest of my free night out or whether I should leave it and get out before this guy tried to drag me off to his lair.
"I'd give you a penny for your thoughts," he interrupted, "but since you're Jewish, you probably want a quarter."
That's how I learned to load up on cash before every date.
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